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Title: Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Vol. 76, No. 466, August, 1854
Author: Various
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BLACKWOOD'S EDINBURGH MAGAZINE, VOL. 76, NO. 466, AUGUST, 1854 ***
BLACKWOOD’S EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.
NO. CCCCLXVI. AUGUST, 1854. VOL. LXXVI.
CONTENTS.
TRICOUPI AND ALISON ON THE GREEK REVOLUTION, 119
STUDENT LIFE IN SCOTLAND, 135
THE INSURRECTION IN SPAIN, 151
THE ETHNOLOGY OF EUROPE, 165
THE GANGETIC PROVINCES OF BRITISH INDIA, 183
THE SECRET OF STOKE MANOR: A FAMILY HISTORY.—PART III., 206
CONSERVATIVE REASCENDANCY CONSIDERED, 230
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. CCCCLXVI. AUGUST, 1854. VOL. LXXVI.
TRICOUPI AND ALISON ON THE GREEK REVOLUTION.[1][2]
We certainly owe an apology to our Greek ambassador. The nine hundred
and ninety-ninth edition of a declamatory old play of Euripides, cut and
slashed into the most newfangled propriety by some J. A. Hartung, or
other critical German, with a tomahawk, is a phenomenon in the literary
world that can excite no attention; but when a regularly built living
Greek comes forward in the middle of this nineteenth century, exactly
four hundred years after the last Byzantine chronicler had been blown
into the air by our brave allies the Turks—and within the precincts of
the Red Lion Court, London—ἐν τῇ ἀυλῇ τοῦ ἐρυθροῦ λέοντος—puts forth a
regularly built history of the Greek Revolution of 1821, thereby
claiming—not without impudence, as some think—a place on our classical
shelves alongside of Herodotus, Thucydides, and Xenophon, and a great
way above Diodorus Siculus, and other such retailers of venerable
hearsay: this truly is an event in the Greek world that claims notice
from the general reviewer even more than from the professed classical
scholar. At the present moment, particularly, one likes to see what a
living Greek, with a pen in his hand, has to say for himself; his
language and his power of utterance is an element in the great
Turko-Russian question that cannot be lost sight of. Doubly welcome,
therefore, is this first instalment of Mr Tricoupi’s long-expected
history; and as it happens opportunely that the most interesting portion
of Sir A. Alison’s third volume is occupied with the same theme, we
eagerly seize the present opportunity at once to acquit ourselves of an
old debt to our Hellenic ambassador, and to thank Sir A. Alison for the
spirited, graphic, and thoroughly sympathetic style in which he has
presented to the general English reader the history of a bright period
of Greek history, which recent events have somewhat tended to becloud.
It is not our intention on the present occasion to attempt a sketch of
the strategetical movements of the Greek war, 1821–6. A criticism of
these will be more opportune when Mr Tricoupi shall have finished his
great work.[3] We shall rather confine ourselves to bringing out a few
salient points of that great movement, which may serve, by way of
contrast or similitude, to throw light on the very significant struggle
in which we are now engaged. A single word, however, in the first place,
with regard to the dialect in which Mr Tricoupi’s work is written; as
that is a point on which all persons are not well informed, and a point
also by no means unimportant in the decision of the question,—_What are
the hopes, prospects, and capabilities of the living race of Greeks?_
Now, with regard to this point, Mr Tricoupi’s book furnishes the most
decided and convincing evidence that the language of Aristotle and Plato
yet survives in a state of the most perfect purity, the materials of
which it is composed being genuine Greek, and the main difference
between the style of Tricoupi and that of Xenophon consisting in the
loss of a few superfluous verbal flexions, and the adoption of one or
two new syntactical forms to compensate for the loss—the merest points
of grammar, indeed, which to a schoolmaster great in Attic forms may
appear mighty, but to the general scholar, and the practical linguist,
are of no moment. A few such words of Turkish extraction, as ζάμιον, _a
mosque_; φιρμάνιον, _a firman_; βεζιρης, _a vizier_; γενίτσαρος, _a
janizary_; ραγιάδης, _a rajah_, so far from being any blot on the purity
of Mr Tricoupi’s Greek, do in fact only prove his good sense; for even
the ancient Greeks, ultra-national as they were in all their habits,
never scrupled to adopt a foreign word—such as γάζα, παράδεισος,
ἄγγαρος—when it came in their way, just as we have κοδράντης, κηνσος,
σουδάριον, and a few other Latinisms in the New Testament. The fact is,
that the modern Greeks are rather to be blamed for the affectation of
extreme purity in their style, than for any undue admixture of foreign
words, such as we find by scores in every German newspaper. But this is
their affair. It is a vice that leans to virtue’s side, and springs
manifestly from that strong and obstinate vitality of race which has
survived the political revolutions of nearly two thousand years; and a
vice, moreover, that may prove of the utmost use to our young scholars,
who may have the sense and the enterprise to turn it to practical
account. For, as the pure Greek of Mr Tricoupi’s book is no private
invention of his own, but the very same dialect which is at present used
as an organ of intellectual utterance by a large phalanx of talented
professors in the University of Athens, and is in fact the language of
polite intercourse over the whole of Greece, it follows that Greek,
which is at present almost universally studied as a dead language, and
that by a most laborious and tedious process of grammatical
indoctrination, may be more readily picked up, like German or French, in
the course of the living practice of a few months. It is worthy of
serious consideration, indeed, how far the progress of our young men in
an available knowledge of the finest language of the world may have been
impeded by the perverse methods of teachers who could not speak, and who
gave themselves no concern to speak, the language which they were
teaching; who invented, also, an arbitrary system of pronouncing the
language, which completely separated them from the nation who speak it.
But this is a philological matter on which we have no vocation to enter
here: we only drop a hint for the wise, who are able to inquire and to
conclude for themselves.
We now proceed to business. There are five points connected with the
late Greek Revolution which stand out with a prominent interest at the
present moment.
_First_,—The character, conduct, and position of RUSSIA at the outbreak
of the Revolution.
_Second_,—The character and conduct of the TURKS and the Turkish
government, as displayed by the manner in which the revolt was met.
_Third_,—The character, conduct, and political significance of the GREEK
PEOPLE, as exhibited during the five years’ struggle.
_Fourth_,—The character, conduct, and position of RUSSIA, as more fully
developed at the conclusion of the struggle.
_Fifth_,—The character, conduct, and political significance of the GREEK
PEOPLE, as exhibited since the battle of Navarino and the establishment
of the existing Bavarian dynasty.
On all these points we shall offer a few remarks in the order in which
they are set down.
_First_,—As to the conduct of RUSSIA. It is a remarkable fact, and very
significant of the nature of Russian influence in Turkey, that the Greek
Revolution did not commence where one might have expected it to
commence, in Greece proper—_i.e._, the mountainous strongholds of
Acarnania and the Peloponnesus—but in those very Principalities where we
are now fighting, and where the Muscovites are always intriguing. How
was this? Plainly because all those Greeks who had for years been
brewing revolt in their ἑταιριαι, or secret conspiracies, took it for
granted that on that nominally Turkish but really Russian ground, Russia
would at once come forward and help them to kill—we use the Imperial
simile—the sick old Infidel, who had been so long lying with his
diseased lumpish body on the back of the Christian population; and
accordingly the man whom they set up to raise the flag of Christian
insurrection on the banks of the Pruth and the Sereth, was an officer in
the Russian service, Alexander Ypsilanti by name; and the first thing he
did when he came forward as military head of the revolt in the
Principalities, was to put forth a proclamation, in which the Christian
tribes of Turkey were told that “_a great European power_” might be
depended on as “_patronising the insurrection_”—ὁτι μιά μεγάλη δύναμις
τοῦς προστατευει. Now, here was a lie to begin with, to which perhaps
the old _Græcia mendax_ may seem not inapplicable: but in fact it was a
most probable lie; and if lies were at all justifiable, either on
principle or policy, at the opening scene of a great war, certainly this
was the lie which at that time and place looked most like the truth. But
it is a dangerous thing to raise warlike enthusiasm at any time,
especially when an emperor is concerned, by sounding statements not
founded on truth. Had the Czar been ever so willing to assist the
movement of the Wallachian Greeks, and to lead his victorious Cossacks,
scarcely returned from fair Paris, to magnificent Stamboul, he could not
but feel offended at the unceremonious manner in which his decision had
been taken out of his own mouth, and the absolute spontaneity of an
imperial ukase been forestalled by a vagabond Greek captain. But the
Greeks were, from the beginning, out of their reckoning in supposing
that the then Czar would, as a matter of course, patronise their
insurrectionary movement against the Turks. Alexander, though not
naturally a very bellicose person, had already done as much for the
territorial aggrandisement of Russia as would have contented the most
warlike of his predecessors. He had rounded off the north-west corner of
his vast domain in the most neat and dexterous way by the appropriation
of Finland in 1808; and he had profited alike in the upshot by the
friendship of Napoleon at Tilsit in 1807, and by his enmity at Moscow in
1812. That he should enter upon a new, and in all probability a severe
contest with another enemy, and put himself at the head of a great
insurrectionary movement, disturbing all the peaceful relations so
recently established, and in such friendly amity with the great
conservative powers at Paris and Vienna, was a proceeding not to be
looked for from a moderate and a prudent man. This the Greeks might have
known, had they not been befooled by patriotic passion. A “_holy_
alliance” no doubt it was which, in 1815, the pious soul of the good
Czar had made with his brother kings; but this “holiness” was either a
mere fraternisation of sentiment, too vague to be of any practical
force, or at best a religious stamp placed upon a document, the contents
of which were essentially political, and did not at all warrant the
expectation that the most Christian crowned Allies should be called upon
to interfere in supporting every revolt which Christian subjects in any
land might feel themselves called upon to make against their traditional
lords. Then as to politics: Though Alexander was a most kind-hearted,
truly popular, and very liberal sovereign, and had made speeches at
Paris, Warsaw, and elsewhere, equal to anything ever spouted by the
present Majesty of Prussia in his most liberal fits, yet he was very
little of a constitutionalist, and not at all a democrat. From Laybach,
therefore, where he was when the revolution broke out in March 1821, he
gave his decision in the matter of the Greek insurrection in the
following very remarkable words:—
“The motives of the Emperor are now known, from the best of all
sources, his own words, in confidential conversation with Mons. de
Chateaubriand. ‘The time is past,’ said he, ‘when there can be a
French, Russian, Prussian, or Austrian policy. One only policy for the
safety of all can be admitted in common by all people and all kings.
It devolves on me to show myself the first to be convinced of the
principles on which the Holy Alliance is founded. An opportunity
presented itself on occasion of the insurrection of the Greeks.
Nothing certainly could have been more for my interests, those of my
people, and the opinion of my country, than a religious war against
the Turks; but I discerned in the _troubles of the Peloponnesus the
revolutionary mark. From that moment I kept aloof from them._ Nothing
has been spared to turn me aside from the Alliance; but in vain. My
self-love has been assailed, my prejudices appealed to; but in vain.
What need have I for an extension of my empire? Providence has not put
under my orders 800,000 soldiers to satisfy my ambition, but to
protect religion, morality, and justice, and to establish the
principles of order on which human society reposes.’ In pursuance of
these principles, Count Nesselrode declared officially that ‘his
Imperial Majesty could not regard the enterprise of Ypsilanti as
anything but the effect of the exaltation which characterises the
present epoch, as well as of the inexperience and levity of that young
man, whose name is ordered to be erased from the Russian service.’
Orders were at the same time sent to the imperial forces on the Pruth
and in the Black Sea to observe the strictest neutrality.”
The publication of this resolution on the part of the Imperial
government effectually quashed the movement in the Principalities; and
poor Ypsilanti, after a few awkward and ill-managed plunges, was obliged
to back out of his position, and, leaving “Olympian George,” and other
sturdy Greek mountaineers, in the lurch, seek for refuge, and find a
prison in Austria. In this whole affair, however, though the Greeks had
shown themselves very vain and foolish, no man can deny that the Czar
behaved with great moderation—like a gentleman, in fact, and a
Christian, as he was—and moreover, we must add, like a wise politician.
For we can scarcely agree with some strong indications of feeling, both
in Tricoupi and in Sir Archibald Alison,[4] that any Christian power
would have been justified in supporting a revolt of Christian subjects
against their lawful sovereign, being an Infidel, till these Christians
had first shown, by their own exertions, that they were worthy of the
intervention which afterwards took place in their favour. We see, also,
that Lord Aberdeen, in some late remarks in the House of Lords, was
quite correct historically when he called attention to the comparative
“moderation” of Russian counsels in some of her dealings with Turkey.
Russia, in fact, never has displayed any very flagrant rapacity in her
dealings with Turkey, for the best of all possible reasons,—because,
having as much of the fox as of the bear in her nature, she does not
wish to alarm the European powers on a point where she knows they are
peculiarly sensitive. Her policy has been to poison the sick old man,
not to kill him; and in this very moderation, as all the world now
knows, lies the peculiar danger of her encroachments. Like a deep
swirling river, she rolls beneath the fat mud-banks of your political
STATUS QUO, and you suspect no harm, and can walk on the green bank with
delectation; but when the flood comes, there will be a shaking and a
precipitation; and then God help the sleepers!
So much for Russia. Our next question relates to the Turks. How did they
behave at the outbreak of the insurrection? The answer is given in two
words—like butchers, and like blunderers. Like butchers in the first
place. Their way of crushing an insurrection was truly a brutal
one—πολιτική θηριώδης as Mr Tricoupi says; or shall we not rather say
devilish. Certainly Sylla, in his most sanguinary humours, never enacted
anything more inhuman and more diabolical than the wholesale massacre of
the prosperous Greeks in Scios, April 1822, which, next to certain
scenes when the Furies were let loose in France, forms the most bloody
page of modern history.[5] When a Turk suspects a Greek of treason, he
makes short work of it: no forms of law, no investigation, no trial, no
proof; but right on with the instinct of a tiger, in the very simple and
effective old Oriental style,—“_Why should this dead dog curse my lord
the king? let me go over, I pray thee, and take off his head._” So an
old Jew once said to King David; but Sultan Mahmoud did not require that
a word of cursing should have been spoken. Sufficient that the
individual marked for butchery stood in a prominent situation, and was
of the same brotherhood as those who had spoken or acted treason: if he
was not guilty in his own person, he was bound to be cognisant of the
guilt of others; and for not revealing this guilt he must die. Such is
the simple theory on which proceeded the wholesale murders which took
place at Constantinople so soon as word was brought of the
insurrectionary movement in the Principalities. As a specimen of these
infamous proceedings, we shall select from Mr Tricoupi’s book the
account of the death of the Patriarch Gregory, a murder committed with
the most flagrant disregard of all the forms of justice (if there be
such forms in Turkey), and under circumstances calculated to rouse to
the utmost pitch the spirit of the people whom it was intended to crush;
a murder, therefore, not merely cruel and barbarous, but stupid and
impolitic. The account given by our author of this most characteristic
event is somewhat circumstantial, as might be expected from the piety of
a true Greek writing on such a subject. We curtail it, however, as
little as possible,—especially as the closing scene, in which Russia
appears a chief actor, affords a vivid glimpse of the very natural
manner in which, unassisted by any evil arts of diplomacy, that power
can continually earn for itself golden opinions among the Christian
nations of the south.
“On the evening of Easter Saturday, or great Saturday—το μέγα σάββατον,
as the Greeks call it—being the 9th of March, there were seen dispersed
in the neighbourhood of the Patriarch’s palace, within and without the
Fanar, about five thousand armed Janizaries, without any person knowing
why. The Janizaries perambulated the streets of the Fanar the whole
night, but did no harm to any one. At midnight, as is the use in our
Church, the church-crier made proclamation, and the Christian people,
though under great apprehensions, immediately obeyed the sacred summons,
and assembled without hindrance or disturbance in the church of the
Patriarchate. The Patriarch himself officiated as usual, with twelve
other priests; and after the service was finished, the people were
dismissed, and retired quietly to their own homes. The Patriarch went to
his palace, when the first streaks of day were beginning to appear; but
scarcely had he entered, when word was brought that Staurakis
Aristarches, the great Interpreter, wished to speak with him. The
Patriarch proposed to go with him to his private room, but the
Interpreter replied that he preferred being taken immediately to the
great Hall of the Synod. There he came with one of the Secretaries of
State, and forthwith produced a firman, which he declared he had orders
to read aloud without a moment’s delay in the presence of the Patriarch,
the chief priests, the heads of the Greek people, and the deacons of
corporations. These parties were sent for, and the firman instantly read
as follows: ‘Forasmuch as the Patriarch Gregory has shown himself
unworthy of the patriarchal throne, ungrateful to the Porte, and a
deviser of plots,—for these reasons he is deposed from his office.’ The
Patriarch, accompanied by his faithful archdeacon, was immediately led
off to prison; and as soon as he had left the hall, a second firman was
read out in the following terms: ‘Forasmuch as the Sublime Porte does
not desire to deprive his faithful subjects of their spiritual
superintendence, he hereby commands them to elect a patriarch according
to their ancient custom.’ A consultation immediately took place among
the clergy; and they agreed that they should call to the patriarchal
throne Cyril, who had been formerly patriarch, and was now in
Adrianople; but the secretary replied that this could not be allowed, as
the proposed patriarch was absent, and under present circumstances the
Porte could not allow the throne to be vacant for a single hour;
wherefore he commanded them instantly to make election of a new
patriarch from the number of the clergy then present. Another
consultation immediately took place; and after considerable difficulty
the vote fell upon Peisidias Eugenios, who, according to usage, was
immediately sent to the Porte, the rest remaining till he should return.
After three hours he appeared, environed with a pomp and circumstance
more magnificent than usual.
“This ceremony of electing the new pontiff was still going on, when
Gregory was led out of prison, where he had been preparing himself by
constant prayer for the death which he had too good reason for supposing
was prepared for him. After taking him from the prison, they put him
into a boat, and disembarked him on the strand of the Fanar. There the
venerable old man, looking up steadfastly to heaven,[6] made the sign of
the cross, and knelt down, and inclined his hoary head to the
executioner’s axe; but the headsman ordered him to rise, saying that
here was not the place where he was to be executed. They accordingly led
him into his own palace, and there the executioner hung him as he was
praying on the threshold of the principal entrance at the hour of noon
on Easter Sunday—so that at the very moment when the wretched Christians
above were singing the hymn of welcome to their new Patriarch, with the
accustomed words εις πολλᾶ ἔτη δέσποτα, his predecessor was hung on the
ground-floor like a thief and a malefactor; the very holy person who
only a few hours before had offered the bloodless sacrifice for the sins
of the people, and had blessed his faithful flock, who, with devoutness
and contrition of heart, had kissed the hand that had been hallowed by
the handling of the holiest elements. The last moments of Gregory were
moments of pure faith and resignation, springing from an unspotted
conscience, a heart the fountain of good deeds, a calm contempt of this
ephemeral life, and a bright expectation of futurity. The writing of
condemnation, by virtue of which he died, called, in Turkish, _Yiaftás_,
was fixed upon the dead body, and set forth the causes of his death as
follows.”
Here Mr Tricoupi gives the Turkish act of condemnation at full length;
but the substance of it is contained in two points: first, “that the
Patriarch did not use his spiritual weapons of excommunication, &c.,
against the revolters; and, second, that he was personally privy to the
conspiracy.” To which two charges the historian answers shortly that the
first is directly contrary to the fact (for the revolters were
excommunicated by the Greek hierarchy in the capital); and with regard
to the second, he avers, that though it was quite impossible for the
head of the Greek Church to be ignorant of the existence of a conspiracy
of which thousands of the most notable Greeks in Europe were members,
yet he was never a member of the secret societies, and had, on the
contrary, like many other influential persons of his nation, considered
the movement premature,[7] and warned his countrymen against it as
likely to lead to the most pernicious consequences. But it is vain, as
we already remarked, to look for reasons that would satisfy any European
ideas of justice in proceedings between Turks in authority and
rebellious Giaours. The calm and solemn gentleman, enveloped in smoke
and coffee fumes, whose bland dignity we so much admired in time of
peace, becomes suddenly seized with a preternatural fury when the scent
of Greek blood is in the gale. It is a primary law of his religion,
inherited from the oldest Oriental theocracies, that no infidel is
entitled to live; and if the head seems more serviceable for the nonce
than the capitation-tax, which is its substitute, the law of the Prophet
is satisfied, and no man has a right to complain. Mr Tricoupi now
proceeds with his narrative.
“The execution being over, the great interpreter, the secretary, and
their attendants, left the palace of the Patriarch. In the evening of
the same day, Beterli Ali Pasha, who had recently been appointed Grand
Vizier, went through the Fanar with only one attendant, and, asking
for a chair, sat down for five or six minutes on the street opposite
the suspended body of the Patriarch, looking at him, and speaking to
his attendant. After an hour the Sultan himself passed the same way,
and cast his eye on the Patriarch. The body remained suspended three
days; but on the fourth the hangman took it down to throw it into the
sea, it being contrary to law in Turkey that persons hung or beheaded
should receive burial. Then there came to the hangman certain Jews,
and having received his permission (some say that they bribed him),
bound together the feet of the corpse, and dragged it away to the
extreme end of the quay of the Fanar, with mockery and blasphemous
words. Then they threw it into the sea, and gave the end of the rope
with which they had bound the feet to the hangman, who, having gone
before, was waiting them in a little boat. He immediately, seizing the
rope and dragging the body after him, came to the middle of the
bay,[8] and there attached to the body a stone which he had brought
with him in order to sink it: but it proved not weighty enough for
this purpose; so he left the corpse floating on the water, and, making
for the strand, came back with two other stones, which he attached to
the body; and then, giving it two or three stabs with his knife, to
let out the water, he immediately sunk it. After some days, however,
it came to the surface at Galata between two ships lying at the point
where a great many boats are always stationed, for passing over to the
city. One of these ships was a Slavonian, and the other a Greek, from
Cephalonia. The captain of the Slavonian saw the body first, and threw
some straw matting over it, with the view of concealing it till the
night, when he meant to bury it, like a good Christian. But when the
evening came, the Cephalonian captain anticipated him, and perceiving
from the unshaven chin that it was the body of a priest, brought into
his ship secretly some Christians, who assured him that it was the
body of the Patriarch. The pious Cephaliote immediately swathed the
body in a winding-sheet, and, transporting it to Odessa, deposited it
in the Lazaretto there.[9] There the body was examined by the order of
the governor, and was recognised by certain signs as that of the
Patriarch.
“Information of this being sent to St Petersburg, orders were given to
bury the body with all appropriate honours. The sacred Russian synod
came to assist in the funeral ceremony; and on the 17th of June there
were assembled in the Lazaretto all the local authorities, political
and military, the two metropolitan bishops, Cyril of Silistria, and
Gregory of Hieropolis; also Demetrius, bishop of Bender and Akerman,
all the clergy of the province, a great number of Greek refugees, who
had fled from the butchery at Constantinople. Then the church bells
were rung, the funeral psalms were sung, a salute of cannons was
given, and, with the accompaniment of military music and the prayers
of the congregated faithful, the remains of the venerated Patriarch
were carried to the metropolitan church of Odessa. Here they remained
three days, till the 19th, when the burial-service was again sung, and
a funeral oration was pronounced by Constantine Œconomos, preacher to
the Œcomenic Patriarchate, who happened to be in Odessa; after which
the body was removed with great pomp to the church of the Greeks, and
deposited in a new sepulchre within the railing of the holy altar, at
the north side of the holy table, as being the body of a martyr. And
thus—to use the very words of the semi-official journal of St
Petersburg—by the command of the most pious Autocrat of all the
Russians, Alexander I., were rendered due honours of faith and love to
Gregory, the holy Patriarch of the Eastern Orthodox Church of the
Greeks, who suffered a martyr’s death.”
Next to the butchery—which, by the way, the Greeks, as opportunity
offered, were not ashamed to retaliate—the most noticeable thing in the
Turkish conduct of the war was their extraordinary slowness, fickleness,
inefficiency, and bungling of every sort. The insurrection, though
attempted in Thessaly and Macedonia, did, in fact, never extend with any
permanent force beyond the narrow boundaries of the present kingdom of
Greece, with the addition of Crete, and one or two of the Ægean islands,
now in the possession of the Turks; but to suppress this petty revolt of
an ill-peopled and divided district, occupying a small corner of a vast
empire, all the strength of Turkey, both Asiatic and European, proved in
vain; for it was not till Ibrahim Pasha, in 1825, was sent by his
father, Mehemet Ali, with a large Egyptian armament that the Morea was
recovered to the Sultan, and the insurrection virtually quashed. Now,
when we consider that the Greeks of the Morea were stamped with the
servitude of nearly four hundred years—that they were, in fact, so awed
by the hereditary authority of their haughty masters, that in the
beginning of the war, as Gordon expressly testifies, three hundred of
them could not be made to stand against thirty Turks; that their only
effective leaders were a few brigand chiefs from the wild regions of
Acarnania, Ætolia, and Epirus; that the land was of such a nature as to
be kept in subjection by fortresses, all of which were in the possession
of the lords of the soil; that the sea was open to the men of Stamboul
as much as to those of Hydra and to Mehemet Ali’s Egyptians, we shall
see plainly that nothing but a wonderful combination of slowness,
stupidity, and cowardice on the part of the Turks could have allowed the
Greek revolt to protract its existence during the space of those first
four years, when—not without large aids from English gold—it continued
to present a prosperous front to the world. What strikes us most in the
account of the war given by Gordon—who will always be a main
authority—is the great want of capacity and enterprise in the Turkish
commanders both by sea and land—the very same weakness, in fact, which
is remarked at the present hour as afflicting the Turkish armies—a want
of good officers. There is in Turkey a want of a high-minded,
independent, and energetic middle class, without which an army never can
be well officered. Only one efficient Turkish captain appeared in the
whole course of the Greek war; and he took Missolonghi.
We have been anxious to bring forward this sad account of the conduct of
the Turks in the insurrection distinctly, as there is a danger, at the
present moment, of the Turkish military virtue being overrated. No man
who knew that nation ever doubted that they could defend a fort well in
the present war, as they have ever done where they happened to have a
good commander, and acted under encouraging circumstances. This is the
secret of the recent successful defence of Silistria, for which we feel
all respect. With the English and French fleet to guard their flank, and
all Europe as spectators of their mettle, with the very existence of
their empire perhaps at stake, and with the choice of their own
battlefield—that is, the defence of forts—the Turks would have been dull
truly, never to be roused, if the old heroism had not flamed out with
more than wonted fierceness. But the successful defence of this fort
affords no proof that the people who made it possess a spirit and an
organisation able to cope in a continued campaign with some Paskiewitch
or Diebitch of the next generation. Let us look to the history of the
Greek Revolution, and not believe that the Turks are great masters in
the art of war till they have successfully conducted a great campaign.
Above all things, matters must be so arranged at the next pacification
that the preservation of the peace of Europe may not be left to depend
on them.
Our third question has reference to the Greeks. Their conduct in the
great revolt by which their independence was ultimately achieved,
deserves to be noted with the greater care at the present moment,
because there are not a few persons in this country who are only too
ready, in the unhappy blunder of 1854, to forget the glorious heroism of
1821–26. Sir A. Alison, we are happy to say, with that large spirit of
appreciation for which he is remarkable, has shown no tendency to chime
in with this vulgar cry. He is not surprised that the brigands of
Thessaly and Epirus should not possess all the virtues of Pericles and
Aristides; and therefore he is not offended. The Greeks, in fact, in
1821, were the authors of their own liberty, as much as the Turks now
are the authors of the retreat of the Russians from Silistria. Most true
it is, that without the intervention of the Allied Powers,
notwithstanding their utmost efforts, their cause was lost; so also will
the defence of Silistria have proved in vain, if England and France, in
the proceedings that are yet waited for, show weakness or vacillation.
But the Greeks, in 1821, had this decided moral vantage-ground over the
Turks of the present day, that the intervention would never have taken
place had it not been forced upon the great Powers by the popular
sympathy which the heroism of the Greeks had excited. We may say, upon a
review of the whole five years’ struggle, that the Greeks displayed on
that occasion all the weakness, and indeed all the vices, that belonged
to a people just rising from under the weight of centuries of
oppression—but virtues also of the highest order, which it is of the
very nature of oppression to make a people forget. Oppression, in fact,
had never done its perfect work with this noble-spirited people; it had
made intriguers of those who remained in the Fanar, and mere
money-changers and money-makers of those who peopled the cities; the
base stamp of slavery also might be found on the plains: but freedom
remained among the mountains; and in Maina and Souli every brigand chief
was a hero. In fact, under such a military despotism as that of Turkey,
brigandage, which is outlawed by a good government, becomes the very
church militant of liberty. Whatsoever virtues, therefore, belong to the
indomitable spirit of nationality when forced to create its own law, and
redeem itself from destruction by the desperate efforts of individual
self-assertion, belonged to the Greek people, and those Albanian tribes
who were identified with them in the highest degree. But there was more
than that. The Greeks, as the whole spirit and tendency of Corai’s
writings show, were intellectually an advancing people. They had
scholars, and thinkers, and poets among them, who were fighting not
merely for the rude privilege of freedom—which a brute can understand as
well as a man—but for the vindication of an intellectual heritage of
which they were proud. To these men the possession of the uncorrupted
Greek tongue was not a mere pretty plaything, as it may be to many of
our academical men; but it was the badge which publicly proclaimed their
brotherhood with that great hierarchy of intellect which had conquered
ancient Rome, and inspired modern Europe. These men did not fight with
the mere impatient spirit of vulgar insurrection: they came, like
banished kings, claiming a long-lost throne; and Europe felt that there
was a dignity in their work not belonging to every exile. But there was
another element of strength in the Greek revolt, without which it never
could have succeeded, and an element which, like their zeal for
intellectual culture, proved that the modern Greeks are the true sons of
Themistocles and Pericles. This element was their use of the sea. The
Turks, though they had possessed the finest harbour in the world for
four centuries, though they governed a country where arms of the sea
serve the same purpose that railroads do elsewhere, had not only made no
progress in the nautical art, but had allowed their enterprising slaves
to create for themselves a navy by which they were to succeed in driving
their masters out of the field. When Ibrahim Pasha, in his march across
the Morea in 1825, had arrived at that high ground between Tripolizza
and Argos where the island of Hydra becomes visible, pointing with his
hand to that little nest of daring adventurers, he exclaimed, “_Thou_
LITTLE ENGLAND, _when shall I hold thee!_” This little England it was
which saved Greece. There is nothing in the records of modern history
more interesting than the dashing exploits of the gallant Ipsariote
Canaris with his fire-ships in the Greek war; and wherever Miaulis the
Hydriote appeared with his squadron, there everything that could be done
was done. But great as were the exploits of the islanders, Europe,
perhaps, knew more, and was justly more astonished at the gallant
conduct of the land army in the two sieges of Missolonghi—a fortress
protected only by shallow lagoons and a mud rampart, and utterly
unprovided with those long lines of fire-spouting barricades that make
Cronstadt and Sevastopol so difficult of approach. Yet Missolonghi was
maintained against the whole force of the Turks for two years; and when
it did fall, the resolute garrison made no capitulation, but after
having exhausted the last scraps of raw hides and sea-weeds which served
them for food, cut their way with gallant desperation, men and women
together, through the sabred ranks of their enemies. Nor were they
without their reward. Let Mr Alison speak:—
“Thus fell Missolonghi; but its heroic resistance had not been made in
vain. It laid the foundation of Greek independence; for it preserved
that blessing during a period of despondence and doubt, when its very
existence had come to be endangered. By drawing the whole forces of
the Ottoman empire upon themselves, its heroic garrison allowed the
nation to remain undisturbed in other quarters, and prevented the
entire reduction of the Morea, which was threatened during the first
moments of consternation consequent on Ibrahim’s success. By holding
out so long, and with such resolute perseverance, they not only
inflicted a loss upon the enemy greater than they themselves
experienced, but superior to the whole garrison of the place put
together. The Western nations watched the struggle with breathless
interest; and when at last it terminated in the daring sally, and the
cutting through of the enemy’s lines by a body of intrepid men,
fighting for themselves, their wives, and children, the public
enthusiasm knew no bounds. It will appear immediately that it was this
warm sympathy which mainly contributed to the success of the
Philhellenic societies which had sprung up in every country of Europe,
and ultimately rendered public opinion so strong as to lead to the
treaty of July, the battle of Navarino, and the establishment of Greek
independence.”
On the other hand, we must not shut our eyes to the faults of the
Greek people—which were, in fact, just the faults of their ancestors
made more large and more prominent by the long-continued action of
circumstances favourable to their development. Will it be
believed?—during the time that this heroic struggle was going on, by
a people manifestly unable, even with their strongest combined
exertions, to withstand their gigantic adversary—even in the
mid-heat and the critical turning-point of this grapple for free
existence, the Greek captains were quarrelling among themselves!
There were actually at one time, as Gordon assures us, seven civil
wars among a people who could only collect hundreds to plant against
the thousands of their masters! Such a self-divided people, one
might almost say, was unworthy of liberty. Certainly if they could
not agree to fight for themselves, it did not seem the business
either of France or England to force them to be patriotic. But,
after all, what was this but the natural result of the geography of
the country, and of the circumstances under which its latent liberty
had been maintained? What was it else but the same thing, on a small
scale, which the Peloponnesian war exhibited on a large scale?
Division is the weak point of Greece, and always was; and as for
other vices which stank so strongly in the nostrils of some of our
sentimental Philhellenes—cunning, falsehood, selfishness, rapacity,
and blushless impudence of all kinds—such rank weeds grow from a
neglected moral soil, not only in Greece, but in the streets of
London and Edinburgh, and elsewhere; the only difference being that
in our case a wicked or neglectful parent brings up corrupt
individuals, while in the case of the modern Greeks, a wicked and
neglectful government had brought up a corrupt people. There is, no
doubt, some truth in the doctrine of races and hereditary
propensities; and the Greek may probably be more subtle in
speculation, and more cunning in practice, than the other families
of the Indo-European stock. Nevertheless, we are inclined to believe
that the proverbial falsehood of the Greeks, which is the worst vice
now continually thrown in their teeth, is as much the result of
circumstances as of blood, and that, under the same influences, any
Teutonic race whose honesty is now most loudly bepraised, would
exhibit a large development of the same vice. When a people is not
allowed to play the lion, it must either learn to play the fox or
perish.
We shall now make a few remarks on the fourth point stated—viz., the
circumstances attending the conclusion of the war, as illustrative of
the policy of Russia. Here a very interesting contrast immediately
presents itself. Alexander, as we have seen, occupied with various
benevolent projects and perambulations, fearing also not a little
everything in the shape of rebellion and revolution, refused to have
anything to do with the Greek insurrection. In this he behaved like a
man, a gentleman, and a king, but not like a Russian. As a Russian he
would have followed the footsteps of Catherine, who twice, in the latter
half of the last century, raised a rebellion in the Morea, and assisted
Greece not from any classical enthusiasm, we may be sure, (such as
helped not a little to fan the Greek fire of ourselves and the Germans),
but that she might cripple Turkey by inflicting such a deep wound on her
left leg as would render amputation necessary. All this became plain in
a few years. Alexander died. In the year 1826 Nicholas succeeded; and
matters were at that period, by the fall of Missolonghi, and Ibrahim
Pasha’s occupation of the Morea, brought to such a pass that the bloody
five years’ struggle, with all its heroism, must have gone for nothing,
had not the tide of popular sympathy begun to move so strongly in favour
of intervention among the great European nations, that the governments
were forced to take the matter up. England, as the most classical, and,
may we not say also, the most generous, country in matters of
international feeling, was the first to make overtures for a European
demonstration in favour of Greek independence; and of the consulted
Powers none came forward with greater alacrity than the new Emperor of
the North. On the invitation of the Duke of Wellington, Nicholas was
invited to send ships into the Mediterranean to co-operate with the
fleets of France and England in coercing the Porte. Here was an
opportunity thrown in his way, by pure accident, to achieve in a few
days results more favourable to the most cherished projects of Russian
aggrandisement than might have been brought about by the tortuous
diplomacy and bloody encounters of long years; and this not only without
exciting suspicion of ambitious views, but amid acclamations, and
cheers, and philanthropic hurrahs innumerable. By joining England and
France in establishing the independence of Greece, the Czar felt that
not only would Turkey be reft of one of her limbs, but a new field would
be opened for diplomatic intrigue in regions hitherto preserved, by the
blessings of barbarism, from such refinements. A little tinselled court
at Athens, with some German princeling on the throne, was no doubt even
then seen in near vista, as the best possible theatre for the display of
those arts of political falsehood and finesse in which the Russian
Nesselrodes and Pozzo di Borgos excel. But more. Might not the Turk, who
is by no means a milksop, and who can deal heavy blows, as we have just
seen, even from his sick-bed—might not the Turk oppose the armed
intervention of the Powers, and might not some untoward collision be the
result, and might not the Turkish navy be annihilated; and then—O! then,
might not the way to Constantinople be more open, and the Balkan more
easily crossed? Such were the cogitations that might naturally begin to
move in the brain of a thoroughly Russian energetic and enterprising
young Czar, when the proposal was made to coerce the Sultan into the
recognition of the total or partial independence of one of his revolted
provinces. And the result, as we all know, was exactly such as the most
brilliant imagination of a brisk young emperor could have conceived. In
the course of a few months the Turkish fleet was destroyed at Navarino;
in two years Kustendji and Varna, and the whole sea-road to Stamboul,
were in the hands of the Russian fleet; and in three years General
Diebitch had made himself immortal by surmounting the unsurmountable
Balkan, and was resting with twenty thousand men (supposed, however, to
be sixty thousand!) on the banks of the Hebrus at Adrianople. Never was
game better played. The Turko-Russian campaign of 1828–9, which we can
now study to such advantage, was, we may say, impossible, but for the
battle of Navarino, which was only the natural result of the armed
intervention of the three Powers in favour of Greece. Add to this the
disorganisation of the Turkish army, caused by the massacre of the
Janizaries in 1826, and the consequent disaffection among the old
Turkish conservatives; and we shall see at once how the campaign of
1828–9 ended so gloriously for Russia, while that of 1854 has proved so
shameful. The cause of the difference lies obviously in the command of
the Black Sea, which Russia, by the disaster of Navarino, then had, and
which, by the Anglo-French alliance, she now has not. This, and this
only, has on the present occasion made the gallant defence of a single
fortress by the Turks equivalent to the loss of a whole campaign by the
Russians.
The last of our five points only remains—How has the establishment of
Greek independence, by the treaty of 1827, answered the expectations of
its founders?—What is the actual state of Greece, material, moral, and
intellectual?—Are the Greeks under German Otho substantially more
prosperous than they were under the Turkish Mahmouds? We cannot, of
course, hope to answer these questions satisfactorily within the limits
at present prescribed to us; but one or two observations we are
compelled to make, for the sake of taming down to somewhat of a more
sober temper the glowing observations with which Sir Archibald Alison
concludes his fourteenth chapter. There is a class of wise men in the
world who show their wisdom only in the negative way of seeing
difficulties and making objections. Sir Archibald Alison certainly does
not belong to this class. Once possessed by a grand idea, he marches on
fearlessly to its realisation, and lets difficulties shift for
themselves. He gives you a project for a marble palace and a granite
bridge; but seems to forget sometimes that there are only bricks to
build with. We like this error, which leans to virtue’s side, and has a
savour of something positive and productive; nevertheless the truth must
be spoken—for in politics the best intentions are often the mother of
the greatest blunders. The remarks of Sir Archibald Alison, which we
think require a little chastening, are as follows:—
“In truth, so far from the treaty of 6th July 1827 having been an
unjustifiable interference with the rights of the Ottoman Government
as an independent power, it was just the reverse; and the only thing
to be regretted is that the Christian powers did not interfere earlier
in the contest, and with far more extensive views for the restoration
of the Greek empire. After the massacre of Chios, the Turks had thrown
themselves out of the pale of civilisation: they had proved themselves
to be pirates, enemies of the human race, and no longer entitled to
toleration from the European family. Expulsion from Europe was the
natural and legitimate consequence of their flagrant violation of its
usages in war. Had this been done in 1822—had the Congress of Verona
acceded to the prayers of the Greeks, and restored the Christian
empire of the East under the guarantee of the Allied Powers—what an
ocean of blood would have been dried up, what boundless misery
prevented, what prospects of felicity to the human race opened! A
Christian monarchy often millions of souls, with Constantinople for
its capital, would, ere this, have added a half to its population,
wealth, and all the elements of national strength. The rapid growth,
since the Crescent was expelled from their territories, of Servia,
Greece, the Isles of the Archipelago, Wallachia, and Moldavia, and of
the Christian inhabitants in all parts of the country, proves what
might have been expected had all Turkey in Europe been blessed by a
similar liberation. The fairest portion of Europe would have been
restored to the rule of religion, liberty, and civilisation, and a
barrier erected by European freedom against Asiatic despotism in the
regions where it was first successfully combated.
“What is the grand difficulty that now surrounds the Eastern question,
which has rendered it all but insoluble even to the most far-seeing
statesman, and has compelled the Western Powers, for their own sake,
to ally themselves with a state which they would all gladly, were it
practicable without general danger, see expelled from Europe? Is it
not that the Ottoman empire is the only barrier which exists against
the encroachments of Russia, and that if it is destroyed the
independence of every European state is endangered by the extension of
the Muscovite power from the Baltic to the Mediterranean? All see the
necessity of this barrier, yet all are sensible of its weakness, and
feel that it is one which is daily becoming more feeble, and must in
the progress of time be swept away. This difficulty is entirely of our
own creation; it might have been obviated, and a firm bulwark erected
in the East, against which all the surges of Muscovite ambition would
have beat in vain. Had the dictates of humanity, justice, and policy
been listened to in 1822, and a _Christian_ monarchy been erected in
European Turkey, under the guarantee of Austria, France, and England,
the whole difficulties of the Eastern Question would have been
obviated, and European independence would have found an additional
security in the very quarter where it is now most seriously menaced.
Instead of the living being allied to the dead, they would have been
linked to the living; and a barrier against Eastern conquest erected
on the shores of the Hellespont, not with the worn-out materials of
Mahommedan despotism, but with the rising energy of Christian
civilisation.
“But modern Turkey, it is said, is divided by race, religion, and
situation; three-fourths of it are Christian, one-fourth Mahommedan:
there are six millions of Slavonians, four millions of Bulgarians, two
millions and a half of Turks, and only one million of Greeks;—how can
a united and powerful empire be formed of such materials? Most true;
and in what state was Greece anterior to the Persian invasion; Italy
before the Punic wars; England during the Heptarchy; Spain in the time
of the Moors; France during its civil wars? Has the existence of such
apparently fatal elements of division prevented these countries from
becoming the most renowned, the most powerful, the most prosperous
communities upon earth? In truth, diversity of race, so far from being
an element of weakness, is, when duly coerced, the most prolific
source of strength; it is to the body politic what the intermixture of
soils is to the richness of the earth. It is the meagreness of
unmingled race which is the real source of weakness; for it leaves
hereditary maladies unchanged, hereditary defects unsupplied. Witness
the unchanging ferocity in every age of the Ishmaelite, the
irremediable indolence of the Irish, the incurable arrogance of the
Turk; while the mingled blood of the Briton, the Roman, the Saxon, the
Dane, and the Norman, has produced the race to which is destined the
sceptre of half the globe.
“Such was the resurrection of Greece; thus did old Hellas rise from
the grave of nations. Scorched by fire, riddled by shot, baptised in
blood, she emerged victorious from the contest; she achieved her
independence because she proved herself worthy of it; she was trained
to manhood in the only school of real improvement, the school of
suffering. Twenty-five years have elapsed since her independence was
sealed by the battle of Navarino, and already the warmest hopes of her
friends have been realised. Her capital, Athens, now contains thirty
thousand inhabitants, quadruple what it did when the contest
terminated; its commerce has doubled, and all the signs of rapidly
advancing prosperity are to be seen on the land. The inhabitants have
increased fifty per cent; they are now above seven hundred thousand,
but the fatal chasms produced by the war, especially in the male
population, are still in a great measure unsupplied, and vast tracts
of fertile land, spread with the bones of its defenders, await in
every part of the country the robust arm of industry for their
cultivation. The Greeks, indeed, have not all the virtues of freemen;
perhaps they are never destined to exhibit them. Like the Muscovites,
and from the same cause, they are often cunning, fraudulent,
deceitful; slaves always are such; and a nation is not crushed by a
thousand years of Byzantine despotism, and four hundred of Mahommedan
oppression, without having some of the features of the servile
character impressed upon it. But they exhibit also the cheering
symptoms of social improvement; they have proved they still possess
the qualities to which their ancestors’ greatness was owing. They are
lively, ardent, and persevering, passionately desirous of knowledge,
and indefatigable in the pursuit of it. The whole life which yet
animates the Ottoman Empire is owing to their intelligence and
activity. The stagnation of despotism is unknown among them; if the
union of civilisation is unhappily equally unknown, that is a virtue
of the manhood, and not to be looked for in the infancy of nations.
The consciousness of deficiencies is the first step to their removal;
the pride of barbarism, the self-sufficiency of ignorance, is the real
bar to improvement; and a nation which is capable of making the
efforts for improvement which the Greeks are doing, if not in
possession of political greatness, is on the road to it.”
Now, to the first proposition contained in the above remarks, that the
Great Powers were perfectly justified in their intervention to save the
Greeks from the lawless ferocity of the Turks, we have no objections to
offer. It is a gladdening thing to believe and to see that the strong
cry of human sympathy will sometimes be listened to even by politicians,
and that heartless diplomacy in the public intercourse between people
and people is not all in all. But the summary expulsion of the Turks
from European Turkey, even supposing it were not too great a punishment
for the offence, would, when achieved, leave the most difficult part of
the Greek problem unsolved. Sir Archibald assumes that the discordant
and crude elements of which European Turkey, less the Turks, is
composed, would, in 1827, have readily coalesced, or is ready now, in
1854, to coalesce, into a great Greek empire, of which Constantinople
shall be the capital. That the Greeks themselves should believe this is
natural; that Sir Archibald Alison should believe it, carried away by a
noble sympathy with a heroic theme, is but the radiation of that fire
with which the noblest minds burn most intensely; but we have never
conversed with an individual practically conversant with the elements of
which Christian Turkey is composed, who looked upon such a consummation,
in the present age at least, as possible. A very intelligent and
patriotic Greek gentleman once remarked in our hearing, that the Greek
kingdom could never prosper in its present tiny dimensions; that the
Greek Islands—except Corcyra, which the English must keep as a naval
station—with Thessaly, and part of Thrace and Macedonia, must be added
to it before it could be free from that spirit of petty intrigue which
is the great vice of small governments. This is intelligible; because
the population included under such an extended Greek kingdom would, by a
great predominance both of numbers and moral forces, be essentially
Greek. But when it is proposed seriously to revive a Byzantine empire,
Greek merely in name, and comprising such large sections of a
non-Hellenic population as Servia, for instance, and Bulgaria, then, we
confess, we feel staggered; and all the historic analogies which Sir
Archibald Alison so skilfully presses into his service will not give
wings to our drooping faith. The best-instructed man with whom we ever
conversed on the subject—Dr George Finlay, who has lived among the
Greeks all his life—declares that such a combination is impossible: the
principle of cohesion is too weak, that of repulsion too strong: the
splendid aggregate would fall to pieces in a few years; and out of the
confused elements a new compulsory crystallisation take place under the
influence—very likely—of Russian polarity. Sir Archibald Alison himself,
in one of the phrases which he accidentally drops, seems to admit the
truth of this view. “Diversity of race,” he says, “so far from being an
element of weakness, is, _when duly coerced_, the most prolific source
of strength.” Very true, when _duly coerced_; but it is this very
principle of coercion that would not exist in the supposed Byzantine
empire; and could exist only, according to one of Sir A. Alison’s own
analogies, through the violent subjection of all the other races by the
one that happened to be strongest; for so it was, as Livy shows in
bloody detail, that the different races of Italy were coerced into a
grand national unity by the Roman Latins. But even after all that bloody
cementing, the aggregate of the Italian States, as no one knows better
than Sir Archibald Alison, was kept together by the loosest possible
cohesion; as the terrible outburst of the Marsic or Social war
testifies, which well-nigh split Italy into two, at a time when Julius
Cæsar, its future master, had not yet begun to trim his beard. He
certainly, the lion, and his nephew Augustus, the fox after him, did use
the bloody cement successfully, and exercised a strong coercion, the
effect of which is visible even now among the again-divided possessors
of the Italian soil; such a coercion as the present Czar of Russia might
perhaps at the present moment be in the fair way of exercising for the
sake of the Orthodox Church, had Sir Archibald Alison’s Byzantine empire
been patched together with a few purple rags in the year 1828. Or again,
to take another of his analogies, has Sir Archibald Alison forgotten
what was the state of Greece, not anterior to, but immediately after the
Persian invasion?—did it not plunge at once into all the pettiness of
provincial rivalry? and was not the great Peloponnesian war a speaking
proof, that there were no elements of cohesion even among pure Greeks,
and in the best days of Greece, strong enough to keep that unfortunate
country from consuming its own vitals in civil war, and becoming, by
voluntary self-betrayal, first the scoff of the Persian, and then the
prey of the Macedonian?—With these examples before us, we cannot but
consider ourselves more near the truth in following the practical
statesmen who declared that the new Greek kingdom should be confined
within the limits where the insurrection had chiefly raged, and where
the battle had been fought. Sober politicians could not but look upon
the whole affair as experimental; and whatever arguments may in the
course of events be advanced for an expansion of the limits of the
existing monarchy, no person practically acquainted with the events of
Greek government, or rather _mis_government, since the creation of
Otho’s kingdom in 1832, can imagine that the evils under which the
country has groaned would have been less, had Thessaly and Macedonia
been at that time included within the Hellenic border. We should still
have had German bureaucracy, French constitutionalism, Fanariete
intrigue, Ætolian brigandage, and modern diplomacy, thrown together to
brew a devil’s soup of jobbery, and falsehood, and feebleness, over
which the wisest man can only hold up his hands, and with a hopeless
wonderment exclaim—
“Double, double, toil and trouble;
Fire burn, and cauldron bubble!”
In conclusion, we need hardly say that we cannot agree with Sir A.
Alison when he states, so strongly as he does in the last paragraph,
that “_already the warmest hopes of the friends of Greece have been
realised; and all the signs of advancing prosperity are to be seen in
the land_.” It is a great mistake to imagine that the country is really
in a prosperous state because Athens has trebled its population in
thirty years. Athens has a well-furnished and rather a flourishing
appearance, for the same reason that Nauplia looks out upon the
beautiful Bay of Argos in such a state of woeful dismantlement and
dilapidation: the court has left the Argive city, and travelled to the
Attic; and all the gilded gingerbread, which you call prosperity, has
gone with it. Let no man be hasty to draw sanguine promises of Greek
prosperity from anything good or glittering that may delight his eyes in
the streets of Athens. That splendid palace of the little German prince,
now called King of Greece, with its fine well-watered gardens without,
and its fine pictures within, and its large dancing-saloon, the wonder
even of London beauties—this palace was a mere toy of the boy’s poetical
papa, and has no more to do with the progress of real prosperity in
Greece than a wax-doll has to do with life and organisation. Nay, it may
be most certainly affirmed, that not a small part of that sudden growth
of the capital of Greece is, with reference to the country at large, a
positive evil, a brilliant excrescence, which owes its existence
altogether to the artificial attraction of the nutritive fluids of the
body politic to one prominent point, while the largest and most useful
limbs are left without their natural supply. If there are shining white
palaces, and green Venetian blinds, in one Greek city, there is
desolation and dreariness, stagnation and every sort of barbarism, in
the fields. But “commerce flourishes;” it has doubled, says Sir A.
Alison, since the battle of Navarino. Be it so. Patras is a goodly city,
preferable, in some points, to Athens, we think; but were there not rich
merchants at Hydra before the Revolution? and are the Greeks at Patras
more prosperous than at Salonica, at Odessa, at Trieste, at Leghorn, at
Manchester? There were always clever merchants among the Greeks, just as
generally as there are sharp bankers and money-changers among Jews and
Armenians. We would by no means despair of Young Greece; there is much
to admire in her, especially her schools, university, and the wonderful
culture of her deathless language in its most recent shape; and only in
a fit of foolish pettishness would any Englishman entertain the thought
of blotting her again out of the map of nations, for any of the many
sins she has committed, whether by her own fault, or—what we suspect to
be the real truth—by the ignorant and officious agency of German
bureaucratists, Anglo-French constitutionalists, and Muscovite
diplomatists. Nevertheless, in so slippery a science as politics, and
with creatures so difficult to manage as human beings, it is always
better to avoid the temptation of drawing panoramic pictures in rose
colour; and with regard to Greece, a country to which humanity owes so
much, our first duty, in the present very critical state of Europe, is
to look soberly at a reality full of perilous problems, and to possess
our souls in patience.
STUDENT LIFE IN SCOTLAND.
If the latest lingering summer tourist in Scotland should perchance
delay his departure until he is driven southward by the chill evenings
of November, he may chance to see arising around him, in some
considerable town, a race of young men, whose loose robes, varying from
the brightest of fresh scarlet to the sombrest hue which years of bad
usage can bestow on that gay colour, attract him as peculiar and funny,
and as, on the whole, a phenomenon provocative of inquiry. He is told
that the session has begun, and these are the students of the
university. The information will perhaps be surprising to him, whoever
he be: if he be an Oxonian or Cantab, a sneer of derision will perhaps
curve his lips when he remembers the gentleman commoners, and tufted
noblemen, who crowd the streets of his Alma Mater in haughty
exclusiveness and unmeasured contempt of the citizen class, who
evidently have no respect whatever for the scarlet gown men of poor
Scotland. Indeed, the luxurious academic ease, the placid repose of
dignified scholarship, are strangers to these wearers of the flowing
toga. It is evident that many of them have felt the pinch of poverty. No
pliant gyp attends the toilet, or lays forth the table for the jovial
“night-cap.” Hard work and hard fare are their portion, and their
raiment shows that they have been rubbed roughly against the world,
instead of being set apart from its toils and cares and vulgar turmoil
in aristocratic isolation. Some of the gowns are bright and new, indeed,
and the faces in which they culminate are ruddy, fresh, and warm. Yet
the youths endowed in these blushing honours seem not to exult therein,
but rather to give place to the hard-featured brethren, whose threadbare
togas bear the grim marks of mud and soot, or hang in tatters like a
beggar’s cloak. The truth is, that the wear and tear of the gown is held
indicative of advancement in the academic curriculum, and is rather
encouraged than avoided. And of those who wear it, many, though they may
have been sufficiently tutored in the economy of their more serviceable
clothing, have not made acquisitions in the school of finery, or
acquired a weakness for decorative vanity. We remember an instance of a
hard-featured mountaineer, who afterwards rose to distinction in an
abstruse department of science, being charged by his fellow-students
with having so far desecrated the gown as to have perambulated the
streets with a barrow hawking potatoes, by the cry of “Taties—taties!”
He admitted the commercial part of the charge, but denied the admixture
of potato-vender and student by the desecration of the robes. He was
careful to put off his gown while he cried “taties.”
With all these and other indications of poverty, there is something to
our eyes extremely interesting in the Scottish universities, as relics
preserved through all changes in dynasties, constitutions, and
ecclesiastical polities, through poverty, neglect, and enmity, of the
original characteristics of the university system, as it existed in all
its grandeur of design in the middle ages.
A collection of remarkable papers, now before us, opens up and presents,
in valuable and full light, the progress of a portion of our Scottish
universities. They consist of two works of that class commonly called
“Club Books.” The one is a collection of records and other documents
connected with the University of Glasgow, printed under the auspices of
the Maitland Club; the other a “Fasti Aberdonenses,” appropriately
collected by that northern association which, in honour of the Cavalier
annalist of “The Troubles,” is called the “Spalding Club.” Both works
are edited with that peculiar archæological strictness which has been
applied to this class of documents, through the special skill of Mr
Cosmo Innes. They are both edited by him, with some partial aid, in the
case of the Glasgow documents, from his ablest coadjutor in Scottish
archæology, Mr Joseph Robertson. These volumes form a very apt
supplement to that collection of ecclesiastical records which, arranged
and printed under the same able management, are an honour to our
country. With the exception of their curious and agreeable prefaces,
neither the chartularies nor the volumes before us profess to be
readable books. They are collections of records, and must have all the
substantial dryness of records. But then they contain in themselves the
materials of the social and incidental history of the classes of persons
to which they refer, and contain imbedded within them the materials of
instruction, both valuable and curious. With some labour we have driven
shafts through their strata, and we may have occasion to lay before our
readers a few of the specimens we have excavated—confining ourselves, in
the mean time, to the characteristics developed by the collection of
documents.
The direction of these is chiefly to show how thoroughly these remote
institutions partook in the great system of the European universities,
and how many of its vestiges they still retain. The forms, the
nomenclature, and the usages of the middle ages are still preserved,
though some of them have naturally changed their character with the
shifting of the times. Each university has still its chancellor, and
sometimes a high State dignitary accepts of the office. It was of old a
very peculiar one, for it was the link which allied the semi-republican
institutions of the universities to the hierarchy of St Peter. The
bishop was almost invariably the chancellor, unless the university were
subordinated to some great monastic institution, when its head was the
chancellor—as in Paris the Prior of St Genevieve exercised the high
office. In the Scottish universities the usual Continental arrangement
seems to have been adopted prior to the Reformation—as a matter of
course, the bishop was the chancellor.
But while the institution was thus connected through a high dignitary
with the Romish hierarchy, it possessed, as a great literary community
with peculiar privileges, its own great officer electively chosen for
the preservation of those privileges. It had its rector, who, like the
chief magistrate of a municipal corporation, but infinitely above him in
the more illustrious character of the functions for which his
constituents were incorporated, stood forth as the head of his republic,
and its protector from the invasions either of the subtle churchmen or
the grasping barons. The rector, indeed, was the concentration of that
peculiar commonwealth which the constitution of the ancient university
prescribed. Sir William Hamilton has shown pretty clearly that, in its
original acceptation, the word Universitas was applied, not to the
comprehensiveness of the studies, but to that of the local and personal
expansion of the institution. The university despised the bounds of
provinces, and even nations, and was a place where ardent minds from all
parts of the world met to study together, and impart to each other the
influence of collective intellect working in combination and
competition. The constitution of the rectorship was calculated to
provide for the protection of this universality, for the election was
managed by the procurators or proctors of the nations or local bodies
into which the students were divided, generally for the purpose of
neutralising the naturally superior influence of the home students, and
keeping up the cosmopolitan character imparted to the system by its
enlightened founders. Hence in Paris the nations were France, Picardy,
and England, afterwards changed to Germany, in which Scotland was
included. Glasgow is still divided into four nations: the Natio
Glottiana, or Clydesdale, taken from the name given to the river by
Tacitus. In the Natio Laudoniana were originally included the rest of
Scotland, but it was found expedient to place the English and the
colonists within it; while Albania, intended to include Britain south of
the Forth, has been made rather inaptly the nation of the foreigners.
Rothesay, the fourth nation, includes the extreme west of Scotland and
Ireland. In Aberdeen there is a like division into Marenses, or
inhabitants of Mar, Angusiani or men of Angus, which we believe includes
the whole world south of the Grampians as the Angusiani, while the
northern districts are partitioned into Buchanenses and Moravienses.
The procurators of the nations were, in the University of Paris, those
high authorities to whom, as far separated from all sublunary
influences, King Henry of England proposed, in the twelfth century, to
refer his disputes with the Papal power. In England they are represented
at the present day by the formidable proctor, who is a terror to
evil-doers without being any praise or protection to them that do well.
But it may safely be said that the chubby youths who in Glasgow and
Aberdeen go through the annual ceremony, as _procuratores nationum_, of
representing the votes of the nations in the election of a rector, more
legitimately represent those procurators of the thirteenth and
fourteenth century, who maintained the rights of their respective
nations in the great intellectual republic called a Universitas. The
discovery, indeed, of this latent power, long hidden, like some
palæontological fossil, under the pedagogical innovations of modern
days—which tended to make the self-governing institution a school ruled
by masters—created astonishment in all quarters, even in those who found
themselves in possession of the privilege. In Aberdeen especially, when
some mischievous antiquary maintained that by the charter the election
of a lord rector lay with the students themselves, the announcement was
received with derision by a discerning public, and with a severe frown,
as a sort of seditious libel, enticing the youth to rebellion, by the
indignant professors. But it turned out to be absolutely true, however
astounding it might be to those who are unacquainted with the early
history of universities, and think that everything ancient must have
been tyrannical and hierarchical. The young ones made a sort of
saturnalia of their fugitive power, while the professors looked on as
one may see a solemn mastiff contemplate the gambols of a litter of
privileged spaniel pups. The privilege was, however, used effectively,
we may say nobly. There has been no fogyism, or adherence to any settled
routine of humdrum respectability, in the selection of the rectors. From
Burke to Bulwer Lytton and Macaulay, they have, with a few exceptions,
been men of the first intellectual rank. What is a still more remarkable
result than that they should often have been men of genius, there is
scarcely an instance of a lord rector having been a clamorous quack or a
canting fanatic.
In Edinburgh there is no such relic of the ancient university
commonwealth, and the students have instinctively supplied the want by
affiliating their voluntary societies, and choosing a distinguished man
to be the president of the aggregate group. The constitution of the
College of Edinburgh, indeed, was not matured until after the old
constitution of the universities had suffered a reaction, and, far from
any new ones being constructed on the old model, the earlier
universities with difficulty preserved their constitution. Some person
called a College Bailie is the dignitary who presides over the interests
of the University of Edinburgh as one of the appendages of the Town
Council. By that body the greater part of the patronage of the
institution is administered, and now it is decided that they have the
sole and absolute right of making bye-laws for the regulation of this,
the leading educational institution of Scotland. There is something
transcendently ludicrous in a civic corporation—a conclave of demure
tradesmen, intensely respectable—extending those functions of
administration which are appropriately applicable to marketing and
street-cleaning to the direction and adjustment of the highest ranges of
human instruction. Yet somehow it has worked well, on account of the
very anomaly involved in it. The town-councillors, in selecting a
professor, like the students in choosing a rector, are afraid of their
own powers, and never venture to use their own discretion. Absolutely
ignorant of the branches of knowledge to which the rules they frame
apply, they become a medium through which these rules are moulded by
others, and a certain commercial sagacity enables them to divine who are
the most sagacious advisers. So also in the exercise of their patronage,
being utterly unable to test the capacity of a candidate, they dare not
give way to any partiality founded at least on this ground, and they are
generally acute enough to find out who is most highly estimated by those
who are competent to judge.
That principle of internal self-action and independence of the
contemporary constituted powers, of which the rectorship and some other
relics remain to us at this day, is one of the most remarkable, and in
many respects admirable, features in the history of the middle ages. It
is involved in mysteries and contradictions which one would be glad to
see unravelled by skilful and full inquirers. Adapted to the service of
pure knowledge, and investing her with absolute prerogatives, the system
was yet one of the creatures of that Romish hierarchy, which at the same
time thought by other efforts to circumscribe human inquiry, and make it
the servant of her own ambitious efforts.
It may help us in some measure to the solution of the phenomenon to
remember that, however dim the light of the Church may have shone, it
was yet the representative of the intellectual system, and was in that
capacity carrying on a war with brute force. Catholicism was the great
rival and controller of the feudal strength and tyranny of the
age—_informe ingens cui lumen ademptum_. As intellect and knowledge were
the weapons with which they encountered the sightless colossus, it was
believed that the intellectual arsenals could not be too extensive or
complete—that intellect could not be too richly cultivated. Like many
combatants, they perhaps forgot future results in the desire of
immediate victory, and were for the moment blind to the effect so
nervously apprehended by their successors, that the light thus brought
in by them would illuminate the dark corners of their own ecclesiastical
system, and lead the way to its fall. Perhaps such hardy intellects as
Abelard or Aquinas may have anticipated such a result from the stimulus
given by them to intellectual inquiry, and may not have deeply lamented
the process.
But however it came about—whether in the blindness of all, or the
far-sightedness of some—the Church, from the thirteenth to pretty far on
in the fifteenth century, encouraged learning with a noble reliance and
a zealous energy which it would ill become the present age to despise or
forget. And even if it should all have proceeded from a blind confidence
that the Church placed on a rock was unassailable, and that mere human
wisdom, even trained to the utmost of its powers, was, after all, to be
nothing but her handmaiden, let us respect this unconscious simplicity
which enabled the educational institutions to be placed in so high and
trusted a position. The Church supplied something then, indeed, which we
search after in vain in the present day, and which we shall only achieve
by some great strides in academic organisation, capable of supplying
from within what was then supplied from without: and the quality thus
supplied was no less than that cosmopolitan nature, which made the
university not merely parochial, or merely national, but universal, as
its name denoted. The temporal prince might endow the academy with lands
and riches, and might confer upon its members honourable and lucrative
privileges, but it was to the head of the one indivisible Church that
the power belonged of franking it all over Christendom, and establishing
throughout the civilised world a free-masonry of intellect, which made
all the universities, as it were, one great corporation of the learned
men of the world.
It must be admitted that we have here one of those practical
difficulties which form the necessary price of the freedom of
Protestantism. When a great portion of Europe was no longer attached to
Rome, the peculiar centralisation of the educational systems was broken
up. The old universities, indeed, retained their ancient privileges in a
traditional, if not a practically legal shape, through Lutheranism and
Calvinism carrying the characteristics of the abjured Romanism, yet
carrying them unscathed, since they were protected from injury and
insult by the enlightened object for which they were established and
endowed. When, however, in Protestant countries, the old universities
became poor, or when a change of condition demanded the foundation of a
new university, it was difficult to restore anything so simple and grand
as that old community of privileges which made the member of one
university a citizen of all others, according to his rank, whether he
were laureated in Paris or distant Upsala—in the gorgeous academies
close to the fostering influence of the Pope, or in that humble edifice
endowed after the model of the University of Bologna, in an obscure
Scottish town named Glasgow.
The English universities, by their great wealth and political influence,
were able to stand alone, neither giving nor taking. Their Scottish
contemporaries, unable to fight a like battle, have had reason to
complain of their ungenerous isolation; and as children of the same
parentage, and differing only with their southern neighbours in not
having so much worldly prosperity, it is natural that they should look
back with a sigh, which even orthodox Presbyterianism cannot suppress,
to the time when the universal mental sway of Rome, however offensive it
might be in its own insolent supremacy, yet exercised that high
privilege of supereminent greatness to level secondary inequalities, and
place those whom it favoured beyond the reach of conventional
humiliations.
To keep up that characteristic which the Popedom only offered, the
monarchs of the larger Protestant states have endeavoured to apply the
incorporation principle to universities. In small states and republics
the difficulty of obtaining a general sanction to frank their honours to
any distance from the place where they are given is still greater; yet
it is in such places that, through fortunate coincidents, an academy
sometimes acquires a widespread reputation and influence. To what
eminence the universities in the United States are destined who shall
predict? yet, in the estimate of many, they have no right to be called
universities at all; and of the doctors’ degrees which they freely
distribute in this country, much doubt is entertained of the
genuineness. Yet if it would be difficult to lay down how it is that
these American institutions have acquired any power to grant
degrees—that is to say, the power not only to confer prizes and rewards
among their own alumni, but to invest them with insignia of literary
rank current for their value over the world—it would be equally
difficult for any of the ancient universities in Protestant states to
claim an exclusive right to such a power, since this could only be done
through Papal authority. It will be said that there is just the same
practical difficulty in this as in all other departments of human
institutions, and especially those which, like rank, are transferable
from country to country, so as to require and obtain an estimate of
their value in each. It will be said that the exclusiveness which denies
the Heidelberg Doctor of Philosophy a parallel with the LL.D. of Oxford
is just the same as that which will by no means admit the count or baron
who is deputy-assistant highways controller, as on a par with an earl or
baron in the peerage of England. The Kammer Junker of Denmark is not
looked on as a privy-councillor. The Sheriff of Mecca, the Sheriff of
London, and the Sheriff of Edinburgh, are three totally different
personages, and would feel very much puzzled how to act if they were to
change places for a while. Some Eastern dignitaries—Baboo, Fudky, and
the like, must occasionally puzzle even the adepts of Leadenhall. Nor
are we without our instances near at hand. What is the Knight of Kerry,
what the Captain of Clanranald, what The Chisholm—and how do the
authorities at the Herald’s Office deal with them? Has not an Archbishop
of York been suspected of imposture in a Scottish bank when he signed
with the surname of Eborac; and have not our Scottish judges, with their
strange-sounding peerage-titles, made mighty confusion in respectable
English hotels, when my Lord Kames is so intimate with Mrs Home, and my
Lord Auchinleck retires with Mrs Boswell? But admitting the confusion to
be irremediable in the department of political and decorative rank, the
absence of a uniform intellectual hierarchy is not the less to be
regretted, while the great effort made to secure it in an early and
imperfect condition of society should be contemplated with a respectful
awe. There is just one man who professes to be able effectually to
restore it—the sage of positivism, M. Comte; and he is to do it when he
has established absolute science in everything, and put down freedom of
opinion by the application of sure scientific deduction in every
department of the world’s intellectual pursuits; when it shall be as
impossible to question the most abstruse propositions in chemistry,
geology, or social organisation, as to question the multiplication table
or the succession of the tides—then, indeed, may absolute laws be laid
down to govern the world in its appreciation of intellectual rank. But
it is long yet ere that day of certain knowledge—if it is ever destined
to dawn on that poor, blundering, unfortunate fellow, man. We have got
but a very, very little way yet, and we know not how much farther it is
permitted us to penetrate. Terrible are the chaotic heaps that have to
be cleared away or set in order by the pioneers of intellect, and it is
still a question whether our race can provide those who are
strong-headed enough for the task.
There is much truth, however, at the foundation of the French sage’s
audacious speculations, that intellect must achieve for herself her own
conquests and take her own position. In the greatness of the
acquirements of which they are the nursery, must we look hereafter to
the greatness of our seminaries of learning. If the university is but a
grammar school or a collection of popular lecture-rooms, no royal
decrees or republican ordinances will give it rank—if it be a great
centre of literary and scientific illumination, the pride or enmity of
its rivals will not tarnish its lustre. But apart from, the question
between catholicity and positivity, it is, we think, very interesting to
notice in our universities—humble as we admit them to be—the relics of
the nomenclature and customs which, in the fifteenth century, marked
their rank in the great European cluster of universities. The most
eminent of their characteristics is that high officer, the Rector,
already spoken of. There is a Censor too—but for all the grandeur of his
etymological ancestry in Roman history, he is but a small officer—in
stature sometimes, as well as dignity. He calls over the catalogue or
roll of names, marking those absent—a duty quite in keeping with that
enumerating function of the Roman officer which has left to us the word
census as a numbering of the people.
So lately as the eighteenth century, when the monastic or collegiate
system which has now so totally disappeared from the Scottish
universities yet lingered about them, the censor was a more important,
or at least more laborious officer, and, oddly enough, he corresponded
in some measure with the character into which, in England, the Proctor
had been so strangely diverted. In a regulation adopted in Glasgow, in
1725, it is provided “that all students be obliged, after the bells
ring, immediately to repair to their classes, and to keep within them,
and a censor be appointed to every class, to attend from the ringing of
the bells till the several masters come to their classes, and observe
any, either of his own class or of any other, who shall be found walking
in the courts during the above time, or standing on the stairs, or
looking out at the windows, or making noise.”—_Munimenta Univ.
Glasguensis_, ii. 429. This has something of the mere schoolroom
characteristic of our modern university discipline, but this other
paragraph, from the same set of regulations, is indicative both of more
mature vices among the precocious youth of Glasgow, and a more
inquisitorial corrective organisation:—
“That for keeping order without the College, a censor be appointed to
observe any who shall be in the streets before the bells ring, and to go
now and then to the billiard-tables, and to the other gaming-places, to
observe if any be playing at the times when they ought to be in their
chambers; and that this censor be taken from the poor scholars of the
several classes alternately, as they shall be thought most fit for that
office, and that some reward be thought of for their pains.” (_Ibid._,
425). In the fierce street-conflicts, to which we may have occasion to
refer, the poor censors had a more perilous service.
In the universities of Central Europe, and that of Paris, their parent,
the censor was a very important person; yet he was the subordinate of
one far greater in power and influence. In the words of the writers of
the _Trevaux_, so full of knowledge about such matters, “Un Régent est
dans sa classe comme un Souverain; il crée des charges de _Censeurs_
comme il lui plait, il les donne à qui il veut, et il les abolit quand
il le judge à propos.” The regents still exist in more than their
original potency; for they are that essential invigorating element of
the university of the present day, without which it would not exist. Of
old, when every magister was entitled to teach in the university, the
regents were persons selected from among them, with the powers of
government as separate from the capacity and function of instructing; at
present, in so far as the university is a school, the regent is a
schoolmaster—and therefore, as we have just said, he is an essential
element of the establishment. The term regent, like most of the other
university distinctions, was originally of Parisian nomenclature, and
there might be adduced a good deal of learning bearing on its
signification as distinct from that of the word professor—now so
desecrated in its use that we are most familiar with it in connection
with dancing-schools, jugglers’ booths, and veterinary surgeries. The
regency, as a university distinction conferred as a reward of capacities
shown within the arena of the university, and judged of according to its
republican principles, seems to have lingered in a rather confused shape
in our Scottish universities, and to have gradually ingrafted itself on
the patronage of the professorships. So in reference to Glasgow,
immediately after the Revolution, when there was a vacancy or two from
Episcopalians declining to take the obligation to acknowledge the new
Church Establishment, there appears the following notice:—
“_January 2, 1691._—There had never been so solemn and numerous an
appearance of disputants for a regent’s place as was for fourteen days
before this, nine candidates disputing; and in all their disputes and
other exercises they all behaved themselves so well, as that the Faculty
judged there was not one of them but gave such specimens of their
learning as might deserve the place, which occasioned so great
difficulty in the choice that the Faculty, choosing a leet of some of
them who seemed most to excel and be fittest, did determine the same by
lot, which the Faculty did solemnly go about, and the lot fell upon Mr
John Law, who thereupon was this day established regent.”—_Ibid._, vol.
iii. p. 596.
Sir William Hamilton explains the position of the regents with a lucid
precision which makes his statement correspond precisely with the
documentary stores before us. “In the original constitution of Oxford,”
he says, “as in that of all the older universities of the Parisian
model, the business of instruction was not confided to a special body of
privileged professors. The University was governed, the University was
taught, by the graduates at large. Professor, master, doctor, were
originally synonymous. Every graduate had an equal right of teaching
publicly in the University the subjects competent to his faculty and to
the rank of his degree; nay, every graduate incurred the obligation of
teaching publicly, for a certain period, the subjects of his faculty—for
such was the condition involved in the grant of the degree itself. The
bachelor, or imperfect graduate, partly as an exercise towards the
higher honour, and useful to himself, partly as a performance due for
the degree obtained, and of advantage to others, was bound to read under
a master or doctor in his faculty a course of lectures; and the master,
doctor, or perfect graduate, was in like manner, after his promotion,
obliged immediately to commence (_incipere_), and to continue for a
certain period publicly to teach (_regere_), some at least of the
subjects appertaining to his faculty. As, however, it was only necessary
for the University to enforce this obligation of public teaching,
compulsory on all graduates during the term of their _necessary
regency_, if there did not come forward a competent number of _voluntary
regents_ to execute this function; and as the schools belonging to the
several faculties, and in which alone all public or ordinary instruction
could be delivered, were frequently inadequate to accommodate the
multitude of the inceptors, it came to pass that in these universities
the original period of necessary regency was once and again abbreviated,
and even a dispensation from actual teaching during its continuance
commonly allowed. At the same time, as the University only accomplished
the end of its existence through its regents, they alone were allowed to
enjoy full privileges in its legislature and government; they alone
partook of its _beneficia_ and _sportulæ_. In Paris the non-regent
graduates were only assembled on rare and extraordinary occasions: in
Oxford the regents constituted the house of congregation, which, among
other exclusive prerogatives, was anciently the initiatory assembly
through which it behoved that every measure should pass before it could
be admitted to the house of convocation, composed indifferently of all
regents and non-regents resident in the University.”—_Dissertations_, p.
391–2.
But the term Regent became afterwards obsolete in the southern
universities, while it continued by usage to be applied to a certain
class of professors in our own. Along with other purely academic titles
and functions, it fell in England before the rising ascendancy of the
heads and other functionaries of the collegiate institutions—colleges,
halls, inns, and entries. So, in the same way, evaporated the faculties
and their deans, still conspicuous in Scottish academic nomenclature. In
both quarters they were derived from the all-fruitful nursery of the
Parisian University. But Scotland kept and cherished what she obtained
from a friend and ally; England despised and forgot the example of an
alien and hostile people. The Decanus seems to have been a captain or
leader of ten—a sort of tything-man; and Ducange speaks of him as a
superintendent of ten monks. He afterwards came into general employment
as a sort of chairman and leader. The _Doyens_ of all sorts, lay and
ecclesiastical, were a marked feature of ancient France, as they still
are of Scotland, where there is a large body of lay deans, from the
eminent lawyer who presides over the Faculty of Advocates down to “my
feyther the deacon,” who gathers behind a half-door the gear that is to
make his son a capitalist and a magistrate. Among the Scottish
universities the deans of faculty are still nearly as familiar a title
as they were at Paris or Bologna.
The employment in the universities of a dead language as the means of
communication was not only a natural arrangement for teaching the
familiar use of that language, but it was also evidently courted as one
of the tokens of learned isolation from the common illiterate world. In
Scotland, as perhaps in some other small countries, such as Holland, the
Latin remained as the language of literature after the great nations
England, France, Germany, Italy, and Spain, were making a vernacular
literature for themselves. In the seventeenth century the Scot had not
been reconciled to the acceptance of the English tongue as his own; nor,
indeed, could he employ it either gracefully or accurately. On the other
hand, he felt the provincialism of the Lowland Scottish tongue, the
ridicule attached to its use in books which happened to cross the
Border, and the narrowness of the field it afforded to literary
ambition.
Hence every man who looked to be a worker in literature or science,
threw himself into the academic practice of cultivating the familiar use
of the Latin language. To the Scottish scholars it was almost a revived
language, and they possessed as great a command over it as can ever be
obtained of a language confined to a class, and not universally used by
the lowest as well as the highest of the people. Hence, when he had the
pen in hand, the educated Scotsman felt the Latin come more naturally to
his call than the vernacular; and people accustomed to rummage among old
letters by Scotsmen will have sometimes noticed that the writer,
beginning with his native tongue, slips gradually into the employment of
Latin as a relief, just as we may find a foreigner abandon the arduous
labour of breaking English, to repose himself in the easy fluency of his
natural speech. We believe that no language, employed only by a class,
is capable of the same copiousness and flexibility as that which is
necessarily applicable to all purposes, from the meanest to the highest.
But such as a class-language could become, the Latin was among the
Scots; and it is to their peculiar position and academic practices that,
among a host of distinguished humanists, we possess in George Buchanan
the most illustrious writer in the Roman tongue, both in poetry and
prose, since the best days of Rome.
The records before us afford some amusing instances of the anxious zeal
with which any lapse into the vernacular tongue was prevented, and
conversation among the students was rendered as uneasy and unpleasant as
possible. In the visitorial regulations of King’s College, Aberdeen, in
1546, it is provided that the attendant boys—the gyps, if we may so call
them—shall be expert in the use of Latin, lest they should give occasion
to the masters or students to have recourse to the vernacular speech:
“_Ne dent occasionem magistris et Studentibus lingua vernacula uti._” If
Aberdeen supplied a considerable number of waiting-boys thus
accomplished, the stranger wandering to that far northern region, in the
seventeenth century, might have been as much astonished as the man in
_Ignoramus_, who tested the state of education in Paris by finding that
even the dirty boys in the streets were taught French. It would, after
all, have perhaps been more difficult to find waiting-boys who could
speak English. The term by which they are described is a curious
indication of the French habits and traditions of the northern
universities: they are spoken of as _garciones_—a word of obvious origin
to any one who has been in a French hotel.
In Glasgow, in a law passed in 1667, it is provided that “all who are
delated by the public censor for speaking of English shall be fined in
an halfpenny _toties quoties_.” The sum is not large, but the imposition
of the penalty at that particular juncture looks rather unreasonable,
since the Senate and the Faculty of Arts had just abandoned the use of
Latin in their public documents, and had adopted what, if not strictly
English, was the vernacular tongue—a change which was doubtless as much
to their own ease as it is to the satisfaction of the reader, who
becomes painfully alive to the continued and progressive barbarisation
of the academic Latin.
In a great measure, however, it seems to have been less the object in
view to inculcate Latin than to discountenance the vernacular language
of the country. In some instances the language of France is admitted;
and, from the number of Scotsmen who carved out their fortunes in that
hospitable and affluent country, this acquisition must have been one of
peculiar value. In a set of statutes and laws of the Grammar School of
Aberdeen, adopted in 1553, there is a very singular liberty of
choice—the pupils might speak in Greek, Hebrew, or even in Gaelic,
rather than in Lowland Scots: “Loquantur omnes Latinè, Græcè, Hebraicè,
Gallicè, Hybernicè—nunquam vernaculè, saltem cum his qui Latinè
noscunt.” This is by no means to be held as an indication of the
familiar acquaintance of the Aberdonian students with the language of
the Gael; on the contrary, it shows how entirely this was placed within
the category of foreign tongues. We know no other instances in which the
tongue of the Highlander is spoken of in connection with the earlier
educational institutions of the country; but we think it not improbable
that any encouragement it received was for much the same reason that
Hindostanee and the African dialects are now sometimes taught to young
divines—that they may work as missionaries among the heathen. A few
students from this wild region, to which Christianity had scarcely
penetrated, were indeed a peculiar feature of the educational
institutions of Aberdeen, and in a modified shape so remain to this day,
since some wild men from the hills, spending a brief period at school or
college to acquire a fragment of education, are yet known by the term
_extranni_, of old applied to them. There is a prevailing, but utterly
false impression, that Aberdeen is in the Highlands. It lingers chiefly,
in the present century, with Cockneys beginning their first northern
tour; but in the seventeenth century it may, perhaps, have been
entertained even in the metropolis of Scotland. Hence the educational
institutions there, though at the extremity of a long tract of
agricultural lowland, inhabited by a Teutonic people, and farther
separated from the actual Celtic line than Edinburgh itself, are
generally talked of in old documents as those which are peculiarly
available for the civilisation of the Highlanders. Glasgow was nearer
and more accessible to the great body of the western Celts; but in this
town the prejudices against them were greater, and the alienation,
especially in religion, was more emphatic. It was to Aberdeen then,
generally, that the son of a predatory chief would be sent, to fit him
in some measure for converse with the civilised world, such as it then
was; and the fierce owner of a despotic power over his clansmen would
appear among the sober burgesses of the northern metropolis much as an
American chief may among the inhabitants of some distant city in the
Union. Lovat studied at King’s College, in Aberdeen, and there acquired
a portion of those accomplishments which made him act the subtle
courtier in Paris or London, and reserve his sanguinary ruffianism for
Castle Dunie. Not unmindful of the benefits of the institution, some of
the Celtic princes bestowed endowments on it. Thus, the Laird of
Macintosh, who begins in the true regal style, “We, Lachlan Macintosh of
that ilk,” and who calls himself the Chief and _Principall_ of the Clan
Chattan—probably using the term which he thought would be the most
likely to make his supremacy intelligible to university
dignitaries—dispenses to the King’s College two thousand marks, “for
maintaining hopeful students thereat.” He reserves, however, a dynastic
control over the endowment, making it conducive to the clan discipline
and the support of the hierarchy surrounding the chief. It was a
condition that the beneficiary should be presented “by the lairds of
Macintosh successively in all time coming; that a youth of the name of
Macintosh or of Clan Chattan shall be preferred to those of any other
name,” &c.—_Fasti_, 206. This document is titled in the records,
“Macintosh’s Mortification,” according to a peculiar technical
application of that expression in Scotland, to the perpetuity of
possession which in England is termed mortmain. Later in the eighteenth
century, M‘Lean of Coll causes another mortification to be “applied
towards the maintenance and education of such young man or boy of the
name of M‘Lean as shall be recommended by me, or my heirs or successors
on the estate of Coll.” This is probably the same Highland potentate who
frowned so savagely on young Colman, when he, seeing an old gentleman
familiarly called Coll by his contemporaries, addressed him as Mr Coll.
Such a solecism would never be permitted to pass as an accidental
mistake, since it would be utterly impossible to convince the mighty
chief of Coll that there existed in this world a person ignorant enough
to be unacquainted with his style and title. At a still later date, a
bequest is more gracefully made by Sir John M‘Pherson: “In testimony of
my gratitude to the University of Old Aberdeen, I bequeath to ditto, so
as to afford an annual bursary to any Highland student who may be
selected to receive the said bursary, two thousand five hundred pounds
of my Carnatic stock.”
Here there is a wider range of application, but still the endowment is
to a Highland student. Nor, after all, when the social state of the
Highlanders is considered, can we wonder that their gentry should seek
to preserve the wealth which they are constrained to deposit in the
hands of the stranger for their own people. Occasionally, at the present
day, some wild wiry M‘Lean or M‘Dougal makes his appearance, by command
of the chief, at the proper time and place, to claim investment in the
clan bursary. Other of these endowments are of restricted application,
being exclusively appropriated to students of a special name, such as
Smith or Thomson, or born in a special parish, or descended from members
of some corporation. In general, however, these endowments—some of them
of very ancient date—are open to free universal competition, and are in
this shape one of the most interesting and remarkable specimens of the
ancient literary republics, in which each man fought with his brains,
and held what his brains could achieve for him. Annually, at the
competition for bursaries in Aberdeen, there assembles a varied group of
intellectual gladiators—long red-haired Highlanders, who feel trousers
and shoes an infringement of the liberty of the subject—square-built
Lowland farmers—flaxen-haired Orcadians, and pale citizens’ sons,
vibrating between scholarship and the tailor’s board or the shoemaker’s
last. Grim and silent they sit for a day, rendering into Latin an
English essay, and drop away one by one, depositing with the judges the
evidence of success or failure as the case may be. The thing is very
fairly and impartially managed, and honourable to all the parties
concerned.
It is indeed, as we have hinted, a relic of the old competitive spirit
which distinguished the universities as literal republics of letters,
where each man fought his own battle, and gained and wore his own
laurels. Nor was his arena confined to his own college. The free-masonry
we have already alluded to opened every honour and emolument to all, and
the Scotsman might suddenly enter the lists at Paris, Bologna, or
Upsala, or the Spaniard might compete in Glasgow or Aberdeen. The
records before us contain many forms in which the ancient spirit has now
ceased to breathe. Already has been mentioned the competition for the
regentship. The old form of the Impugnment of Theses, so renowned in
literary histories, has died away as a portion of the ordinary
laureation. The comprehensive challenges and corresponding victories
attributed to the Admirable Crichton give this practice a peculiar
interest in the eyes of Scotsmen; and it has a great place in the annals
of the Reformation, since one of its main stages was the posting the
twenty-five theses on the door of the church of Würtemberg by Luther.
But in reading these remarkable events people are apt to forget the
commonness of the practice; and Crichton has the aspect of a
preposterous intellectual bully going out of his proper way to attract
notice, instead of doing what was in its time and circumstances as
ordinary and common sense an act as running a tilt, joining a crusade,
or burning a witch. Goldsmith, in that account of the intellectual
vagabond which so evidently describes himself, has noticed some relics
of the practice as he found it on the Continent. “In all the
universities and convents there are, upon certain days, philosophical
theses maintained against every adventitious disputant; for which, if
the champion opposes with any dexterity, he can claim a gratuity in
money, a dinner, and a bed for one night. In this manner, then, I fought
my way towards England.” A collection of German pamphlets, amounting, it
is said, to upwards of a hundred thousand, and called the Dietrich
Collection, was some years ago purchased by the Faculty of Advocates,
and was found to consist chiefly of the academic theses in which the
scholars of Germany—illustrious and obscure—had been disputing for
centuries. In the same place, by the way, where this vast collection
reposes, may be found the most complete living illustration of the old
form of impugnment. The anxious litigant or busy agent entering the main
door of the Parliament House at 9 o’clock of a morning, may find, by an
_affiche_ to the door-post, that there is to be a _disputatio juridica_
under the auspices of the _inclytus Diaconus facultatis_. Since the year
1693 it has been the practice of each intrant to undergo public
impugnment, or, as the act of Faculty says, “the publict tryall of
candidates, by printing and publishing theses on the subject assigned
with corollaries, as it is observed amongst other nations.” A title of
the Pandects is assigned on each occasion. Thus the Faculty possesses
more than one running commentary upon that celebrated collection; and it
has always been deemed remarkable that, considering the number and
varied talent of the authors of these theses, they should be so uniform
in their Latinity and structure. A great innovation has lately taken
place in sparing the cost of printing the theses, and applying the
amount so saved to the Faculty’s magnificent library.
Many of the old university theses are very interesting as the youthful
efforts of men who have subsequently become eminent. Those connected
with Aberdeen are apparently the most numerous. It is very noticeable,
indeed, that in the remote rival institutions there established, the
spirit and practice of the Continental universities, in almost every
department, had their most tenacious existence. As in England, the
Church of Rome was succeeded there, not by Presbyterianism but
Episcopacy, and there were fewer changes in all old habits and
institutions. The celebrated “Aberdeen doctors,” who carried on a
controversy with the Covenanters, met their zealous religionists with
something like the old pedantic formality of the academic system of
disputation. They resolved the Covenant into a thesis, and impugned it.
Of this remarkable group of scholars we have the following notice in
Professor Innes’s Preface:—
“Their names are now little known, except to the local antiquary;
but no one who has even slightly studied the history of that
disturbed time is unacquainted with the collective designation of
‘the Aberdeen Doctors’ bestowed upon the learned ‘querists’ of the
ultra-Presbyterian Assembly of 1638, and the most formidable
opponents of the Solemn League and Covenant.
“Of these learned divines, Dr Robert Barron had succeeded Bishop
Forbes in his parish of Keith, and from thence was brought on the
first opportunity to be made Minister of Aberdeen, and afterwards
Professor of Divinity in Marischal College. He is best judged by the
estimation of his own time, which placed him foremost in philosophy
and theology. Bishop Sydserf characterises him as ‘vir in omni
scholastica theologia et omni literatura versatissimus:’ ‘A person of
incomparable worth and learning,’ says Middleton, ‘he had a clear
apprehension of things, and a rare facultie of making the hardest
things to be easily understood.’[10] Gordon of Rothiemay says, ‘He was
one of those who maintained the unanswerable dispute (in 1638) against
the Covenante, which drew upon him both ther envye, hate, and
calumneyes; yet so innocently lived and dyed hee, that such as then
hated him doo now reverence his memorye, and admire his works.’
Principal Baillie, of the opposite party, speaks of him as ‘a meek and
learned person,’ and always with great respect: and Bishop Jeremy
Taylor, when writing in 1659 to a fellow of Trinity College, Dublin,
recommending the choice of books for ‘the beginning of a theological
library,’ named two treatises of Barron’s especially, and recommended
generally ‘everything of his.’[11] That a man so honoured for his
learning and his life should receive the indignities inflicted on
Barron after his death, is rather to be held as a mark of the general
coarseness of the time, than attributed to the persecuting spirit of
any one sect.[12]
“Another of the Aberdeen doctors, William Leslie, was successively
Sub-principal and Principal of King’s College. The visitors of 1638
found him worthie of censure, as defective and negligent in his
office, but recorded their knowledge that he was ‘ane man of gude
literature, lyff, and conversatioun.’[13] ‘He was a man,’ says James
Gordon, ‘grave, and austere, and exemplar. The University was happy in
having such a light as he, who was eminent in all the sciences above
the most of his age.’[14]
“Dr James Sibbald, Minister of St Nicholas, and a Regent in the
University, is recorded by the same contemporary: ‘It will not be
affirmed by his very enemyes, but that Dr James Sibbald was ane
eloquent and painefull preacher, a man godly, and grave, and modest,
not tainted with any vice unbeseeming a minister, to whom nothing
could in reason be objected, if you call not his ante-covenanting a
cryme.’[15] Principal Baillie, while condemning his Arminian
doctrines, says—‘The man was, there, of great fame.’
“Dr Alexander Scroggy, minister in the Cathedral Church, first known
to the world as thought worthy to contribute to the ‘Funerals’ of his
patron and friend, Bishop Forbes,[16] is described in 1640 by Gordon
as ‘a man sober, grave, and painefull in his calling;’[17] and by
Baillie as ‘ane old man, not verie corrupt, yet perverse in the
Covenant and Service-book.’ His obstinacy yielded under the weight of
old age and the need of rest, but he is not the more respected for the
questionable recantation of all his early opinions.[18]
“Foremost, by common consent, among that body of divines and scholars,
was John Forbes, the good bishop’s son. He had studied at King’s
College, and, after completing his education in the approved manner by
a round of foreign universities, returned to Scotland to take his
doctor’s degree, and to be the first professor in the chair of
theology, founded and endowed in our University by his father and the
clergy of the diocese. Dr John Forbes’s theological works have been
appreciated by all critics and students, and have gone some way to
remove the reproach of want of learning from the divines of Scotland.
His greatest undertaking, the _Instructiones historico-theologicæ_,
which he left unfinished, Bishop Burnett pronounces to be ‘a work
which, if he had finished it, and had been suffered to enjoy the
privacies of his retirement and study to give us the second volume,
had been the greatest treasure of theological learning that perhaps
the world has yet received.[19]
“These were the men whom the bishop drew into the centre and heart of
the sphere which he had set himself to illuminate; and in a short
space of time, by their united endeavours, there grew up around their
Cathedral and University a society more learned and accomplished than
Scotland had hitherto known, which spread a taste for literature and
art beyond the academic circle, and gave a tone of refinement to the
great commercial city and its neighbourhood.
“It must be confessed cultivation was not without bias. It would seem
that, in proportion as the Presbyterian and Puritan party receded from
the learning of some of their first teachers, literature became here,
as afterwards in England, the peculiar badge of Episcopacy. With
Episcopacy went, hand in hand, the high assertion of royal authority;
and influenced as it had been by Bishop Patrick Forbes and his
followers, Aberdeen became, and continued for a century to be, not
only a centre of northern academic learning, but a little stronghold
of loyalty and Episcopacy—the marked seat of high Cavalier politics
and anti-Puritan sentiments of religion and church government.
“That there was a dash of pedantry in the learning of that Augustan
age of our University, was the misfortune of the age, rather than
peculiar to Aberdeen. The literature of Britain and all Europe, except
Italy, was still for the most part scholastic, and still to a great
degree shrouded in the scholastic dress of a dead language; and we
must not wonder that the northern University exacted from her divines
and philosophers, even from her historians and poets, that they should
use the language of the learned. After all, we owe too much to
classical learning to grudge that it should for a time have
overshadowed and kept down its legitimate offspring of native
literature. ‘We never ought to forget,’ writes one worthy to record
the life and learning of Andrew Melville, ‘that the refinement and the
science, secular and sacred, with which modern Europe is enriched,
must be traced to the revival of ancient literature, and that the hid
treasures could not have been laid open and rendered available but for
that enthusiasm with which the languages of Greece and Rome were
cultivated in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries.’[20]
“It is not to be questioned that in the literature of that age, and in
all departments of it, Aberdeen stood pre-eminent. Clarendon
commemorates the ‘many excellent scholars and very learned men under
whom the Scotch universities, and especially Aberdeen,
flourished.’[21] ‘Bishop Patrick Forbes,’ says Burnet, ‘took such care
of the two colleges in his diocese, that they became quickly
distinguished from all the rest of Scotland.... They were an honour to
the Church, both by their lives and by their learning; and with that
excellent temper they seasoned that whole diocese, both clergy and
laity, that it continues to this very day very much distinguished from
all the rest of Scotland, both for learning, loyalty, and
peaceableness.’[22]
“That this was no unfounded boast, as regards one department of
learning, has been already shown, in enumerating the learned divines
who drew upon Aberdeen the general attention soon after the death of
their bishop and master. In secular learning it was no less
distinguished. No one excelled Robert Gordon of Straloch in all the
accomplishments that honour the country gentleman. Without the common
desire of fame or any more sordid motive, he devoted his life and
talents to illustrate the history and literature of his country. He
was the prime assistant to Scotstarvet in his two great undertakings,
the Atlas and the collections of Scotch poetry.[23] The maps of
Scotland in the Great Atlas (many of them drawn by himself, and the
whole ‘revised’ by him at the earnest entreaty of Charles I.), with
the topographical descriptions that accompany them, are among the most
valuable contributions ever made by an individual to the physical
history of his country. His son, James Gordon, parson of Rothiemay,
followed out his father’s great objects with admirable skill, and in
two particulars he merits our gratitude even more. He was one of the
earliest of our countrymen to study drawing, and to apply it to plans
and views of places; and, while he could wield Latin easily, he
condescended to write the history of his time in excellent Scotch.
“While these writers were illustrating the history of their country in
prose, a crowd of scholars were writing poetry, or, at least, pouring
forth innumerable copies of elegant Latin verses. While the two
Johnstons were the most distinguished of those poets of Aberdeen, John
Leech, once Rector of our University,[24] David Wedderburn, rector of
the Grammar School, and many others, wrote and published pleasing
Latin verse, which stands the test of criticism. While it cannot be
said that such compositions produce on the reader the higher effects
of real poetry, they are not without value, if we view them as tests
of the cultivation of the society among which they were produced.
Arthur Johnston not only addresses elegiacs to the bishop and his
doctors, throwing a charming classical air over their abstruser
learning, but puts up a petition to the magistrates of the city, or
celebrates the charms of Mistress Abernethy, or the embroideries of
the Lady Lauderdale—all in choice Latin verse, quite as if the persons
whom he addressed appreciated the language of the poet.[25]
“Intelligent and educated strangers, both foreigners and the gentry of
the north, were attracted to Aberdeen; and its colleges became the
place of education for a higher class of students than had hitherto
been accustomed to draw their philosophy from a native source.[26]
“If it was altogether chance, it was a very fortunate accident, which
placed in the midst of a society so worthy of commemoration a painter
like George Jamiesone, the pupil of Rubens, the first, and, till
Raeburn, the only great painter whom Scotland had produced. Though he
was a native of Aberdeen, it is not likely that anything but the
little court of the bishop could have induced such an artist to
prosecute his art in a provincial town. An academic orator in 1630,
while boasting of the crowd of distinguished men, natives and
strangers, either produced by the University, or brought to Aberdeen
by the bishop, was able to point to their pictures ornamenting the
hall where his audience were assembled. Knowing by whom these
portraits were painted, we cannot but regret that so few are
preserved.”[27]
Keeping, however, to the matter of academic impugnment, we shall now
turn to an instance of its incidental occurrence in that University,
which, from its late origin, was least imbued with the spirit of the
Continental system.
The visit of King James to his ancient kingdom in 1617, afforded the
half-formed collegiate institution in Edinburgh an opportunity for a
rhetorical display, which ended in substantial advantages. Tired with
business at Holyrood, and in the enjoyment of full eating and drinking,
and “driving our” at his quieter palace of Stirling, he bethought
himself of a rhetorical pastime with the professors of the new
University, wherein he could not fail to luxuriate in the scholastic
quibbling with which his mind was so well crammed, and he was pretty
certain of enjoying an ample banquet of success and applause. Hence, as
Thomas Crawford the annalist of the institution informs us, “It pleased
his majesty to appoint the maisters of the college to attend him at
Sterling the 29th day of July, where, in the royal chapel, his majesty,
with the flower of the nobility, and many of the most learned men of
both nations, were present, a little before five of the clock, and
continued with much chearfulness above three hours.”
The display was calculated to be rather appalling to any man who had
much diffidence or reserve in his disposition, and hence Charteris, the
principal, “being naturally averse from public show, and professor of
divinity,” transferred the duty of leading the discussion to Professor
Adamson. The form adopted was the good old method of the impugnment of
theses, so many being appointed to defend, and so many to impugn; “but
they insisted only upon such purposes as were conceived would be most
acceptable to the king’s majesty and the auditory.”
The first thesis was better suited for the legislature than an academic
body, and there must have been some peculiar reason for bringing it on.
It was, “that sheriffs and other inferior magistrates should not be
hereditary,” which was oppugned by Professor Lands “with many pretty
arguments.” The king was so pleased with the oppugnation, that he turned
to the Marquis of Hamilton, hereditary sheriff of Clydesdale, and said,
“James, you see your cause lost—and all that can be said for it clearly
satisfied and answered.” _N.—B._ It is just worth noticing that the
College and the Marquis were then at feud. There was a question about
the possession of the old lodging of the Hamilton family, then
constituting a considerable portion of the University edifices. The “gud
old nobleman,” his father, had been easily satisfied, but the young man
was determined to stand upon his rights, and, though he could not
recover possession, get something in the shape of rent or damages; nor
would he take the judicious hint that “so honourable a personage would
never admit into his thoughts to impoverish the patrimony of the young
University, which had been so great an ornament, and so fruitful an
instrument of so much good to the whole nation, but rather accept of
some honourable acknowledgment of his munificence in bestowing upon the
College an honest residence for the muses.” But to return to the
impugnment. The next thesis was on local motion, “pressing many things
by clear testimonies of Aristotle’s text;” and this passage of literary
arms called out one of James’s sallies of pawky persiflage. “These men,”
he said, “know Aristotle’s mind as well as himself did while he lived.”
The next thesis was on the “Original of Fountains;” and the discussion,
much to the purpose, no doubt, was so interesting that it was allowed to
go on far beyond the prescribed period, “his majesty himself sometimes
speaking for the impugner, and sometimes for the defender, in good
Latin, and with much knowledge of the secrets of philosophy.”
Talking is, however, at the best, dry work. His majesty went at last to
supper, and no doubt would have what is termed “a wet night.” When up to
the proper mark, he sent for the professors, and delivered himself of
the following brilliant address:—
“Methinks these gentlemen, by their very names, have been destined for
the acts which they have had in hand to-day. Adam was father of all;
and, very fitly, Adamson had the first part of this act. The defender is
justly called Fairly—his thesis had some fair lies, and he defended them
very fairly, and with many fair lies given to the oppugners. And why
should not Mr Lands be the first to enter the lands? but now I clearly
see that all lands are not barren, for certainly he hath shown a fertile
wit. Mr Young is very old in Aristotle. Mr Reed needs not be red with
blushing for his acting to-day. Mr King disputed very kingly, and of a
kingly purpose, anent the royal supremacy of reason over anger and all
passions.” And here his majesty was going to close the encomiums, when
some one nudged his elbow, and hinted that he had omitted to notice the
modest Charteris; but the royal wit was not abashed, and his concluding
impromptu was by no means the least successful of his puns. “Well, his
name agreeth very well to his nature; for charters contain much matter,
yet say nothing, but put great purposes in men’s mouths.”
Few natures would be churlish enough to resist a genial glow of
satisfaction on receiving such pearls of rhetoric scattered among them
by a royal hand, and we may believe that the professors were greatly
gratified. But, pleased more probably by his own success, the king gave
a more substantial mark of his satisfaction, and said, “I am so well
satisfied with this day’s exercise, that I will be godfather to the
College of Edinburgh, and have it called the College of King James; for
after the founding of it had been stopped for sundry years in my
minority, so soon as I came to any knowledge, I zealously held hand to
it, and caused it to be established; and although I see many look upon
it with an evil eye, yet I will have them to know that, having given it
this name, I have espoused its quarrel.” And further on in the night, he
promised, “that as he had given the College a name, he would also, in
time convenient, give it a royal godbairn gift for enlarging the
patrimony thereof.”
In the course of the multifarious talk of the evening, a curious and
delicate matter was opened up—the difference between the English
pronunciation of Latin and the Scottish, which corresponds with that of
Europe in general. An English doctor, who must have enjoyed exceptional
opinions, or been a master of hypocrisy, praised the readiness and
elegancy of his majesty’s Latinity; on which he said, “All the world
knows that my maister, Mr George Buchanan, was a great maister in that
faculty. I follow his pronunciation both of Latin and Greek, and am
sorry that my people of England do not the like, for certainly their
pronunciation utterly spoils the grace of these two learned languages;
but you see all the university and learned men of Scotland express the
true and native pronunciation of both.”[28]
THE INSURRECTION IN SPAIN.
_Madrid, July 1854._
Dear Ebony.—Had I known that you would treacherously publish my private
communications, and that Maga comes to Madrid, I certainly would have
waited until I had quitted this capital, before imparting to you my
impressions of it, its inhabitants, and its institutions. I admit that I
have but myself to blame for my ignorance of the fact that Maga, whose
fame extends to the uttermost parts of the earth, has her regular
readers even in Madrid. But you, who must be aware of that fact, are not
the less culpable for risking the valuable life of your old ally and
contributor. You might have had a little more consideration for your
outpost than to expose him to the thrust of an Albacete dagger or
Catalan knife, whether dealt under the fifth rib, or treacherously in
the back. You should have reflected that my olive-green uniform, with a
golden thistle on the black-facings, would naturally betray my quality
of Maga’s vedette. Since the 10th of June, date of the Magazine’s
arrival in Madrid, my existence has not been worth an hour’s purchase. I
have been obliged to strike my tent, pitched in the Puerta del Sol, as
the best place for observation, and to picket my charger in the recesses
of the Retiro, whose cool shades, I confess, are not altogether to be
despised now that the thermometer ranges from 90 to 100 in the shade,
and that the streets of this capital resemble nothing so much as
limekilns, thanks to dust from demolitions, and to the rays of a sun
compared to which the Phœbus of the British Isles is a very feeble
impostor. You are, of course, aware of the pleasant peculiarities of the
Madrid climate—Siberia in winter and in the wind; the Sahara in summer
and in the sun. We are just now in all the delights of the dogdays; a
wet brick is sunburned red in half an hour; eggs, placed for ten minutes
on the tiles, open for the exit of lively chickens; and Madrid, to avoid
calcination, flies to the woods and waves. As I hope soon to follow its
example, and shall consequently not be here when your August number
arrives, I will venture to send you another epistle, notwithstanding
that I have received sundry mysterious warnings that a repetition of my
first offence would lead to prompt blood-letting. This time, however, I
shall have less to say of the follies and failings of the natives, and
more of what has occurred since last I troubled you with my prose. Then
I did but glance at politics _en passant_; now, I propose devoting my
whole letter to them. Just one fortnight ago there occurred at Madrid an
event so important that I think it best to confine myself to an account
of it, and to reserve lighter matters for a future communication. I need
hardly say that the event in question is the military insurrection of
the 28th of June.
Things had been in rather a queer state here for some time past. As you
may possibly, amidst the excitement of the Eastern question, have
neglected to follow up the minute intricacies of Spanish politics, I
must step back a pace or two, in order to put you _au fait_. Autumn of
last year witnessed the arrival at power of the present ministry, which
speedily became far more unpopular than, for some time past, any
administration had been. Headed by an unprincipled and unscrupulous
adventurer, it recoiled from no illegality or tyranny that might conduce
to its own advantage. Defeated in the senate by a large majority, on the
memorable railway question, it suspended the session, and began to
indulge its hatred of those who assisted in its rebuff. In January of
the present year, about a month after the closing of the legislative
chambers, some of the most formidable of its opponents, on that occasion
and on most others, were ordered into exile. It is customary and legal
in Spain for the minister to assign a residence to unemployed officers,
whither they are bound to proceed. In those dispositions, the
convenience of the officers is usually to a certain extent consulted,
but sometimes, especially for political reasons, the contrary is the
case, and such assignment of quarters becomes little less than a
sentence of banishment. A military man may be authorised to reside in
Madrid (the Spaniard’s paradise), or transported to the Philippines,
which he would consider purgatory. As most military men of high rank in
this country are more or less political characters, either having held
office, or hoping some day to find a place in one of the ephemeral
Spanish governments (whose existence rarely exceeds a year, and is
sometimes limited to a day), and constantly manœuvring to obtain it,
they hold it a cruel destiny that consigns them to a colonial abode, or
to vegetation in a remote town, far from the capital, that centre of
every kind of intrigue. It may be imagined, therefore, with what extreme
disgust some of the military chiefs of the Moderado opposition suddenly
found themselves ordered to places where they would be at full liberty
to study strategy, or play the Cincinnatus in their cabbage gardens, but
where they would be forgotten by the world, and powerless to annoy the
ministers or to forward their own ambitious views. Generals Leopold
O’Donnell, Manuel Concha, José Concha, and Infante (a deserter from the
Progresista or liberal party), were the men whose influence and
intrigues the Sartorius ministry thus attempted to annul. The two former
were ordered to the Canary Islands, the two latter to the Balearics.
Manuel Concha and Infante obeyed orders and departed for their
destinations; José Concha, by far the cleverer of the brothers, went
into France; O’Donnell disappeared, and it was not until some time
afterwards that it became known where he was concealed. From the time of
these banishments (the latter part of January) may be dated the
commencement of the conspiracy which has just broken out in the shape of
a military insurrection.
On the 20th of February, the regiment of Cordova, quartered at
Saragossa, rose in revolt, headed by its colonel, Brigadier Hore, an
officer of merit, who had served in the royal guards during the civil
war. Nearly the whole of the garrison, and several officers of high
rank, were pledged to support the movement; but some of the latter
played the traitor, others hesitated at the very moment when promptness
and decision were most necessary; José Concha, who was then concealed in
Spain, and expected to start up at Saragossa to head the revolt, did not
appear, but soon afterwards presented himself to the authorities of
Bordeaux. In short, the whole thing failed. The Cordova regiment was
broken up; changes were made in one or two garrisons; a number of
arrests, especially of military men and newspaper editors, were made in
Madrid; promotions and decorations were lavished upon certain officers,
amongst whom were some who had betrayed to death the friends and
confederates they had promised to support; the last of the insurgents
were driven across the frontier; the government emerged from the brief
struggle with renewed strength, and became daily more unconstitutional,
arbitrary, and tyrannical.
Within a short time after the incidents I have thus briefly sketched, it
was generally reported that the place where the Moderado opposition
(noway discouraged by the disaster in Arragon) intended to make their
next attempt, was Madrid itself. The conduct of the government in the
mean time had certainly been such as to irritate its enemies, and rouse
public indignation. No one was safe from the despotic system introduced.
Illegal arrests were of frequent occurrence, made without a shadow of a
pretext, and whose victims, conscious of no crime, were left to languish
in prison, transported to the colonies, or escorted out of Spain. The
opposition journals were daily seized, not only for the articles they
published, but for the mere news they gave, as there were many things
which ministers did not choose to have communicated to the nation except
in the falsified version given by their own journals. The _Clamor
Publico_, ably conducted by a staunch and well-known liberal, Don
Fernando Corradi; the _Nacion_, also a Progresista paper, whose editor,
Rua Figueroa, still contrived to write in it from the concealment to
which an order for his arrest had compelled him; the _Diario Español_
and the _Epoca_, representing the Moderado opposition, were the chief
objects of ministerial oppression and vindictiveness, and day after day
their columns were headed with the announcement, that their first
edition had been seized by order of the censor. In spite of this
persecution, they steadily persevered, opposing the government as well
as they might, but prevented from exposing, otherwise than by inference
and in a most guarded manner, the scandalous corruption and jobbing of
the ministers and the court. Discontent was general, and daily
increased. It was asked when the Cortes were to assemble, for only in
their discussions did there seem a chance of such expression of public
opinion as might alarm and check the men in power. These, however, had
no intention of calling together the legislative chambers. They
continued to make laws by decree, and to sanction, for the benefit of
their friends and adherents, railways and other national works, for
which the approval of the Cortes was to be asked at some future day. But
that day has not yet come, nor will it come, so long as the present
ministry is in office and the Queen-mother supports them, for she
dreads, as much as they do, the exposure of the countless iniquitous
speculations at the country’s expense, in which she and her husband have
been concerned, with the connivance and aid of the government, who thus
repaid her for the countenance that often stood them in good stead
against the intrigues of the camarilla headed by the Queen’s favourite.
Then there were frequent rumours of an approaching _coup d’état_, on the
plan of that of December 1851 in France, or of that, nearly resembling
it, which the bravo-Murillo ministry had actually published, but had
been unable to carry out. All this time (ever since the outbreak at
Saragossa) the whole country was under martial law; no _coup d’état_
could confer upon the government more arbitrary powers than those it
already exercised—it could but legalise illegality. The case was vastly
different in France and in Spain. In France, after a period of anarchy,
succeeded by a conflict of political factions which rendered all
government impossible, a man long depreciated, but now generally
admitted to be of commanding talent, and, we are justified in believing,
of far more patriotic mind than he ever had credit for, cut the knot of
the difficulty, at the cost, certainly, of constitutional forms, but, as
many now think, for the real benefit of the nation. In Spain, the
situation of affairs was quite otherwise. Where was here the vigorous
intellect whose judgment, and firmness and foresight were to guide,
without assistance and through many perils, the ship of the state. Was
it that of the unfortunate, uneducated Queen, who detests business, and
passes her life sunk in sloth and sensuality? Was it to be the upstart
unscrupulous minister who, by sheer audacity (the most valuable quality
for a Spanish politician who seeks but his own aggrandisement), had
first crawled and afterwards pushed his way to the head of the royal
council-board? Or would the arch-intriguer, Maria Christina, sketch the
course her daughter should adopt when converted into an absolute
sovereign? No, for her time was too much taken up in adding, at the
expense of Spain, to her already incalculable wealth, and in planning
marriages for her numerous daughters. In short, to carry into the higher
sphere of politics the general and servile imitation of France now
observable in Spain, was an idea repugnant to the Spanish nation, and
which increased, if possible, the universal discontent that already
prevailed—excited by the closing of the chambers, the violence used
towards the independent press (which it was evidently intended to
crush), the notorious corruption of the administration; the
unsatisfactory state of the finances, tending inevitably to some
extraordinary exactions from the already over-taxed people; and last,
but not least, by the scandalous concessions daily made to the friends
and adherents of the ministry, and to those influential persons, the
Rianzares, Señor Arana, Mr Salamanca, and others, whose enmity the
Sartorius cabinet dared not encounter, and whose support they were
compelled to purchase.
It was understood that a military insurrection was contemplated, with
O’Donnell at its head. The government affected to make light of the
affair, but in reality they were not without uneasiness, for they could
not but feel—although they daily had it proclaimed by the hireling
_Heraldo_ that they were the saviours of the nation, and the most
popular and prosperous of ministries—that they were execrated, and that
all classes would rejoice in their downfall. It is difficult to convey
to Englishmen—except to those who may be personally acquainted with this
singular country and people—a clear idea of the state of political
affairs in Madrid during the second quarter of the present year. I must
content myself with supplying a few detached facts and details, from
which you may, perhaps, form a notion of the whole. For three months
conspiracy may be said to have walked the streets of Madrid openly and
in broad daylight. Almost every one knew that something was plotting,
and a considerable number of persons could have told the names of the
chief conspirators, and given some sort of general outline of their
plans. O’Donnell, disobeying the orders of the Queen’s government,
remained hidden in Madrid, seeing numerous friends, but undiscoverable
by the police. He had frequent meetings with his fellow-conspirators;
his wife often saw him; for some time, during which he was seriously
ill, he was daily visited by one of the first physicians in Madrid;
still the government, although most anxious to apprehend him, failed in
every attempt to discover his hiding-place, which was known to many. It
is rare that the secrets of a conspiracy, when they have been confided
to so large a number of persons, have been kept so well and for so long
a time as in the present case; but this caution and discretion are
easily explicable by the universal hatred felt for the present
government and by the strong desire for its fall. The superior police
authorities were bitterly blamed by the minister; large sums were placed
at their disposal, numerous agents had assigned to them the sole duty of
seeking O’Donnell. All was in vain. The government paid these agents
well, but O’Donnell, as it afterwards appeared, paid them better. A
portion, at least, of the men employed to detect him, watched over his
safety. The government, ashamed of its impotence to capture, spread
reports that he they sought had left Madrid; and, afterwards, that they
knew where he was, but preferred leaving him there and watching his
movements to seizing him and sending him out of the country, to prepare,
on a foreign soil, revolutionary movements in the provinces of Spain.
These ridiculous pretences imposed upon very few. Could the government
have apprehended O’Donnell, they might not have dared to shoot him, and
might have hesitated permanently to imprison him; but they would not
have scrupled to ship him to the Philippines, where he would have done
little mischief. The truth was, that they employed every means to
discover his hiding-place, and every means proved ineffectual.
O’Donnell, I am informed, was concealed in a house that communicated
with the one next to it, which had back and front entrances. His friends
and the friendly police kept strict watch. Of a night, when he sometimes
went out to walk, his safety was cared for by the very men whom the
authorities had commissioned to look for him, and who went away with him
when he left Madrid to assume the command of the insurgents. A gentleman
who, during a certain period, was in the habit of frequently seeing him,
was one morning on his way to his place of concealment, and had entered
the street in which it was situated, when a police agent, making him a
sign, slipped a scrap of paper into his hand. On it were the words
“Beware, you are watched.” Taking the hint, the person warned passed the
house to which he was going, and entered another, in the same street,
where he had friends. From the window he observed a policeman, who had
been loitering about as if in the ordinary discharge of his duty,
hastily depart. When he had made sure that the coast was clear, he left
the house, entered that in which O’Donnell was, saw him, passed into the
next house, and departed by the back door. There was soon a cordon of
police agents round the house into which he first had gone, but their
vigilance was fruitless. I had this anecdote from one of the most
intimate friends of the person who visited O’Donnell, and who was named
to me at the same time.
During the period of suspense that preceded the insurrection, attempts
were made to bring about a union between the Liberal party and the
Moderado opposition. The former, although divided into sections which
differ on certain points, is unanimous in its desire to see Spain
governed constitutionally. Overtures were made to some of its chiefs. It
was proposed that it should co-operate in the overthrow of the set of
men who had detached themselves from all parties, and were marching on
the high road to absolutism. These men, known as the Polacos or Poles—a
word which seems to have had its origin in an electioneering joke—were
odious alike to Progresistas and Moderados. But there were great
difficulties in the way of a sincere and cordial junction between the
two principal parties into which Spaniards are divided. The Moderados
would gladly have availed themselves of the aid of the Liberals to upset
their common enemy; but they would give them no guarantees that they
should be, in any way, gainers by the revolution. The Liberals, on the
other hand, mistrusted the Moderados, and would not assist men whose
aims they believed to be purely personal. When the Moderados asked what
guarantees they required, they were quickly ready with an answer. “Arm
the national guard of Madrid,” they said; or, “March your troops, as
soon as you have induced them to revolt, at once into Arragon, with one
of our most influential and determined chiefs.” The Moderados could not
be induced to listen to such terms. They found themselves exactly in the
position in which the Progresistas were in 1843. Divided amongst
themselves, the probabilities were that the insurrection they proposed
would turn to the advantage of the Liberals; and the risk of this was
doubled if they accepted even the most favourable of the conditions
offered to them. They knew that the feeling of a large majority of the
nation was in favour of the Progresistas; that Espartero, although for
seven years he had led the life of a country gentleman at Logroño, and
had steadily resisted all temptations to mingle again in political
affairs, was in reality the most popular man in Spain, and that he was
idolised by the people of Madrid. Some amongst them (O’Donnell himself,
it has been said), whose views were more patriotic and less selfish than
those of the majority, were not unwilling to blend with the
Progresistas, to whom a few, including Rios Rosas, a distinguished
lawyer and senator, frankly proclaimed their adherence, declaring that
the parties which for so many years had divided Spain were virtually
defunct, and that there were but two parties in the country,—the
national one, which desired the welfare of Spain, and to see it governed
according to the constitution, and the retrograde or absolutist, which
trampled on the rights of the people. But although a few men were found
ready to waive personal considerations and to forget old animosities,
the great majority of the Moderados were less disinterested, and the
decision finally come to was to do without the aid of the Liberals, and
to accomplish an insurrection which, although its success was likely to
be of some advantage to the country, at least for a time, had for its
object a change of men rather than of measures.
One of the most important persons concerned in the conspiracy was the
Director of Cavalry, Major-General Domingo Dulce, reputed one of the
best and bravest officers in the Spanish army, and who had won his high
rank and many honours, not by political intrigue, as is so frequently
the case in this country, but at the point of his good sword. He passed
for a Progresista, and most of his friends were of that party; but in
fact he had never mixed much in politics, and, as a military man, had
served under governments of various principles. It is evident, however,
that whilst confining himself to the duties of his profession—which is
rarely the case with Spanish general officers—he cherished in his heart
the love of liberty, and a strong detestation of the tyranny under which
Spain has for some time groaned. An intimate friend of his, a well-known
and distinguished Liberal, was the immediate means of his joining the
conspiracy. It was an immense acquisition to the cause he agreed to
assist. Chief of the whole of the Spanish cavalry, respected and beloved
by the men and officers under his command, he could bring a large force
to the insurgent banner, and his own presence beneath it was of itself
of great value, for he is a daring and decided officer. He it was who,
by his obstinate resistance in the palace, at the head of a handful of
halberdiers, defeated the designs of the conspirators in the year 1841.
Dulce is a slightly-made, active, wiry man, rather below the middle
height, of bilious temperament, and taciturn mood, extremely reserved,
even with his friends, not calculated to cut a great figure in the
council, but a man of action, precious in the field. The other principal
conspirators were General Messina, a man of education and talent, who
had been under-secretary of the war department, and is an intimate
friend of Narvaez; Ros de Olano, a general officer of some repute; and
Brigadier Echague, colonel of the Principe regiment, a Basque officer
who served with high distinction throughout the whole of the civil War.
Several false starts were made before the insurrection really broke out.
On the 13th of June, especially, it had been fixed to take place. The
garrison of Madrid had been ordered to parade before daybreak for a
military promenade and review outside the town. Such parades had been
unusually frequent for a short time past; and it was thought the
government ordered them, owing to information it received, not
sufficiently definite to compromise the conspirators personally, but
which yet enabled it to defeat their designs. On that morning, however,
all was ready. The Principe regiment, instead of marching directly to
the parade ground, lingered, and finally halted at a place where it
could easily join the cavalry. O’Donnell left the town, disguised, and
stationed himself in a house whence he could observe all that passed.
Persons were placed in the vicinity to watch over his safety. The
proclamations that had been prepared were got ready for distribution.
Late on the eve of the intended outbreak, about four or five hours
before it was to occur, its approach was known to several persons who,
without being implicated in the plot, sincerely wished it success. There
seemed no doubt of the event. But, at the very moment, a portion of the
artillery of the garrison, which had pledged itself to take part in the
movement, failed to make its appearance at the place of rendezvous.
General Dulce considered their absence so important that he abandoned,
for that day, his intention of marching off his cavalry, and declaring
against the government. The combat of the 30th of June, in the fields of
Vicálvaro, showed that he did not overrate the importance of including
all arms in the composition of the insurrectionary force. At the time,
however, a storm of censure burst over his head. He was taxed with
treachery, with a deficiency in moral courage; his best friends looked
mistrustfully and coldly upon him; more than one general officer,
presuming on seniority of rank and age, took him severely to task.
General O’Donnell was not backward in reproaching him. “Never was a
white man” (these were the very words of the ex-governor of Cuba) “sold
as you have sold me.” Dulce, although deeply sensitive to all this
blame, took it meekly, acknowledged that appearances were against him,
but declared that he had acted for the best, and steadily affirmed that
his future conduct would prove his fidelity to the cause he had
espoused. Not all believed him.
Some days passed over, and there was no word of an insurrection. The
conspirators were discouraged. Rumour spoke of dissensions among them.
It was thought that nothing would occur. It was known to many that Dulce
was of the conspiracy, and that, by his fault or will, a good
opportunity had been lost; and they said that if he were not playing a
double game, the government would certainly have heard of his complicity
with O’Donnell, and would at least have removed him from his command. It
was fact that, for some time past, anonymous letters had been received
by the ministers, warning them that he was plotting against them. But
they disbelieved this information, and some of the letters were even
shown to Dulce. The Duke of Rianzares, calling one day on a minister,
found Dulce there. “What is this that I hear, general?” said Queen
Christina’s husband; “is it true that you intend to shoot us all?” The
question was awkward, but easily parried. A few days before the
insurrection occurred, Dulce went over to Alcala, five leagues from
Madrid, under pretence of inspecting the recruits stationed there. Seven
squadrons of cavalry were in that town. Doubtless his object was to see
if he could still reckon upon their following him whithersoever he chose
to lead. I met him in the street after his return; I think it was on the
26th of June. He looked anxious and careworn. His position was certainly
critical, and it is not presuming too much to suppose that a severe
struggle was going on within him between a long habit of military
discipline and duty, and what we must in justice believe to have been,
in his opinion, a paramount duty to his oppressed country. For he was at
the top of the tree. His position was splendid; his emoluments were
large; he had but to persevere in his adherence to the government of the
day to attain to the very highest rank in his profession—although that
did not afford a more desirable place than the one he already occupied.
Under these circumstances, even his enemies must admit—however guilty
they may deem him—that he was not actuated by the selfish desire of
personal advantage or aggrandisement.
Madrid, incredulous of an insurrection, was taken completely by surprise
by the news that greeted its uprising on the morning of the 28th June.
Some hours previously, it was informed, the director-general of cavalry,
after mustering for review, in a field just outside the walls, the
eleven squadrons that formed part of the garrison of the capital, had
been joined by a battalion of the regiment of Principe, by a few
companies from other regiments, and by General O’Donnell himself, and
had marched to Alcala to incorporate in his insurrectionary force the
troops there stationed. Other generals, it was stated, were with him,
but for many hours—indeed for the whole of that day—truth was hard to be
got at, and Rumour had it all her own way. The aspect of Madrid was
curious. The Queen and Court had left two days previously for the
Escurial; all but two of the ministers were absent; those two were
paralysed by the sudden event, and seemingly helpless. No measures were
taken, no troops brought out; for a time it might have been thought
that, as was reported, all but some fifteen hundred of these had left
with the insurgent generals; for several hours the town was at the mercy
of the people, and had they then risen it would probably have been their
own, for many of the troops remaining in Madrid were disaffected and
would have joined them. There was great excitement; the general
expression was one of joy at the prospect of getting rid of a ministry
than which none could be more odious; the Puerta del Sol and the
principal streets were full of groups eagerly discussing the events of
the hour; friends met each other with joyous countenances, and shook
hands as if in congratulation—Liberals and Moderados alike well pleased
at the event that threatened to prove fatal to the common enemy. I need
not repeat the countless reports current on that day. The most important
fact that became known was that the cavalry at Alcala had joined the
insurgents, and that two thousand horsemen, some of the best dragoons in
the Spanish army, were in hostile attitude close to Madrid, accompanied
by a small but most efficient body of infantry. Towards evening the
authorities began to awake from their lethargy of alarm. Ignorant of the
fact that a line of telegraphic wires had been concluded on the previous
day between Madrid and the Escurial, the insurgents had neglected to cut
off this means of rapid communication; news of the insurrection had been
transmitted to the Queen, and her return to the capital was announced.
The streets were quickly filled with troops, illuminations were ordered
(there was no hope of their being volunteered), and at about ten o’clock
her Majesty made her entrance, passing completely through the town,
having previously been to perform her devotions in the church of Atocha,
whose presiding virgin is the special patroness of the royal family of
Spain—the gracious protectress for whom princes embroider petticoats,
and whose shrine queens enrich with jewels, whose cost would found an
hospital or comfort many poor. A young Queen, entering her capital in
haste and anxiety, a few hours after a revolt against her authority,
ought, one might suppose, to command, by her mere presence, some
demonstration of loyalty and affection from her subjects. But the
present Queen of Spain has so completely weaned from her the affections
of her people, has so well earned their contempt, and even their hatred,
that neither on that night nor on any other occasion that I have
witnessed was a voice uplifted or a _viva_ heard. A body of gendarmes,
drawn up opposite to the ministry of the interior, cheered as she
passed, and possibly the same may have been the case on the part of
civil and military functionaries at other points of the line of her
progress, but the attitude of the people and soldiers was one of perfect
indifference. The same was the case on the following day, when she
reviewed the garrison in the Prado, and conferred decorations and
promotion on sergeants and privates who had distinguished themselves by
their fidelity in refusing to be led away by the insurgents. Surrounded
by a numerous staff of officers, and having the troops formed in such
wise that as many as possible of them might hear her, she addressed to
them a short speech, was profuse of smiles, and held up to them her
infant daughter as if confiding it to their defence. Now was the time,
if ever, for the old Castilian loyalty to burst forth in acclamation.
But its spirit is dead, crushed by royal misconduct and misrule. Not a
cheer was uttered, either by officer or soldier. The ominous silence was
remarked by all present. It was equally profound as the Queen returned
to her palace through the most populous streets of her capital, crowded
on the warm summer night. It is said and believed here that, on reaching
the palace, she was so affected and disheartened by the chilling
reception she had on all sides met, that she burst into a passion of
tears. Pity it is for the poor woman, who is not without some natural
good qualities, but whom evil influences and a neglected education have
brought to sorrow and contempt.
I cannot pretend to relate all the incidents of the last fortnight,
which has been crowded with them to an extent that baffles memory. The
most important you will find in this letter—many of the minor ones have
doubtless escaped me. I must devote a few more lines to the first day.
An unsigned proclamation was circulated, of a tenor by no means
unacceptable to the Liberals, whose chiefs consulted as to the propriety
of rising in arms, or at least of making some demonstration of hostility
to the government. Another proclamation, of greater length, signed by
three generals, O’Donnell, Dulce, and Messina, disappointed them, for it
contained not a word that guaranteed benefit to the nation, and spoke
merely of the knavery of the ministers and of the necessity of getting
rid of them. Moreover, a request was sent in by the insurgents that
Madrid would remain quiet, and leave them to settle matters militarily.
Between deliberation and delays the day passed away, and towards night
the altered attitude of the authorities, who had received telegraphic
orders from Mr Sartorius to act with the utmost vigour, the large bodies
of troops in the streets convincing those who had previously doubted
that there was still a sufficient force in the town to repress any
popular attempt, caused half-formed plans to fall to the ground, and
even the most ardent and bellicose resolved to wait the events of the
morrow before shouldering musket and throwing up barricades.
The morrow was the festival of St Peter, a great holiday, kept quiet as
a Sunday, with much mass and bull-fights. I presume the churches were
attended, but the bull-fights did not take place. Some arrests were
made, but not many, for some of the persons sought after had concealed
themselves. Madrid was still excited, but quite tranquil. On that and
the following day every sort of rumour was current. The insurgents were
near the town, and there were frequent reports that they were coming to
attack it. Circulation was prohibited in the lower part of the street of
Alcala, leading to the gate near to which the enemy were supposed to be.
The residence of the Captain-general and the officers of the staff is in
the lower part of that street, and the constant passage to and fro of
orderlies and aides-de-camp interested the people: so that on the line
of demarcation, beyond which there was no passage, there was a throng
from morning till night, watching—they knew not exactly for what. From
time to time there was a rush and panic—when the mob encroached on the
limit, and the military were ordered to make them recede. The Café
Suizo, at the summit of the street—which rises and again sinks over a
small eminence—was a great point of rendezvous, and was crowded with
eager politicians. Towards evening, on the 30th, the garrison (almost
the whole) being out of the town, it became known that a fight was
imminent, or already begun. This was in the neighbourhood; but as none
were allowed to pass, or even to approach the gates, news were scanty,
and little to be relied upon. Cannon and musketry were heard, and
wounded men were seen straggling in. The fever of expectation was at its
height. Public opinion was decidedly in favour of the insurgents. They
would beat the government troops, it was said, and enter the town
pell-mell with them. All the male population of Madrid was in the
streets, a few troops were stationed here and there; there was no
disorder, but it was easy to see that a trifle would produce it. I was
in the Café Suizo, which was crowded in every part, a short time after
nightfall, when one of the alarms I have referred to was given. There
was a violent rush in the street outside, cries and shouts; those
without crowded into the café, most of those within made for the open
doors. The effect was really startling; it was exactly that produced by
a charge of troops upon a mob; and I saw more than one cheek blanch
amongst the consumers of ices and lemonade (the evening was extremely
hot) who filled the café. But it was a groundless alarm, produced, as
before, merely by the troops compelling the crowd to recede. Armed
police circulated in the throng, dispersing groups, and urging them to
go home. Soon the streets were comparatively clear, but the clubs and
coffee-houses were filled until past midnight with persons discussing
what had occurred, and giving fifty different versions. There had been a
fight, it was certain, at about a league from Madrid, but who had won
and who had lost was a matter of doubt until the next day.
The _Madrid Gazette_, the order of the day, published by General
O’Donnell, and conversation with officers present in the short but sharp
action, enable me to give you a sketch, which you may rely upon as
correct, of its principal incidents. The garrison of Madrid, consisting
of about eight battalions of infantry, four batteries of artillery, and
some three hundred cavalry, took position on a ridge of ground at about
a league from Madrid. The enemy, strong in cavalry, but weak in
infantry, sought to draw them farther from the town, and into a more
favourable position for horse to act against them. As the result proved,
the wisest plan would have been to persevere in these tactics, and, if
the garrison refused to advance further, to let the day pass without an
action. But General O’Donnell had assurances that a large portion of the
troops opposed to him only waited an opportunity to pass over to his
banner. A part of the artillery, especially, was pledged to do so. After
some preliminary skirmishing, he ordered a charge, which was made in
gallant style by two squadrons of the Principe regiment. In spite of a
severe fire of shot and shell, reserved, until they were within a very
short distance of the battery they attacked, they got amongst the guns,
and sabred many of the artillerymen, but were prevented from carrying
off the pieces, and compelled to retire, by the heavy fire of the
squares of infantry formed in rear of the artillery. Having thus
ascertained, beyond a doubt, that there was no chance of the artillery
coming over to them, or allowing themselves to be taken, the insurgents
would have perhaps acted wisely in making no farther attempts upon the
hostile line, or, if they were resolved upon a contrary course, in
assailing the flanks, instead of again charging up to the mouths of the
cannon. But it appears from O’Donnell’s own bulletin that the troops
were not well in hand, and that, enraged at finding themselves fired
upon by those from whom they expected a very different reception, they
made several charges under the direction of their regimental chiefs, but
without the sanction of their generals. I can hardly give a better
account of the latter part of the combat than is contained in two short
paragraphs of the insurgent general’s order of the day, which has been
copied in the government papers, and admitted by these to be a fair and
true statement of what occurred. The bulletin is before me, and I
translate the passages in question:—
“The retreat of the two squadrons of the Principe cavalry (those which
had charged the battery) was opportunely taken advantage of by the
hostile squadrons of the Villaviciosa lancers, and of the _Guardia
Civil_, who charged after them. This cavalry, however, was driven
back, when in full career, by the 3d and 4th squadrons of the
Principe, who routed them, cutting down a great part of them, and
receiving into their ranks a large number of the soldiers of
Villaviciosa, with their standard, and four officers, who reversed
their lances, proclaiming themselves friends. In a second charge made
by these same squadrons, the standard-bearer of Villaviciosa, and some
soldiers of the same corps, who had joined us only because they
considered themselves prisoners, went over again to the enemy.
“The bloody effect of the fire of the artillery, who, well assured
that they would not be encountered by the same arm (of which we had
none), had deliberately studied their range, and taken the breasts of
our soldiers for their mark, caused the action to become hot, and the
regiment of Farnesio again charged upon the guns, with great valour
and determination. At the very mouth of the cannon its colonel was
wounded and taken prisoner, and several officers and soldiers were
struck down, our cries of _Viva la Reina y la Constitucion_ being
drowned in the roar of the enemy’s pieces. Repeated charges of the
same regiment, and of those of Bourbon, Santiago, and the School of
Cavalry, must have convinced our opponents in the action of Vicálvaro,
that the feelings which prompted those cries are to be extinguished in
the hearts of our brave soldiers by death alone.”
The upshot of the action was this: The insurgents accepted battle when
there was little to be gained by them in so doing, unless, indeed, the
contest had been conducted very differently, and a more judicious plan
had been adopted than that of charging headlong up to the muzzles of
artillery supported by squares of infantry. But this mistake had its
origin, as I have already observed, in the expectation that the
artillery would not fire. The insurgents were repulsed, not, however,
without inflicting considerable loss upon their enemies. The garrison
returned into Madrid in some haste and confusion, and near the gate a
singular incident occurred. It was dark, and some lancers appeared on
their flank—insurgents, according to some accounts—a part of their own
cavalry, as it is reported by others. The exact truth will probably
never be known. But a panic seized the infantry; some of the battalions
were composed in great part of recruits; young soldiers, retiring
hastily and in the dark after their first fight, are easily alarmed; the
confusion that ensued was as great as that of a rout; the men fired at
random killing and wounding their own friends, and a great number,
especially of the battalion of engineers, were thus injured. The
government papers passed this unlucky mistake almost _sub silentio_; but
the fact is certain, the troops returned into the town in disorder, and
it was not until the next day that all the wounded were brought in.
Some prisoners had been taken from the insurgents, including three or
four wounded officers, the chief of whom, Colonel Garrigó, was captured
amongst the guns, where his horse fell, killed by grape-shot. The
gallant manner in which Garrigó had led his men again and again to the
charge, encountering each time a storm of bullets, had excited a strong
interest in his fate, and measures were taken to move the queen’s
clemency on his behalf. Before the result of these were known, and when
it was thought probable that at any hour he might be judged, condemned,
and shot, I went to the ward of the military hospital where he lay under
arrest, to see another officer of cavalry who had been wounded when with
the insurgents. This officer had gone out of Madrid to see some friends
who were with O’Donnell; he was in plain clothes and without arms, but,
venturing too far forward during the action, he got struck from his
horse, and received, as he lay on the ground, a lance-thrust in the
neck, of which, however, he complained less than of blows received from
the lance-poles, when the men struck at him as they rode rapidly past.
He had afterwards been taken prisoner by an officer, and brought into
Madrid. In the next bed to him was Garrigó, a swarthy, soldierly-looking
man of about fifty-five; he had been hit in the leg, but not severely,
by a grape-shot, and was sitting up in bed, fanning away the flies which
entered in unpleasant numbers through the open windows. He looked
gloomy, but firm. There were some other wounded officers in the ward,
one of whom subsequently died after undergoing amputation of a leg, and
a number of soldiers in an adjoining one. Amongst the insurgents, I
heard there were as many killed as wounded; and many horses dead, the
artillery having pointed their guns low. Grape and round shot, at fifty
paces, the distance to which the cavalry were allowed to come before the
gunners got the word, were quite as likely, perhaps, to kill as only to
wound. An officer received two grape-shot in his face—one at each angle
of the nostrils; another, Captain Letamendi, the English son of a
Spanish father, who served during the civil war in the British Legion,
was met by a round shot, which carried away the greater part of his
head. But you will find nothing attractive in such details.
The combat of Vicálvaro, insignificant in its material results, had
little effect upon the _morale_ of either party. The government troops
were assured by the gazette that they had achieved a glorious victory,
of which they themselves were not very sure, especially when they saw
the numerous carts of wounded that came into the town, and remembered
their own disorderly return from the field and final panic. The
insurgents, conscious that they had fought gallantly, and lost no
ground, although they had failed in their chief object, which was to
capture the artillery, were well satisfied with themselves, and in no
way disheartened by the event. It was clear that the insurgent generals
must not reckon on the support of the garrison of Madrid, and they
consequently changed their plans, retiring to Aranjuez, a pleasant spot,
eight leagues from Madrid, with abundant shade, water, and forage, where
for two or three days they gave their men and horses rest, organised
their staff and commissariat, and took other measures necessary for the
welfare of the division. There they received several reinforcements,
both of infantry and cavalry, and were joined by a number of civilians
from Madrid, many of them belonging to the better classes. These
received caps, muskets, and belts, and were formed into a battalion
called the _Cazadores di Madrid_.
Meanwhile, the capital anxiously awaited news from the provinces, where
insurrections were expected to occur. Madrid itself continued perfectly
tranquil, although occasional rumours of an intended popular rising
alarmed the government. The excitement of the first three days subsided
into a strong interest. There was great eagerness for news from the
insurgents, and much difficulty in learning anything authentic,
especially when once they had left Aranjuez. Save the government and its
hangers-on and personal adherents, all Madrid was for the insurrection,
and heartily wished it well. The recent compulsory advance of half a
year’s taxes, extorted from the people by a notoriously corrupt and
grasping government, had greatly incensed the Madrileños, who did not
scruple openly to express their good wishes for Generals O’Donnell and
Dulce, the most prominent personages of the day and of the movement.
Although the insurrection deprived Madrid of two things which it can ill
do without, bull-fights and strawberries, not a murmur was heard on this
account. Aranjuez is the strawberry garden of Madrid, and from it daily
comes an abundant supply of that fruit, particularly grateful in this
hot climate. I suppose that the insurgents, who had been for three days
roasting in the shadeless desert that surrounds this capital, needed
refreshment, and eat up all the strawberries, or else that the want of a
railway—that to Aranjuez being partly in the hands of the government,
and partly in those of O’Donnell, and cut in the middle—precluded their
being sent. As for bull-fights, it was no time for them when man-fights
were going on; and moreover, the gates of Madrid were for several days
shut—besides which, some of the bull-fighters are said to have joined
the insurgents. The dramatic season being at an end, and all the
theatres closed, Madrid has now for sole amusement the insurrection,
which every day seems taking farther from its walls, but which not
impossibly may break out again within them. If a decided advantage were
gained by O’Donnell’s division, or if news came that Saragossa or some
other large town had pronounced against the government, there would very
likely be a rising in this capital. I am assured that attempts are now
making to work upon the troops of the garrison, and if only a few
companies could be won over and relied upon, the government might
speedily be upset. There are in Madrid plenty of ex-national guards, and
of men who have served in the army, who would quickly produce their
hidden arms and rush out into the streets, with cries of “Down with the
ministry.” It is matter of considerable doubt whether these would be
coupled with _vivas_ for the Queen. As for the Queen-mother, I am
convinced that her life would be in danger in the event of such an
outbreak. She is deeply detested here; the more so as she is known to
support the present government with all the influence she possesses over
her daughter. A Madrid revolutionary mob is dangerous, vindictive, and
bloody-minded. In proof of this many incidents recur to my memory, and
doubtless will to yours—amongst others, the fate of Quesada, whose son
is now military governor here, and who was almost torn to pieces at the
country house in the environs, whither he had fled for shelter. His
murderers returned to Madrid, singing the dreaded _Tragala!_ and drank
in the public cafés bowls of coffee stirred with his severed fingers.
The revolutionary spirit is calmer now, but it may again revive upon
occasion. No person in Spain, not even Sartorius himself, who certainly
is sufficiently hated, is so much under public ban as Maria Christina.
She doubtless knows it: her conscience can hardly be easy, and her fears
are probably roused; for her approaching departure for France is much
spoken of, and likely to take place.
Since O’Donnell’s division left the neighbourhood of Madrid, we have
heard comparatively little concerning him. We know his route; also that
his strength has somewhat increased, that his troops are
well-disciplined and confident of success, and that he is at this date
in Andalusia. Where he may be, and what may have occurred by the time
you receive this letter, it is of course impossible to foretell; but,
although ministerial bulletins daily scatter his men to the winds,
representing them as deserting, weary, exterminated, and, if possible,
even in worse plight, the truth is that they are in as good order, and
as ready for service, as if they held themselves subject to the
government of the Queen. Every possible means have been taken by the
authorities to throw discredit upon the insurgents and upon their
leaders, by representing them as robbers and oppressors, paying for
nothing, ill-treating the people, and exacting forced contributions at
the bayonet’s point. “To lie like a bulletin,” is an old saying, but it
would be at least as apt to say—“like the _Madrid Gazette_ or the
_Heraldo_ newspaper.” I can well imagine how difficult it must be in
other countries to get at the truth about Spanish affairs, when I see
the systematic efforts made to suppress it here. Letters are seized by
wholesale in their passage through the post-office, some newspapers are
suppressed, and others are permitted to publish no news but those they
copy from the government journals, which are for the most part
ingeniously embellished to suit the purpose of the ministers; whilst
sometimes they are pure fabrications. One of the great occupations of
the official papers, for the first few days after the insurrection broke
out, was to blacken the character of its leaders. Dulce, especially—who,
in common with the other generals engaged in the outbreak, had been
stripped by royal decree of all rank, titles, and honours—was the object
of abuse which bordered upon billingsgate.
The virtuous _Heraldo_ daily came out with fierce philippics upon the
“rebel and traitor,” who had deserted his Queen because he deemed that
she had deserted the country and broken her oath, and who, by so doing,
had exchanged large emoluments, high rank, and one of the best positions
his profession affords in Spain, for the uncertain fate of an insurgent
leader—perhaps, in the end, for a short shrift and a firing party. The
men of the _Heraldo_ could not understand this; they felt that _they_
were incapable of such conduct; in their heart of hearts they must have
thought Dulce more remarkable as a fool than as a rebel, but in their
paper they contented themselves with abusing him as the latter. Inexpert
with the pen, Dulce nevertheless took it up to reply. On the 1st of
July, the day after the drawn fight of Vicálvaro, and in a village close
to the scene of action, he wrote a letter, whose faulty style and
soldierly abruptness are the best evidence of its being his own
unassisted production. As a characteristic production, and in justice to
its writer, who will doubtless be blamed by many in foreign countries,
where the facts of the case and the extent of the sacrifices he has made
are imperfectly known and appreciated, I give you a translation of the
letter. It is addressed to the editors of the _Heraldo_, and runs as
follows:—
“Since you have allowed the publication in your periodical of an article
referring to me personally, and to my conduct, and as I consider that an
insult is not a reason, I trust you will be pleased to publish my
protest against the whole of your accusation, by doing which you will
fulfil your duty as public writers.
“I do not wish to prejudge the issue of our enterprise; whatever that
may be it will not surprise me, or make me repent what I have done. That
I may not be disappointed, the worst that I expect is to die in the
field of battle or in the _Campo de Guardias_ (the place of military
executions at Madrid). Whatever occurs, I shall have acted according to
my conscience.
“I seek neither places nor honours, for I have them in abundance. No
desire of revenge of any kind has moved me, for I cherish neither
dislike nor resentment against the persons composing the present
government, and much less against the Queen. The cause of my
insurrection is entirely the memory that I have of the oath taken by the
King of Castile when he ascends the throne. He swears upon the Holy
Scriptures to observe and enforce the law of the State—‘_and if I should
not do so, I desire not to be obeyed_.’
“My conviction is, that the Queen has violated her oath, and, in this
case, I prefer being guilty of _leze-majesty_ to being guilty of
_leze-nation_.
“I well know that the sentiments I have expressed will not convince you,
because they must be felt and not explained. For my justification I
appeal to the inexorable tribunal of posterity, and to the secret police
of the consciences of yourselves in the first place, of the Queen
herself, and of this unhappy country.
“A copy of this document is already on the road, and will be published,
as you will see, in foreign countries. I also send it to other Madrid
newspapers, although I believe that a miserable fear will prevent their
publishing it.
“That you may never be able to deny that I have sent you this letter, I
have had formal registry made of it, and it perhaps will one day be
published. I trust then that you will be sufficiently generous and
gentlemanly[29] to insert it in your periodical, by doing which you will
highly oblige me. (Signed) EL GENERAL DULCE.
“Vallecas, 1st July 1854.
“The original is to be found duly stamped in the register of this
corporation, where it has been inserted against the will of the
individuals composing it, who are exempt from all blame.”
I need hardly say that the _Heraldo_ has not published this letter, of
which numerous copies have been distributed in Madrid by friends of its
writer, and by persons who believe that, as he himself says, he has
“acted according to his conscience (_dado una satisfaccion à mi
conciencia_), and who admire his disinterestedness—the rarest quality
amongst public men in Spain.
It is not easy to foretell the result of this insurrection, which has
now lasted for fifteen days without any decisive or even important
event. The country, taken by surprise, and ignorant of the objects of
the outbreak—which it suspected to have been made merely to bring about
a change of men, but not of system—looked on at first with apathy.
O’Donnell’s greatest error was the first proclamation he issued, which,
in many words, said nothing and held out no prospect of advantage to the
people. Another has just appeared, short, pithy, explicit, and
calculated to satisfy the liberal party. It promises the Spanish nation
the benefits of the representative system, for which it has shed so much
of its blood and made so many sacrifices, as yet without result.
“It is time,” it continues, “to say what we propose doing on the day of
victory. We desire the preservation of the throne, but without the
camarilla that dishonours it; the rigorous enforcement of the
fundamental laws, improving them, especially those of elections and of
the press; a diminution of taxation, founded on strict economy; respect
to seniority and merit in the civil and military services. We desire to
relieve the towns from the centralising system that consumes them,
giving them the local independence necessary to preserve and increase
their own interests; and, as a guarantee of all these things, we desire
the NATIONAL MILITIA, and will plant it on a solid basis. Such are our
intentions, which we frankly express, but without imposing them upon the
nation. The juntas of government that are to be constituted in the free
provinces, the general Cortes that are soon to be assembled, the nation
itself, in short, shall fix the definitive bases of the liberal
regeneration to which we aspire. We devote our swords to the national
will, and sheathe them only when it is fulfilled.”
This proclamation is dated from Manzanaris, the 7th July, and is signed
by O’Donnell. You will observe that no mention is made in it of the
Queen. It is monarchical, because it desires to “preserve the throne;”
but it by no means pledges those who publish it to retain Isabella II.
The promise to arm the national guard is the most important that it
contains, since that is the only guarantee the Liberals can have for the
fulfilment of the other pledges. It may possibly induce the
Progresistas, who hitherto have scarcely stirred in the business, to
take active measures. Meanwhile we hear of risings and armed bands in
various parts of the country, and persons familiar with Spanish
revolutions, and who have witnessed many of them, notice signs of
fermentation, which prove the insurrectionary spirit to be spreading—a
bubble here and there on water, indicating that it will presently boil.
When O’Donnell’s proclamation gets spread abroad, and its purport known,
it is quite possible that large towns or districts may declare for the
insurgents. In Spain, however, it is most difficult to speculate on
coming events, for it is the land of the unforeseen—_le pays de
l’imprévu_—and I shall not attempt to play the prophet, for, if I did,
perhaps, before my letter reached you, the electric telegraph would have
proved me a false one. Moreover, I have no time to add much more, for I
well know that you, Ebony, will grumble, if this letter does not reach
you somewhere about the twentieth of the month. Moreover, the horses of
Maga’s foreign-service messenger neigh with impatience, and the escort
which is to accompany him on the first stage of his journey is already
formed up. For the roads are far from safe just now, thanks to the
concentration of the gendarmes, (who usually keep excellent order upon
them), to do duty in the capital, or pursue the insurgents. We hear of
various bands appearing—north, south, and east—some calling themselves
Carlists, others Republicans, but in either case probably not pleasant
to meet on the road; and besides those there are smaller parties who do
not aspire to a political character, and are abroad simply for their own
behoof and advantage, and, I need not say, for the disadvantage of the
travellers they may chance to encounter. As for sending letters of the
nature and importance of this one by the ordinary channel of Her
Catholic Majesty’s mails, one would do better to abstain from writing
them, as the chances would be fifty to one against their ever reaching
their destination. One might almost as well throw them into the fire as
into the marble lion’s mouth that yawns at the _casa de correos_,—as if
to warn people of the dangers their correspondence runs. Were I to
consign this epistle to leo’s jaws, I should not expect it ever to go
farther than to the Graham-department of the Madrid post-office.
Although you will have gathered from the newspapers the principal
events, and some of the minor particulars of the insurrection of 1854—as
far as it has as yet gone—this sketch of it, however imperfect, from an
eyewitness, will, I trust, interest you. Spanish revolutions and
insurrections rarely resemble each other; every successive outbreak has
a character of its own, distinct from that of its predecessors. And that
of the 28th of last month has peculiar features, which I have
endeavoured to portray. If my letter has no other merit, it will, I
think, bring its readers, concisely, without much detail, but with
perfect truth, up to the present point of Spanish politics. Should aught
worth relating occur whilst I am within the boundaries of Queen Isabel’s
dominions, rely upon my keeping you duly informed. Meanwhile, may
Providence preserve you, in your happy Land of Cakes, alike from
military revolts, and from popular _pronunciamientos_. So prays, from
his exile _in partibus_, your faithful
VEDETTE.
THE ETHNOLOGY OF EUROPE.
“There were brave men before Agamemnon,”—heroes before there was a Homer
to sing them, says that prince of sensible poets, Horace. It is not less
true that there were nations before history—communities, races, of which
the eye of civilisation never caught a glimpse. In some cases, before
the light of history broke in upon their seclusion, these old types of
mankind, losing their individuality, had become merged in a succeeding
and mightier wave of population; in others they had wholly
disappeared,—they had lived and fought and died in perfect isolation
from every focus of civilisation, and left not even a floating legend
behind them in the world. Man’s mortality—the destiny of the individual
to pass away from earth like a vapour, making room for others, heirs of
his wisdom and unimbued with his prejudices—is the most familiar of
truths; but the mortality of nations, the death of races, is a
conception which at first staggers us. That a family should grow into a
nation,—that from the loins of one man should descend a seed like unto
the sands on the sea-shore for multitude, appears to our everyday senses
as a natural consequence; but that nations should dwindle down to
families, and families into solitary individuals, until death gets all,
and earth has swallowed up a whole phase of humanity, is a thought the
grandeur of which is felt to be solemn, if not appalling. The
conception, however, need not be a strange one. Facts, which reconcile
us to everything, are testifying to its truth even at the present day.
It is not long since the Guanches in the Canary Islands, that last
specimen of what may once have been a race, and the Guarras in Brazil,
dwindled out of existence in their last asylum,—expiring at the feet of
the more lordly race which the fulness of time brought to their
dwellings.
Not to mention the Miaou-tse in China, and other relics of Asiatic
races, the same phenomenon is more impressively presented to us among
the Red Men of America, where the old race is seen dying out beneath our
very eyes. Year by year they are melting away. Of the millions which
once peopled the vast regions on this side of the Mississippi River, all
have vanished, but a few scattered families; and it is as clear as the
sun at noonday, that in a few generations more, the last of the Red Men
will be numbered with the dead. Why, is it asked, are they thus doomed?
In the suburbs of Mobile, or wandering through its streets, you will see
the remnant of the Choctaw tribe, covered with nothing but blankets, and
living in bark tents, scarcely a degree advanced above the beasts of the
field. No philanthropy can civilise them,—no ingenuity can induce them
to do an honest day’s work. The life of the woods is struck from
them,—the white man has taken their hunting-grounds; and they live on
helpless as in a dream, quietly abiding their time. They are stationary,
they will not advance; and, like everything stationary, the world is
sweeping away. They sufficed for the first phase of humanity in the New
World. As long as there was only need for man to be lord of the woods
and of the animal creation, the Red Man did well; but no sooner did the
call come for him to perfect himself, and change the primeval forest
into gardens, than the Red Man knew, by mysterious instinct, that his
mission was over,—and either allowed himself, in sheer apathy, to sink
out of existence among the pitiless feet of the new-comers, or died
fighting fiercely with the apostle of a civilisation which he hated but
could not comprehend.
Far back in the history of Europe and of our own country—or rather, we
should say, in periods entirely pre-historic—it is now known that a
similar disappearance of a human race has taken place. Celt and Teuton,
we fancy, were the first occupiers of Europe,—but the case is not so. A
wave or waves of population had preceded even them; and as we dig down
into the soil beneath us, ever and anon we come upon strange and
startling traces of those primeval occupants of the land. In those
natural museums of the past, the caves and peat-bogs of Europe, the
keen-witted archæologists of present times are finding abundant relics
of a race dissimilar from all the human varieties of which written
history takes cognisance. The researches of Wilson among the peat-bogs
of the British Isles have brought to light traces of no less than two
distinct pre-Celtic races inhabiting the land,—one of which had the
skull of a singularly broad and short, square and compact form, while
the head of the other race was long and very narrow, or “boat-shaped.”
The exhumations of Retzius show that precisely similar races once
inhabited Scandinavia. The caves and ossuaries of Franconia and Upper
Saxony prove that in Central Europe, also, there were races before the
advent of the Celts; and the researches of Boucher de Perthes, amid the
alluvial stratifications of the river Somme, indicate a not less ancient
epoch for the cinerary urns, bones, and instruments of a primordial
people in France.
“Here,” says M. de Perthes, “we naturally inquire, who were these
mysterious primitive inhabitants of Gaul? We are told that this part
of Europe is of modern origin, or at least of recent population. Its
annals scarcely reach to twenty centuries, and even its traditions do
not exceed two thousand five hundred years. The various people who are
known to history as having occupied it—the Gauls, the Celts, the
Veneti, Ligurians, Iberians, Cimbrians, and Scythians have left no
vestiges to which we can assign that date. The traces of those
[originally] nomadic tribes who ravaged Gaul scarcely precede the
Christian era by a few centuries. Was Gaul, then, a desert, a
solitude, before this period? Was its sun less genial, or its soil
less fertile? Were not its hills as pleasant, and its plains and
valleys as ready for the harvest? Or, if men had not yet learned to
plough and sow, were not its rivers filled with fish, and its forests
with game? And, if the land abounded with everything calculated to
attract and support a population, why should it not have been
inhabited? The absence of great ruins, indeed, indicates that Gaul at
this period, and even much later, had not attained a great degree of
civilisation, nor been the seat of powerful kingdoms; but why should
it not have had its towns and villages?—or rather, why should it not,
like the steppes of Russia, the prairies and virgin forests of
America, and the fertile plains of Africa, have been overrun from time
immemorial by tribes of men—savages, perhaps, but nevertheless united
in families if not in nations?”
We shall not dwell at present upon the relics of these races who have
thus preceded all history, and vanished into their graves before a
civilised age could behold them. We shall not accompany M. de Perthes in
his various excavations, nor, after passing through the first stratum of
soil, and coming to the relics of the middle ages, see him meet
subsequently, in regular order, with traces of the Roman and Celtic
periods, until at last he comes upon weapons, utensils, figures, signs
and symbols, which must have been the work of a surpassingly ancient
people. We need not describe his discovery of successive beds of bones
and ashes, separated from each other by strata of turf and tufa, with no
less than five different stages of cinerary urns, belonging to distinct
generations, of which the oldest were deposited below the woody or
diluvian turf,—nor the coarse structure of these vases (made by hand and
dried in the sun), nor the rude utensils of bone, or roughly-carved
stone, by which they were surrounded.[30] Neither need we do more than
allude to the remains of a fossil whale recently exhumed in Blair
Drummond moss, (twenty miles from the nearest point of the river Forth
where, by any possibility, a whale could nowadays be stranded), having
beside it a rude harpoon of deer’s horn—speaking plainly of the
coexistence, in these remote pre-Celtic times, of human inhabitants.
Even above ground there are striking relics scattered over Europe which
it would be hazardous to assign to any race known to history. Those
circles of upright stones, of which Stonehenge is the most familiar
example, date back to an unknown antiquity. They are found throughout
Europe, from Norway to the Mediterranean; and manifestly they must have
been erected by a numerous people, and faithful exponents of a general
sentiment, since we find them in so many countries. They are commonly
called Celtic or Druidic; not because they were raised originally by
Druids, but because they had been used in the Druidical worship, though
erected, it may be, for other uses, or dedicated to other
divinities,—even as the temples of Paganism afterwards served for the
solemnities of Christianity. All that we know is, that, having neither
date nor inscription, they must be older than written language,—for a
people who can write never leave their own names or exploits
unchronicled. The ancients were as ignorant on this matter as ourselves;
even tradition is silent; and, at the period of the Roman invasion, the
origin of those monuments was already shrouded in obscurity. A
revolution, therefore, must have intervened between the time of their
erection and the advent of the Legions; and what revolution could it be
in those days save a revolution of race? “The Celtæ,” says Dr Wilson,
“are by no means to be regarded as the primal heirs of the land, but
are, on the contrary, comparatively recent intruders. Ages before their
migration into Europe, an unknown Allophylian race had wandered to this
remote island of the sea, and in its turn gave place to later
Allophylian nomades, also destined to occupy it only for a time. Of
these ante-historical nations, archæology alone reveals any traces.”
Passing from this strange and solemn spectacle of the death and utter
extinction of human races, once living and enjoying themselves amidst
those very scenes where we ourselves now pant and revel in the drama of
existence,—let us look upon the face of Europe as it appears when first
the light of history broke upon it. Since then, there have been
remarkable declines, but no extinction of races. As if war and rivalry
were a permanent attribute of the species, when the curtain first rises
upon Europe, it is a struggle of races that is discernible through the
gloom. A dark-skinned race, long settled in the land, are fighting
doggedly with a fair-skinned race of invaders from the East. The
dark-skins were worsted, but still survive—definitely in detached
groups, and indefinitely as a leaven to entire populations. That
dark-skinned race have been called Iberians,—the fair-skinned new-comers
were the Indo-Germans, headed by the Gaels or Celts. When the two races
first met in Europe—the _blond_ from the south-east, meeting the _dark_
in the west—they encountered each other as natural enemies, and a severe
struggle ensued. The Celts finally forced their way into Spain, and
established themselves there,—became more or less amalgamated with the
darker occupants, and were called _Celt-Iberians_. Ever since, these two
opposite types have been commingling throughout Western Europe; but a
complete fusion has not even yet taken place, and the types of each are
still traceable in certain localities.
There was thus an Iberian world before there was a Celtic world. One of
the pre-Celtic populations of the British Isles was probably Iberian;
and their type, besides leavening indefinitely a portion of the present
population, is still distinctly traceable in many of the dark-haired,
dark-eyed, and dark-skinned Irish, as well as occasionally in Great
Britain itself. The Basques, protected by their Pyrenean fastnesses, are
a still existent group of nearly pure Iberians; and of their tongue,
termed Euskaldune by its speakers, Duponceau long ago said:—“This
language, preserved in a corner of Europe, by a few thousand
mountaineers, is the sole remaining fragment of perhaps a hundred
dialects, constructed on the same plan, which probably existed and were
universally spoken, at a remote period, in that quarter of the world.
Like the bones of the mammoth, and the relics of unknown races which
have perished, it remains a monument of the destruction brought by a
succession of ages. It stands single and alone of its kind, surrounded
by idioms whose modern construction bears no analogy to it.”
The Bretons form another isolated but less distinct group of still
existent Iberians. To this day they present a striking contrast to the
population around them, who are of tall stature, with blue eyes, white
skins, and blond hair—communicative, impetuous, versatile—passing
rapidly from courage to timidity, and from audacity to despair;—in other
words, presenting the distinctive character of the Celtic race, now, as
in the ancient Gauls. The Bretons are entirely different. They are
taciturn—hold strongly to their ideas and usages—are persevering and of
melancholic temperament;—in a word, both in _morale_ and _physique_,
they present the type of a southern race. And this brings us to the
question—whence came these Iberians? M. Bodichon, a surgeon
distinguished for fifteen years in the French army of Algeria, observes
that persons who have lived in Brittany, and then go to Algeria, are
struck with the resemblance which they discover between the ancient
Armoricans (the Bretons) and the Cabyles of northern Africa. “In fact,
the moral and physical character of the two races is identical. The
Breton of pure blood has a bony head, light-yellow complexion of bistre
tinge, eyes black or brown, stature short, and the black hair of the
Cabyle. Like him, he instinctively hates strangers. In both, the same
perverseness and obstinacy, the same endurance of fatigue, same love of
independence, same inflexion of voice, same expression of feelings.
Listen to a Cabyle speaking his native tongue, and you will think you
hear a Breton talking Celtic.” Impressed with this resemblance, M.
Bodichon was induced to reflect on the subject, and at last came to the
conclusion that the Berbers who primally peopled Northern Africa, and
the dark-skinned Iberians of Western Europe, belonged to the same race.
He thinks that, as Europe and Africa were once united at their western
extremities, previous to the convulsion which produced the Straits of
Gibraltar, this Iberian population passed into Spain by this primeval
isthmus, and thence diffused themselves over Western Europe and its
isles. Whether this were actually the case, it is hard to say; but it is
important to note that Sallust, quoting “the Punic books which were
ascribed to King Hiempsal,” exactly reverses the course of migration,
and states that the progenitors of the African Moors were Medians and
Persians who had marched through Europe into Spain, and thence into
Mauritania—though whether overland by the isthmus, or by boats across
the strait, is still left to conjecture. Prichard thinks the Libyans and
Iberians were distinct races, but owns that they were found
intermingling in the islands and along the western shores of the
Mediterranean. Of course it may be taken for granted that among these
Iberians thus spread over Africa, Spain, France, and the British Isles,
local differences would exist—just as there is a perceptible difference
between the Anglo-Saxons of the Old World and those of the New; but
there is little doubt that the _Scoti_ of Ireland, the Iberians of
Spain, and the Berbers of Africa, belonged to a fundamentally identical
race.
How any race first came into a country, is a matter of little moment,
especially when the epoch of their arrival so far transcends the dawn of
history as does that of the Iberians. Even the first wave of the Celtic
migration had reached the West before any scrutiny of their progress was
possible; for when tradition first dimly opens upon Gaul, about 1500 B.
C., its territory was occupied by these two primitive and
distinctly-marked Caucasian races—the Celts and Iberians: the one
fair-skinned and light-haired, the other a dark race; and each speaking
a language bearing no affinity to that of the other—precisely as the
Euskaldune of the present Basques is unintelligible to Gaelic tribes of
Lower Brittany. Some of the subsequent waves of Celtic or Scythic
migration come within the ken of history; and it is remarkable that the
line of march which these followed, after passing the shores of the
Black Sea, seems to have been along the “Riphæan Valley,” which lay to
the north of the Carpathian mountains, and stretched to the Baltic. Now,
if we look at the contour map of Europe in _Johnston’s Physical Atlas_,
we see a narrow strip of the lowest elevation extending from the Black
Sea to the Baltic—nowhere rising to the second line of elevation, _i.e._
more than 150 and less than 300 feet above the level of the sea,—and
turning to the geological map, we find that this same tract is overlaid
with recent diluvial deposits. We know that the Scandinavian region is
rising, and it is probable that all the plain of Sarmatia has partaken
of the elevation,—and before the barriers of the Thracian Bosphorus
burst, it is quite certain that the waters of the Caspian, the Euxine,
and the Baltic were united by that “ocean-river” of which Homer, Hesiod,
and all the old bards sing, and by sailing along which, both the
Argonauts and Ulysses are reported to have passed northwards into the
western ocean. The existence of this vast belt of water, stretching from
the southmost point of the Baltic to the Caucasus, is probably one
reason why the Slavonians were late of appearing in southern Europe, and
why no sprinkling of them or of the Mongols is to be found among the
early settlers of South-western Europe. All the early migrations into
Europe proceeded from Caucasian or sub-Caucasian regions—a circumstance
which, considering the known simultaneous existence of roving hordes and
a great population on the Mongolian plains, can hardly be accounted for
on the supposition that the face of Eastern Europe has since then
undergone no change. But on the supposition we make, the chain of the
Ural Mountains and this large Mediterranean basin would for long act as
restraints upon any tendency of the Mongolian population to move
westward, or of the Slavonians to move southwards.[31]
The next wave of population which flowed westwards was the Cimbri or
Cimmerians,—a people cognate to the Celts or Gaels, yet by no means
closely related. About the seventh century B.C., as may be inferred from
Herodotus, a clan of this race abandoned the Tauric Chersonese, and
marched westwards,—this Cimbrian migration, however, like most others,
not being conducted in one mass, but by successive and sometimes
widely-severed movements. Three centuries afterwards we find the Cimbri
on the shores of the Northern Ocean in Jutland; and between the years
113 and 101 B.C., we find the race all on the move, and setting out on
that southward career of devastation which eventually brought them into
Gaul, Spain, and Italy. The Belgians seem to have been a Cimbrian tribe
which had preceded the main body; for when, in this invasion, the Cimbri
reached Northern Gaul, the Belgæ immediately joined them as allies
against the Celts,—and it seems also proven that the Cimbri and Belgæ
spoke dialects of the same language. The Celts, routed by the invaders,
were impelled to the south and east, doubtless trespassing in turn upon
the dark-skinned Iberians. It was immediately after this inroad that
Cæsar and his Romans entered Gaul, and commenced his Commentaries with
the well-known statement:—“All Gaul is divided into three parts, of
which one is inhabited by the Belgians, [or Cimbri, in the
north]—another by the Aquitanians [or Iberians, in the south-west],—and
the third [or eastern], by those who in their own language, call
themselves Celts, and who in our tongue are called Gael (_Galli_). These
races differ among themselves by their language, their manners, and
their laws.” Previous to this time the Teutons had settled in central
Europe, and in alliance with Celtic tribes made incursions into Italy.
We have now reached a period at which the population of Europe becomes
greatly mixed, in consequence of the constant rovings and incursions of
the various races and tribes of which it was composed. It is interesting
to note the effect of such a state of things upon the physical
characteristics of the people. And first it is to be observed, that,
with extremely rare exceptions, conquest is not attended by
extermination. When one people, even in semi-barbarous times, conquers
another, it does not annihilate and rarely displaces, but for the most
part only overlays it. The annihilating process, of which a sample may
be seen in America, only takes place in the rare case of the meeting of
two nations, in such widely different states of civilisation as to
render amalgamation impossible,—and even in this case only when the
inferior race is so intractable as to resist all obedience to the
superior. _Displacement_—which is obsolete now, since advancing
civilisation has rendered conquest political only—was pretty common two
thousand years ago, when Europe was thinly and nomadically peopled, and
tribes migrated _en masse_. In this way, for example, the Cimbri wedged
themselves in among the Celts in Northern Gaul, and took possession of a
large tract in Northern Italy. But soon after the Christian era—chiefly
in consequence of the increasing density and settled habits of the
population—conquest ceased to produce either extermination or
displacement, and consisted merely in the overlaying of one population
by another much less numerous but more powerful. Thus the Normans in
England and the Franks in Gaul were but a handful compared to the
conquered population; and consequently, though they might give their
laws and even their name to the country, they could not materially alter
the physical character of the people.
The chief influence which, in the case of two races mingling, determines
the preservation or extinction of types or national features, is simply
the numerical proportion existing between the two races thus
amalgamating. When races meet and mix on equal terms, and with no
natural repugnance to each other (in other words, _cæteris paribus_),
the relative number of the two races decides the question—the type of
the smaller number, in this hypothetical case, inevitably disappearing
in the long run. Take, for example, a thousand white families and fifty
black ones—place them on an island, and let them regularly intermarry;
and the result would be, that in the course of time the black type would
disappear, although there is reason to believe that traces of it would
“crop out” during a very long period. And if two fair-skinned races were
brought into contact in a similar manner, and in similar proportions,
the extermination of the less numerous one would be even sooner
effected. The operation of this law is well illustrated in the lower
animals. Cross two domestic animals of different breeds—take the
offspring and cross it with one of the parent stocks, and continue this
process for a few generations, and the result is that the one becomes
swallowed up in the other. This is the theory; but in the actual world
races never intermarry with such theoretical regularity and
indifference. Each community of mankind has, as its conservative
element, a tendency to form unions within its own limits; and if a
foreign element is once introduced into a population, the operation of
this predilection tends to preserve the type of the lesser number for a
much longer period than mere theory would assign to it. The
stranger-hating and obstinate-tempered Bretons and Basques, for
instance, by intermarrying among themselves, have thus preserved the
type of the old Iberians through three thousand years, although
surrounded on all sides by the fair-haired Celts. In the case of a
conquering race like the Franks and Normans, there is generally less
isolation than this; but then, the way in which the amalgamation between
the conquerors and the conquered takes place, is such as to give a great
advantage to the former. The sons of the conquerors may wed the
daughters of the conquered, for the sake of their lands; but it is
comparatively seldom that the daughters of the invaders will condescend
to tarnish their scutcheon by becoming wedded to and merged in the class
of the vanquished. The principle of caste is all-pervading, even when
nominally repudiated; and thus, as the male ever influences most
directly the type of the offspring, a small number of conquerors may for
long perpetuate their line in comparative purity, even though surrounded
by myriads of a different race.
From all this it results, that when a small body of foreigners is shot
into the middle of a large population, as it were in virtue of a mere
casual impetus, and not owing to higher qualities and organisation on
the part of the aliens, the new-comers are quickly absorbed into the
general mass of the population, and their type, in course of time,
wholly disappears. The history of Italy throws important light upon this
subject. Successive hordes of barbarians broke into and overran that
country, powerful from their rude energy, but numerically weak, and
inferior in mental condition to the conquered race. Again and again did
human waves of Visigoths, Vandals, Huns, Herules, Ostrogoths, Lombards,
and Normans roll in succession over the Italian plains; and even the
Saracens for a time held possession of some of its fairest provinces;
yet what vestiges remain in Italy of these barbarian surges? The first
three passed over it like tornados; the two next, after contending with
the Goths, were expelled from the land; and of the whole conglomerate
mass but small fragments were left, too insignificant to materially
influence the native Italic types. The Lombards, indeed, remained, and
implanted their name on a portion of the peninsula; but, with this
fragmentary exception, the aboriginal population of Italy has remained
unaltered in blood and features since the early times when the Celts and
Cimbri made settlements in its northern provinces. And thus the normal
law is fulfilled, in the invaders being swallowed up in the mass of the
native population,—leavening it, of course, more or less, but ever
tending towards ultimate extinction.
When a really conquering race, however—one superior alike in physical
and mental power to the subjugated population—invades a country, and,
instead of being expelled, or passing onwards like a transient
whirlwind, continues to hold the realm in virtue of superior power, such
a race, as we have said, may long and almost indelibly perpetuate their
features in the land. In such a case they in reality, if not in name,
form a caste; each one of the invaders becomes a noble; and when they
make exceptions to the practice of intermarrying among themselves, it is
only that they may more widely diffuse their lineaments, by forming
matrimonial or other unions with the female portion of the native
race.[32] Thus the feudalism of the all-conquering Normans was a system
of caste, by means of which they long maintained the purity and
pre-eminence of their race in the countries which they conquered; as may
best be seen in French history, where the _vieux noblesse_, even in
1789, were the lineal descendants of the soldiers of Clovis; and where
the distinction between _noble_ and _roturier_ was kept up with such
rigid and antiquated pertinacity, that at length the Celtic population,
becoming more and more developed alike in intellect and resources, threw
off the whole foreign system like an incubus, and returned to those
principles of equality and volatility in government which distinguished
their ancestors of old Gaul.
We may remark in conclusion, on this topic, that the ascendancy of
certain families of mankind is due not only to their superior physical,
but even more to their superior mental organisation, which ever keeps
them uppermost, and enables them to mate themselves with whom they
please. It is a remarkable fact, as illustrative of the native vigour of
some races, that there is not a head in Christendom which _legitimately_
wears a crown—not a single family in Europe whose blood is acknowledged
to be royal, but traces its genealogy to that Norman colossus, WILLIAM
the CONQUEROR. This has been well shown by M. Paulmier;[33] but we may
add, as a curiosity which lately attracted our own notice, when looking
at the portrait of the Conqueror—namely, that a strong resemblance
exists between his fine and massive features and those of the present
Czar of Russia. Both are distinguished by the same broad brow and arched
eyebrows (not each forming a semicircle, as seems to be the meaning of
the term “arched” when applied to eyebrows nowadays, but both combining
to form an oval curve, vaulting over the under part of the face, as was
the meaning among the Greeks), the same thick straight nose, and the
same massive and beautiful conformation in the bones of the jaw and
chin. The face of the Czar, however, we must add, is not equal in solid
strength and intellect to that of his great progenitor.
The operation of these physiological laws upon the population of Europe
has been interestingly illustrated by the recent researches of a French
naturalist of high reputation, M. Edwards. This gentleman, after
perusing Thierry’s _History of the Gauls_, made a tour through France,
Belgium, Switzerland, and Italy, engaged in careful study of the present
population in relation to the ancient settlers; and he asserts that now,
after the lapse of two thousand years, the types of the Cimbri, the
Celts, and Iberians are still distinctly traceable among their living
descendants, in the very localities where history first descries these
early families. Of the inland eastern parts of France, tenanted of old
by the Gauls proper, and which were never penetrated into by the Cimbri,
who took quiet possession of their outskirts, M. Edwards thus
speaks:—“In traversing, from north to south, the part of France which
corresponds to Oriental Gaul—viz., Burgundy, Lyons, Dauphiny, and
Savoy—I have distinguished that type, so well marked, which
ethnographers have assigned to the Gauls.” That is to say, “the head is
so round as to approach the spherical form; the forehead is moderate,
slightly protuberant, and receding towards the temples; eyes large and
open; the nose, from its depression at its commencement to its
termination, almost straight—that is to say, without any marked curve;
its extremity is rounded, as well as the chin; the stature medium;—the
features thus being quite in harmony with the form of the head.” Of the
northern part of ancient Gaul, the principal seat of the Belgæ or
Cimbri, he says:—“I traversed a great part of the _Gallia Belgica_ of
Cæsar, from the mouth of the Somme to that of the Seine; and here I
distinguished for the first time the assemblage of features which
constitutes the other type, and often to such an exaggerated degree that
I was very forcibly struck,—the long head, the broad high forehead, the
curved nose, with the point below, and the wings tucked up; the chin
boldly developed; and the stature tall.” In the other parts of France
(exclusive of the south and west, anciently occupied by the Iberians),
M. Edwards found that the Cimbrian type had been overcome by the round
heads and straight noses of the Gauls, who were the more numerous
because the more ancient race in those parts, and had covered the whole
country before the arrival of the Cimbrians.
Passing into Italy, he continues his examinations. “Whatever may have
been the anterior state of matters,” he says, “it is certain, from
Thierry’s researches and the unanimous accord of all historians, that
the _Peuples Gaulois_ have predominated in the north of Italy, between
the Alps and the Apennines. We find them established there at the first
dawn of history; and the most authentic testimony represents them with
all the character of a great nation, from this remote period down to a
very advanced point of Roman history. This is all I need to trouble
myself about. I know the features of their compatriots in Transalpine
Gaul—I find them again in Cisalpine Gaul.” The old “Gallic” settlers in
northern Italy appear to have been Cimbrian. After describing the
well-known head of Dante—which is long and narrow, with a high and
developed forehead, nose long and curved, with sharp point and elevated
wings—M. Edwards says that he was struck by the great frequency of this
type in Tuscany (although a mixed Roman type is there the prevailing
one) among the peasantry; in the statues and busts of the Medici family;
and also amongst the effigies and bas-reliefs of the illustrious men of
the republic of Florence. This type is well marked since the time of
Dante, as doubtless long before. It extends to Venice; and in the ducal
palace, M. Edwards had occasion to observe that it is common among the
doges. The type became more predominant as he approached Milan, and
thence he traced it as to its fountain into Transalpine Gaul. The
physical characteristics of the present population, therefore,
correspond with the statements of history, and show that the ancient
type of this widespread people, the Cimbri, has survived the lapse and
vicissitudes of two thousand years.
In passing through Florence, M. Edwards took occasion to visit the Ducal
Gallery, to study the ancient Roman type,—selecting, by preference, the
busts of the early Roman emperors, because they were descendants of
ancient families. Augustus, Tiberius, Germanicus, Claudius, Nero, Titus,
&c., exemplify this type in the Florentine collections; and the family
resemblance is so close, and the style of features so remarkable, that
they cannot be mistaken. The following is his description:—“The vertical
diameter of the head is short, and, consequently, the face broad. As the
summit of the cranium is flattened, and the lower margin of the jaw-bone
almost horizontal, the contour of the head, when viewed in front,
approaches a square. The lateral parts, above the ears, are protuberant;
the forehead low; the nose truly aquiline—that is to say, the curve
commences near the top and ends before it reaches the point, so that the
base is horizontal; the chin is round; and the stature short.” This is
the characteristic type of a Roman; but we cannot expect now to meet
with absolute uniformity in any race, however seemingly pure. Such a
type M. Edwards subsequently found to predominate in Rome, and certain
parts of Italy, at the present day. It is the original type of the
central portions of the peninsula, and, however overlayed at times, has
swallowed up all intruders. As a singular corroboration of the French
ethnographer’s observations, Mr J. C. Nott, an American surgeon and
naturalist, says:—“A sailor came to my office, a few months ago, to have
a dislocated arm set. When stripped and standing before me, he presented
the type described by M. Edwards so perfectly, and moreover combined
with such extraordinary development of bone and muscle, that there
occurred to my mind at once the beau-ideal of a Roman soldier. Though
the man had been an American sailor for twenty years, and spoke English
without foreign accent, I could not help asking where he was born. He
replied in a deep strong voice, ‘In _Rome_, sir!’”[34]
In Greece the Hellenes and Pelasgi are two races identified with the
earliest traditions of the country; but when we appeal to history for
their origin, or seek for the part that each has played in the majestic
drama of antiquity, there is little more than conjecture to guide us.
Greece did not come fairly within the scope of M. Edwards’ researches,
yet he has ventured a few note-worthy observations in connection with
this point. He thinks the same principles that governed his examination
of Gaul may be applied to Greece; and that the Hellenes and Pelasgi
might be followed ethnologically like the Celts and Cimbri. Perhaps the
most important remark which he makes is that which refers to the
differences between what he calls the _heroic_ and _historic_—or what is
generally termed the ideal and real types of the Greek countenance. The
ancient monuments of art in Greece exhibit a wide diversity of types,
and this at every period of their history. Of the two great classes into
which these may be divided, M. Edwards says:—
“Most of the divinities and personages of the _heroic_ times are
formed on that well-known model which constitutes what we term the
beau-ideal. The forms and proportions of the head and countenance are
so regular that we may describe them with mathematical precision. A
perfectly oval contour, forehead and nose straight, without depression
between them, would suffice to distinguish this type. The harmony is
such that the presence of these traits implies the others. But such is
not the character of the personages of truly _historic_ times. The
philosophers, orators, warriors, and poets almost all differ from it,
and form a group apart. It cannot be confounded with the rest: it is
sufficient to point it out, for one to recognise at once how far it is
separated. It greatly resembles, on the contrary, the type which is
seen in other countries of Europe, while the former is scarcely met
with there.”
This observation is just. The head of Alexander the Great is nearly
allied to the pure classical or heroic type; but this case is an
exception—and the lineaments of Lycurgus, Eratosthenes, and most other
specimens of old Greek portrait-sculpture, are, with the exception of
the beard (if indeed such an exception is now requisite), very much like
those which one meets with daily in our streets. “Were we to judge
solely by the monuments of Greece,” continues M. Edwards, “on account of
this contrast, we should be tempted to regard the type of the fabulous
or heroic personages as ideal. But imagination more readily creates
monsters than models of beauty; and this principle alone will suffice to
convince us that such a type has existed in Greece, and the countries
where its population has spread, if it does not still exist there.”
In corroboration of this conjecture, it may be stated that the learned
travellers, M.M. de Stackelberg and de Bronsted, who have journeyed
through the Morea and closely examined the population, assert that the
_heroic_ type is still extant in certain localities. M. Poqueville
likewise assures us that the models which inspired Phidias and Apelles
are still to be found among the inhabitants of the Morea. “They are
generally tall, and finely formed; their eyes are full of fire, and they
have a beautiful mouth, ornamented with the finest teeth. There are,
however, degrees in their beauty, though all may be generally termed
handsome. The Spartan woman is fair, of a slender make, but with a noble
air. The women of Taÿgetus have the carriage of a Pallas when she
wielded her formidable ægis in the midst of a battle. The Messenian
woman is low of stature, and distinguished for her _embonpoint_,” (this
may be owing to a mixture with the primitive race of the Morea, who, as
Helots, long existed as a distinct caste in Messenia); “she has regular
features, large blue eyes, and long black hair. The Arcadian, in her
coarse woollen garments, scarcely suffers the symmetry of her form to
appear; but her countenance is expressive of innocence and purity of
mind.” In the time of Poqueville the Greek women were extremely ignorant
and uneducated; but, he says, “music and dancing seem to have been
taught them by nature.” He speaks of the long flaxen hair of the women
of Sparta, their majestic air and carriage, their elegant forms, the
symmetry of their features, lighted up by large blue eyes, fringed and
shaded with long eye-lashes. “The men,” he says, “among whom some are
‘blonds,’ or fair, have noble countenances; are of tall stature, with
masculine and regular features.” They have preserved something of the
Dorians of ancient Sparta.
It would be erroneous, however, to conclude from this that Greek art
owed everything to the actual. The type existed more or less imperfectly
in the population, but Phidias and the Greek artists took and developed
it, by the aid of the imagination, into that perfect phase of physical
beauty which we justly term the _beau-ideal_. A nation’s beau-ideal is
always the perfectionment of its own type. It is easy to see how this
happens. In nations, as in individuals, the soul moulds the body, so far
as extrinsic circumstances permit, into a form in accordance with its
own ideas and desire; and accordingly, whenever a marked difference
exists in the physical aspect of two nations, there, also, we may expect
to find a variance in their beau-ideals. Not, as is generally supposed,
from the eye of each race becoming accustomed to the national features,
but because these features, are themselves an incarnation and embodiment
of the national mind. It is the soul which shapes the national features,
not the national features that mould the æsthetic judgment of the soul.
It is not _association_, therefore, that is the cause of the different
beau-ideals we behold in the world, but a psychical difference in the
nations which produce them,—a circumstance no more remarkable than those
moral and intellectual diversities in virtue of which we see one race
excelling in the exact sciences, another in the fine arts, a third in
military renown, and a fourth in pacific industry. We may adduce, in
curious illustration of this point, the well-known fact that Raphael and
many other eminent artists have repeatedly given their own likeness to
the imaginary offspring of their art,—not real, but idealised
likenesses. How was this? From vanity? No, certainly; but because the
ideal most congenial to them, which they could most easily hold in their
mind, and which it gave them most pleasure to linger over and beautify,
was the ideal constituted by the perfectionment of their own features.
There is something more than mere vanity in the pleasure usually derived
from looking into a mirror; for when the features are in exact or nearly
exact accordance with the desires of the framing Spirit within, there
must always be a pleasure in the soul looking upon its own likeness:
even as it experiences a similar delight when meeting with a being of
perfectly congenial nature—in other words, its spiritual (as the other
is its physical) likeness. It is to be expected, _cæteris paribus_, that
this pleasure will be most felt by those who are gifted with much
personal beauty, and whose features are most perfect of their kind; for
in their case there is more than ordinary harmony between the soul and
its fleshly envelope. Accordingly, no artist ever painted himself more
than the beautiful Raphael. And we could name an eminent individual, now
no more, as rarely gifted with physical beauty as with mental powers, to
whom the contemplation of his portrait was almost a passion. Some of our
readers may recognise the distinguished man of whom we speak. No one
less vain or more noble-hearted than he, yet his painted likeness had
always a fascination for him. “It is a curious thing,” he used to say,
“how I like to look at my own portrait.” Was it not because, in that
beautifully developed form and countenance, the spirit within had most
successfully embodied its ideal, with little or no hindrance from
extrinsic circumstances, and accordingly rejoiced, though it knew not
why, in the presence of its own likeness?
But to return to ethnography, and trace out the successive changes which
have taken place in the population of Europe. As we have already
observed, the great ebb and flow of nations was over by the Christian
era. The population had become comparatively dense, so that room could
no more be made for tribes of new-comers—and settled in their habits and
occupations, so as no longer to admit of their shifting or being driven
to and fro like waves over the land, as was the case while they were in
the nomadic state. And as the nations became consolidated, they began,
however feebly at first, to live a national existence, and to put forth
national efforts of self-defence against those who assailed them. On
these various accounts, the system of conquest by displacement, which
marked the pre-historic and in a faint degree the early historic times,
was brought to an end,—the conquests of the Northmen being the last
examples of the kind; and these being hardly worthy of the name, as they
were marked rather by the political predominance of the new-comers, and
by an overlaying rather than by any displacement of the native
population. For all useful purposes, therefore, we may conceive that at
the Christian era the various nations of Europe were arranged on the map
very much as they are now,—the only exceptions worth mentioning being
the influx of the Magyars and Turks, and the southward progress of
several of the Slavonian tribes through the old Byzantine provinces into
Greece.
“Had a Roman geographer of the days of the Empire,” it has been well
observed, “advanced in a straight line from the Atlantic to the
Pacific, he would have traversed the exact succession of races that is
to be met in the same route now. First, he would have found the Celts
occupying as far as the Rhine; thence, eastward to the Vistula and
Carpathian mountains, he would have found Germans; beyond them, and
stretching away into Central Asia, he would have found the so-called
Scythians,—a race which, had he possessed our information, he would
have divided into the two great branches of the Slavonians or European
Scythians, and the Tartars and Turks, or Asiatic Scythians; and
finally, beyond these, he would have found Mongolian hordes
overspreading Eastern Asia to the shores of the Pacific. These
successive races or populations he would have found shading off into
each other at their points of junction. He would have remarked, also,
a general westward pressure of the whole mass, tending toward mutual
rupture and invasion,—the Mongolian pressing against the Tartars, the
Tartars against the Slavonians, the Slavonians against the Germans,
and the Germans against the Celts.”
Although the early history and migrations of the Slavonians are involved
in greater obscurity than that of either of the other two great branches
of the European population, it is erroneous to suppose that they are a
recent accession out of the depths of Asia. It was evidently a branch of
them that Herodotus describes as peaceful, pastoral, and agricultural
tribes located near the shores of the Black Sea. Instead of entering
Europe _via_ Asia Minor and the southern borders of the Euxine, as many
of the Celtic and Teutonic tribes did, they appear to have taken the
route by the north of the Caspian and Black Seas, and probably advanced
southwards into Europe on the gradual and ultimately sudden subsidence
of the waters of the inland sea which primevally stretched from the
Baltic eastwards to the Sea of Aral.
This race, which now constitutes the largest ethnographical unit of
population in Europe, numbering nearly eighty millions, has never yet
been examined in rigorous detail. The earliest and best developed of its
tribes is the Polish, which, though it has in recent times been
subjected by the Russo-Slavons aided by the German powers, has not yet
lost its nationality; and it is probable that, in the course of the
future, the mighty Slavonic race will yet give rise to several distinct
states. Both in features and complexion there is much diversity to be
found in the various tribes which it comprises; but, if we consider the
immense numbers of the race, and the different climes and temperatures
under which they are located, it must be allowed that they are more
homogeneous in character than any other people in Europe. The general
type of the Slavonians is thus described by M. Edwards:—
“The contour of the head, viewed in front, approaches nearly to a
square; the height surpasses a little the breadth; the summit is
sensibly flattened; and the direction of the jaw is horizontal. The
length of the nose is less than the distance from its base to the
chin; it is almost straight from the depression at its root—that is to
say, without any decided curvature; but, if appreciable, it is
slightly concave, so that the end has a tendency to turn up; the lower
part is rather large, and the extremity rounded. The eyes, which are
rather deep-set, are [unlike those of the Tartars] perfectly on the
same line; and when they have any particular character, they are
smaller than the proportion of the head ought to indicate. The
eyebrows are thin, and very near the eyes, particularly at the
internal angle; and from this point are often [like those of the
Tartars] directed obliquely outwards. The mouth, which is not salient,
has thin lips, and is much nearer to the nose than to the tip of the
chin. Another singular characteristic may be added, and which is very
general, viz., their small beard, except on the upper lip [a trait
connecting them with the peoples of Upper Asia]. Such is the common
type among the Poles, Alesians, Moravians, Bohemians, Slavonic
Hungarians, and is very common among the Russians.”
Having thus briefly and imperfectly glanced at the ethnographical
features of Europe prior to the Christian era, we come now to note,
equally briefly, the accession of foreign elements which the Continent
has received subsequently to that period. The first of these is the
memorable one of the Jews. Unlike the other incomers, they came not as
conquerors, nor in a mass—but as isolated exiles, seeking new homes
where they might be suffered to preserve their religion and gain a
livelihood. A military race when in the land of their fathers, in Europe
they developed only that other feature of their nation, the passion for
moneymaking. In pursuit of this object they have settled in every
country of Europe; and, in spite of persecutions innumerable, continue
to preserve to this day their religion and their national features.
Despite the warm passions of the Hebrews, which, even when in their own
land, repeatedly led both the people and their princes into the
contraction of sexual alliances with other nations, the Jewish blood on
the whole is still much purer than that of any other race—the foreign
elements from time to time mingled with it being gradually thrown off by
innumerable crossings and re-crossings with the native stock. At present
there are about two millions of Jews in Europe, and in the rest of the
world about a million and a half. The modern Jews, while preserving the
national features, present every variety of complexion save black—for
the _black_ Jews of Malabar are not Jews at all, but the descendants of
apostate Hindoos. In regard to the matter of complexion, which varies so
much with the climate and condition of the people, we shall say
something by-and-by; but we shall here give some remarks of Mr Leeser, a
learned Jew of Philadelphia, on the curious diversities of complexion so
remarkably observable among the Hebrew race:—
“In respect to the true Jewish complexion, it is _fair_; which is
proved by the variety of the people I have seen, from Persia, Russia,
Palestine, and Africa, not to mention those of Europe and America, the
latter of whom are identical with the Europeans, like all other white
inhabitants of this continent. All Jews that ever I have beheld are
_identical in features_; though the colour of their skin and eyes
differs materially, inasmuch as the Southern are nearly all
black-eyed, and somewhat sallow, while the Northern are blue-eyed, in
a great measure, and of a fair and clear complexion. In this they
assimilate to all Caucasians, when transported for a number of
generations into various climates. Though I am free to admit that the
dark and hazel eye and tawny skin are oftener met with among the
Germanic Jews than among the German natives proper. There are also
red-haired and white-haired Jews, as well as other people, and perhaps
of as great a proportion. I speak now of the Jews north—I am myself a
native of Germany, and among my own family I know of none without blue
eyes, brown hair (though mine is black), and very fair skin—still I
recollect, when a boy, seeing many who had not these characteristics,
and had, on the contrary, eyes, hair, and skin of a more southern
complexion. In America, you will see all varieties of complexion, from
the very fair Canadian down to the almost yellow of the West
Indian—the latter, however, is solely the effect of exposure to a
_deleterious_ climate for several generations, which changes, I should
judge, the texture of the hair and skin, and thus leaves its mark on
the constitution—otherwise the Caucasian type is strongly developed;
but this is the case more emphatically among those sprung from a
German than a Portuguese stock. The latter was an original inhabitant
of the Iberian Peninsula, and whether it was preserved pure, or became
mixed with Moorish blood in the process of centuries, or whether the
Germans contracted an intimacy with Teutonic nations, and thus
acquired a part of their national characteristics, it is impossible to
be told now. But one thing is certain, that, both in Spain and
Germany, conversions to Judaism during the early ages, say from the
eighth to the thirteenth century, were by no means rare, or else the
governments would not have so energetically prohibited Jews from
making proselytes of their servants and others. I know not, indeed,
whether there is any greater physical discrepancy between northern and
southern Jews than between English families who continue in England or
emigrate to Alabama—I rather judge there is not.”—_Types of Mankind_,
p. 121.
The Huns and Magyars were the next tribes who made their way into
Europe; and their advent, fierce, rapid, and exterminating, was
conducted like a charge of cavalry. They hewed their way with the sword
through the Slavonian and other tribes who impeded their march; and
after being for a brief season the terror of Europe, they settled _en
permanence_ on the plains of Hungary, where for upwards of a thousand
years they dominated, like a ruling caste, over the surrounding Slavonic
tribes. The influx of this warlike race took place by two
migrations,—firstly, of the Huns, under Attila, in the fifth century;
and, secondly, of the Magyars, under Arpad, in the ninth. The type of
the two races was identical; it is peculiarly exotic, and unlike any
other in Europe. It belongs to the great Uralian-Tatar stem of Asia;
but, strangely enough, though they differ in type from the Fins, the
Magyars speak a dialect of the Finnish language,—which shows that the
two races must have been associated in some way at a remote epoch, and
before either of them emerged from the depths of Asia. M. Edwards thus
describes the Magyar type:—“Head nearly round; forehead little
developed, low, and bending; the eyes placed obliquely, so that the
external angle is elevated; the nose short and flat; mouth prominent,
and lips thick; neck very strong, so that the back of the head appears
flat, forming almost a straight line with the nape; beard weak and
scattering; stature short.” The Magyars did not belong to the Caucasian
stock; and their long-continued supremacy over tribes decidedly
Caucasian, is a nut to crack for those ethnographers who deduce
everything from race, irrespective of the habits and state of
development of particular nations.
The next alien race which entered Europe was the Gypseys, the history
and peculiarities of which strange people present many curious analogies
with those of the Israelites. “Both have had an exodus; both are exiles,
and dispersed among the Gentiles, by whom they are hated and despised,
and whom they hate and despise under the names of Busnees and Goyim;
both, though speaking the language of the Gentiles, possess a peculiar
language which the latter do not understand; and both possess a peculiar
cast of countenance by which they may without difficulty be
distinguished from all other nations. But with these points the
similarity terminates. The Israelites have a peculiar religion, to which
they are fanatically attached; the Romas (gypseys) have none. The
Israelites have an authentic history; the Gypseys have no history,—they
do not even know the name of their original country.” Everything
connected with the Gypsey race is involved in mystery; though, from
their physical type, language, &c., it is conjectured that they came
from some part of India. It has been supposed that they fled from the
exterminating sword of the great Tartar conqueror, Tamerlane, who
ravaged India in 1408–9 A.D.; but Borrow’s work furnishes good ground
for believing that they may have migrated at a much earlier period
northwards, amongst the Slavonians, before they entered Germany and the
other countries where we first catch sight of them. All that we know
with certainty is, that in the beginning of the fifteenth century they
appeared in Germany, and were soon scattered over Europe, as far as
Spain. The precise day upon which these strange beings first entered
France has been recorded,—namely, the 17th of August 1427. The entire
number of the race at present is estimated at about 700,000,—thus
constituting them the smallest as well as the most singular and
distinctly marked of races. But if their numbers be small, their range
of habitat is one of the widest. They are scattered over most countries
of the habitable globe—Europe, Asia, Africa, and both the Americas,
containing specimens of these roving tribes. “Their tents,” says Borrow,
“are pitched on the heaths of Brazil and the ridges of the Himalaya
hills; and their language is heard in Moscow and Madrid, in London and
Stamboul. Their power of resisting cold is truly wonderful, as it is not
uncommon to find them encamped in the midst of the snow, in slight
canvass tents, where the temperature is 25° or 30° below the
freezing-point according to Reaumur;” while, on the other hand, they
withstand without difficulty the sultry climes of Africa and India.
The last accession which the population of Europe received was
accomplished by an irruption similar to that of the Huns, but on a
grander scale. In the beginning of the fifteenth century the Osmanli
Turks swept across the Hellespont and Bosphorus, and in 1453 established
their empire in Europe by the capture of Byzantium. In proportion to its
numbers, no race ever gave such a shock to the Western world as this;
and, by its very antagonism, it helped to quicken into life the
population and kingdoms of central and eastern Europe. It is
semi-Caucasian by extraction, but, coming from the northern side of the
Caucasus, and pretty far to the east, the original features of the race
had a strong dash of the Tartar in them. The portrait of Mahomed II.,
the conqueror of Byzantium, may be taken as a fair sample of the
primitive Turkish type,—indeed a more than average specimen, for among
all nations the nobles and princes, as a class, are ever found to
possess the most perfect forms and features. The Turkish tribes who
still follow their ancient nomadic life, and wander in the cold and dry
deserts of Turkistan, still exhibit the Tartar physiognomy—even the
Nogays of the Crimea, and some of the roving tribes of Asia Minor,
present much of this character. The European Turks, and the upper
classes of the race generally, exhibit a greatly superior style of
countenance, in consequence of the elevating influences of civilisation,
and of their harems having been replenished for four centuries by fair
ones from Georgia and Circassia,—a region which, as Chardin long ago
remarked, “is assuredly the one where nature produces the most beautiful
persons, and a people brave and valiant, as well as lively, _galant_,
and loving.” There is hardly a man of quality in Turkey who is not born
of a Georgian or Circassian mother,—counting downwards from the Sultan,
who is generally Georgian or Circassian by the female side. As this
crossing of the two races has been carried on for several centuries, the
modern Ottomans in Europe are in truth a _new nation_—and, on the whole,
a very handsome one. The general proportion of the face is symmetrical,
and the facial angle nearly vertical,—the features thus approaching to
the Circassian mould; while the head is remarkable for its excellent
globular form, with the forehead broad and the glabella prominent.
The natural destiny of the Turks in Europe, like that of ruling castes
everywhere when holding in subjection a population greatly more numerous
than themselves, is either to gradually relax their sway and share the
government with the subject races, as the Normans in England did,—or, if
obstinately maintaining their class-despotism, to be violently deposed
from the supremacy. The increasing development of the Greek and other
sections of the population of European Turkey has of late years made one
or other of these alternatives imminent; but the extensive reforms and
liberalisation of the government simultaneously undertaken by the
Ottoman rulers, and the remarkable abeyance in which they have begun to
place the _distinctive_ tenets of the Mahommedan faith, promised, if
unthwarted by foreign influences, to keep the various races in amity,
and admit Christians to offices in the state. The history of the last
fifteen years has shown this system of governmental relaxation growing
gradually stronger—so that Lord Palmerston was justified in saying that
no country in the world could show so many reforms accomplished in so
short a time as Turkey. And after the recent exploits of the Ottomans in
defeating simultaneously the attacks of Russia and of the Greek and
Montenegrin insurgents, and the Turkish predilections even of those
provinces which were entered by the Christian forces of the Czar, it
cannot be doubted that the Turkish rule was on the whole giving
satisfaction, and that, if unaided by foreign Powers, no insurrection
against the supremacy of the bold-hearted Osmanlis had the slightest
chance of success. It was this state of matters which alarmed the
ambitious Czar into his present aggression; for he felt that now or
never was the time to interfere, if he did not wish to see a Turko-Greek
state establish itself in such strength as to bid defiance to his power.
We may add, that, whatever be the issue of the present contest, it must
tend to a further and higher development of the Turkish character. The
contagion of Western ideas, disseminated in the most imposing of ways by
the presence of the armies of England and France, cannot fail to impress
itself on the slumbrous but awakening Ottomans, and not only expand
their stereotyped civilisation into a wider and freer form, but possibly
to strike also from their religion the more faulty and obstructive of
its tenets.
Such are the elements of the present population of Europe,—a population
which, in its western and southern portions, no longer presents distinct
masses of diverse tribes, and whose various sections every century is
drawing into closer contact. The progress of commerce and civilisation
produces not only an interchange of products of various climes, and of
ideas between the various races of mankind, but also a commingling of
blood; and as the most nobly developed races are always the great
wanderers and conquerors, it will be seen that the progress of the world
ever tends to improve the types of mankind by infusing the blood of the
superior races into the veins of the inferior. The settlements of the
Normans are an instance of this. And a still more remarkable, though
exceptional, exemplification of the same thing may at present be
witnessed in America—where the Negroes, transported from their native
clime, have already become a mixed race, owing to the relation in which
all female slaves stand to their masters, and the consequent frequent
crossing of the European blood with the blood of Africa. In point of
fact, there are slaves to be found in the Southern States, who, like
“George” in _Uncle Tom’s Cabin_, are as Caucasian in their features and
intellect as their masters,—a circumstance fraught with considerable
danger to the White caste in these States, because producing the
extremest irritation in these nearly full-blood “white slaves,” and at
the same time providing able and fiery leaders for the oppressed Negro
race in the event of an insurrection and servile war.
But the great variety of countenance and temperament in Western and
Southern Europe is not due merely to actual crossings of the commingling
races. Civilisation itself is the parent of variety. The progress of
humanity produces physical effects upon the race, which may be classed
under two heads, one of these being a general physical improvement, and
the other increasing variety. Take an undeveloped race like the Tartars
or Negroes, and you will find the aspect and mental character of the
nation nearly homogeneous,—the differences existing amongst its
individual members being comparatively trivial. Pass to the Slavonians,
and you will perceive this uniformity lessened; and when you reach the
nations of Western Europe, you will find the transition accomplished,
and homogeneity exchanged for variety. The explanation of this is
obvious. Just as all plants of the same species, when in embryo, are
nearly alike, undeveloped races of mankind present but few signs of
spiritual life; and therefore their individual members greatly resemble
one another,—because the fewer the characteristics, the less room is
there for variety, and the more radical and therefore more universal
must be the characteristics themselves. Pebbles, as they lie rough upon
the sea-shore, may present a great uniformity of appearance; but take
and polish them, and a hundred diversities of colour and marking
forthwith show themselves;—even so does civilisation and growth develop
the rich varieties of human nature. As these mental varieties spring up
within, they ever seek to develop themselves by corresponding varieties
in the outer life,—placing men now in riches, now in poverty, now under
the sway of the intellect, now of the passions, now of good principles,
now of bad, and moreover leading to an infinite diversity of external
occupation. The joint influence of the feelings within, and of the
corresponding circumstances without, in course of time comes to affect
the physical frame, often in a very marked manner; and, indeed, it is
well known that even so subtle a thing as the predominant thoughts and
sentiments of an individual are almost always reflected in the aspect of
his countenance. Nations, when in a primitive uncultured state, differ
as widely from those at the apex of civilisation, as the monotonous
countenance and one-phased mind of a peasant contrasts with the rich
variety of expression in the face of genius, whose nature is quickly
responsive to every influence, though often steadied into a masculine
calm. Let any one inspect the various classes of our metropolitan
population, and he will perceive an amount of physical, mental, and
occupational variety such as he will meet with nowhere else in the
world—presenting countenances deformed now by this form of brutal
passion, now by that, ranging upwards to the noblest types of the human
face, the joint product of easy circumstances and high mental and
spiritual culture. It is all the result of civilisation, which ever
tends to break up the uniformity of a population, and allows of its
members rising to the highest heights or sinking to the lowest
depths,—thus breaking the primitive monotony of life into its manifold
prismatic hues.
Not the least remarkable of the physical changes thus produced by
civilisation, is the diversity of complexion which it gradually affects.
It appears certain, for example, that the races who peopled the northern
and western parts of Europe, subsequent to the dark-skinned Iberians,
were all of the fair or xanthous style of complexion; but this is by no
means the case with the great mass of people who are supposed to have
descended from them. “It seems unquestionable,” says Prichard, “that the
complexion prevalent through the British Isles has greatly varied from
that of all [?] the original tribes who are known to have jointly
constituted the population. We have seen that the ancient Celtic tribes
were a xanthous race; such, likewise, were the Saxons, Danes, and
Normans; the Caledonians also, and the Gael, were fair and
yellow-haired. Not so the mixed descendants of all these blue-eyed
tribes. The Britons had already deviated from the colour of the Celts in
the time of Strabo, who declares that the Britons are taller than the
Gauls, and less yellow-haired, and more infirm and relaxed in their
bodies.” The Germans have also varied in their complexion. The ancient
Germans are said to have had universally yellow or red hair and blue
eyes,—in short, a strongly marked xanthous constitution. This, says
Niebuhr, “has now, in most parts of Germany, become uncommon. I can
assert, from my own observation, that the Germans are now, in many parts
of their country, far from a light-haired race. I have seen a
considerable number of persons assembled in a large room at
Frankfort-on-the-Maine, and observed that, except one or two Englishmen,
there was not an individual among them who had not dark hair. The
Chevalier Bunsen has assured me that he has often looked in vain for the
auburn or golden locks and the light cerulean eyes of the old Germans,
and never verified the picture given by the ancients of his countrymen
till he visited Scandinavia,—there he found himself surrounded by the
Germans of Tacitus.” In the towns of Germany, especially, the people are
far from being a red-haired, or even a xanthous race; and, from the fact
that this change has been developed chiefly in towns, we may infer that
it depends in part on habits, and the way of living, and on food. Towns
are much warmer and drier than the country; but even the open country is
much warmer and drier than the forests and morasses with which Germany
was formerly covered. The climate of Germany has, in fact, changed since
the country was cleared of its vast forests; and we must attribute the
altered physical character of the Germans to the altered condition under
which the present inhabitants live.
It was the conquests of Rome that first scattered the seeds of
civilisation in Western Europe. There it has grown up into a stately and
nearly perfect fabric on the shores of the Atlantic, gradually losing
its perfection as it proceeds eastwards, until it reaches the
semi-barbarism of Russia, and the still deeper barbarism of Upper Asia.
Our limits hardly allow of our inquiring what influence this
civilisation is calculated to exert in future upon the ethnological
condition of the Continent, although it is a question of great
importance, as foreshadowing the chief changes which may be expected to
result from the state of chronic strife upon which Europe has now
entered. We can only remark that the grand action of progress and
civilisation is to develop _the mind_, and so convert the units of
society from a mass of automatons into thinking and self-directing
agents,—conscious of, and able to attain, alike their own rights and
those of their nation. Hence follows the growth of liberty within; and,
without, the gradual establishment of union between scattered sections
of the same race. Supposing, then, that the progress of civilisation in
Europe be unobstructed, we may calculate that wherever we now see
internal despotism, there will be liberty,—wherever we see foreign
domination, there will be national freedom,—and that, after a little
more training in the stern school of suffering, the Continental nations,
grown wiser, will make an end of the present arbitrary and unnatural
territorial system of Europe, and arrange themselves in the more
natural, grander, and permanent communities of race.
It was doubtless a perception of this truth that caused the French
Emperor recently to declare that “the age of conquests is past.” We
regret to think, however, that the statement is somewhat premature,—for
Europe is still far from that happy climax of civilisation which in the
preceding sentences we have indicated. Moreover, there are two very
opposite periods in the life of nations when the race-principle reigns
supreme, their first and their last;—just as, in the case of
individuals, men often adopt in old age, from the dictates of
experience, principles which in youth they had acted upon from instinct.
Now, Europe at this day presents both of these phases of national life
existing simultaneously, at its eastern and western extremities; and it
seems probable that the development of the race-principle in its early
form among the Slavonians, will take precedence of its development in
maturity among the civilised races of the Continent. There is every
indication that the Panslavism of Russia will precede the coalescing of
the Teutonic tribes into a united Germany—or of the Romano-Gallic races
of France, Spain, and Italy, into that trinity of confederate states
which Lamartine so stoutly predicts. Nay, may not this Panslavism of
Russia, by a short-lived political domination, be destined to prove the
very means of exciting the ethnological affinities of the rest of
Europe, and of thereby raising up an insuperable barrier to its own
progress, as well as involuntarily launching the other nations on their
true line of progress?
The fag-end of an article is little suitable for the discussion of such
really momentous topics, and we especially regret that we cannot proceed
to consider the effects which the progress of civilisation is likely to
exert upon Russia itself. Any one, however, who is disposed to supply
for himself the deductions from the above principles, will feel that his
labour in so doing is not without its recompense, by establishing the
consolatory truth that, so far as human eye can discern, “a good time
coming” is yet in store for Europe,—though, alas, what turmoil must
there be between this and then!
THE GANGETIC PROVINCES OF BRITISH INDIA.[35]
Disguise it as we may, conquest to the conquered must ever be a bitter
draught.
It is impossible for nations to be entirely disinterested. The rewards
of the victors cannot be reaped without trenching upon the rights of the
vanquished.
Three centuries have gone by since Machiavelli wrote, yet still does the
Italian mutter his words, “Ad ognuno puzza questo barbaro dominio;” and
all the material benefits which the peasantry of Lombardy often admit
that they enjoy under their present masters, cannot abate the aversion
of the people of that province to the Austrian rule.
There are more points of resemblance than we may like to confess between
the position of Austria towards Italy, and that of England towards
India. In both cases, the bulk of the conquered, especially the
agricultural classes, have little to complain of, and are on the whole
passively contented and reconciled to a yoke which, as far as they are
concerned, presses, perhaps, but does not gall; in both cases, all of a
higher order, all upon whom ambition can have any influence, must feel
more or less discontented with a condition necessarily attended with a
diminished chance of advancement, and a mortifying stagnation of hope.
Both of the dominant powers ought to regard this frame of mind not as a
fault, but as a moral malady, and to direct their best efforts to the
cure of an affection naturally resulting from the depressed position of
those brought by conquest under their sway.
What the sanative measures of Austria may have been, and into the causes
of their failure, we need not stop to inquire, but may proceed at once
to consider in how far we have, in this respect, acquitted ourselves of
our obligations to those over whom we also rule mainly by the right of
conquest and superior strength.
Not being gifted, like many of our contemporaries, with power to take in
the totality of the gorgeous East at one comprehensive glance, we must
examine our Indian empire in detail, and for the present confine our
remarks to the Presidency of Bengal, with its appendage the
Lieutenant-Governorship of Agra.
The guides whom we propose to follow in the prosecution of our inquiries
into the state of these Gangetic provinces, their past and present
condition, and their future prospects, are the authors enumerated at the
foot of the page, each of whom may be regarded as a representative of
one or other of the schools into which those interested in the work of
Indian administration may now be said to be divided.
The history of our civil administration of the Gangetic portion of our
Eastern territory divides itself into three distinct periods. The first,
extending from the victories of Clive in 1757, to the commencement of
Lord Cornwallis’s system in 1793, may be called the heroic and
irregular; the second, dating from the year last mentioned, and
continuing till the accession of Lord William Bentinck in 1829, may be
designated the judicial and regular; and the third, stretching from that
time to the present day, the anti-judicial and progressive period.
During the first of these periods, it is in vain to deny that gross
abuses prevailed, and that many acts of oppression were committed by
those very individuals among our own countrymen, whose heroism in the
field and sagacity in council were the subjects of admiration to such
natives as were brought into communication and contact with them.
A degree of intimacy thus subsisted between the European rulers and
natives of higher rank, such as, in these days, is only to be found
where the native has been by education assimilated in some degree to the
Englishman.
It is stated by Mr F. H. Robinson, that men who had left India at that
early period, could not believe those who, in after years, told them of
the social estrangement prevailing in that country, and of the
reluctance evinced, even by Mahommedans, to share a repast with a
Christian.
Engaged, as the English of those early days were, in a struggle for
political existence, their deportment towards natives of rank was
influenced by the often-felt necessity of winning them over to their
interests; and thus our national disposition to be contemptuously
churlish towards those who differ from ourselves in language,
complexion, and manner, was kept for a while in abeyance. At that
period, therefore, we find traces of friendly personal feeling
subsisting between Englishmen and natives, and expressed by the latter,
even in the same breath with the most earnest protestations against the
mal-administration of the country then in our hands. Striking instances
of these conflicting feelings are exhibited in that most curious work
entitled _Syar-ul Mootekherin_, which may be translated into a “Review
of Modern Times,” or more literally, “Manners of the Moderns.” This
history of the events attending the downfall of the Moghul and the rise
of our own power in India, was written by a Mahommedan gentleman, of the
name of Mir Gholan Hussein, whose descendants, if we are not
misinformed, continued under our rule to hold possession of certain
lands in the province of Behar, since lost to them in a manner likely to
be chronicled among the events of the third of the three historic
periods to which we have alluded.
If even at this distance of time it is painful to read the reproaches
bestowed by the author on our internal administration, it is still
consolatory to find one, to whom neither partiality nor flattery can be
imputed, recording his unfeigned admiration of the personal conduct of
many of our countrymen in those early days.
Of Warren Hastings the author writes with enthusiasm. He records all of
that great man’s troubles with his council; and gives, if we remember
right—for we have not been able to find a complete translation of the
work in London—a circumstantial account of the duel with Francis,
fought, according to English custom, with _tummunchas_ (pistols), in a
_bugishea_ (garden); and then after narrating the complete dispersion of
the factious opposition by which he had been thwarted, he breaks out in
a triumphant tone, with an exclamation like the following: “Now did the
genius of Mr Hastings, like the sun bursting through a cloud, beam forth
in all its splendour.” In describing an action fought in the vicinity of
the city of Patna, in the year 1760, the native author dwells with
delight upon the conduct of his friend Dr William Fullerton, who, in the
midst of a retreat in the face of a victorious enemy, on an
ammunition-cart breaking down, stopped unconcernedly, put it in order,
and then bravely pursued his route, and “it must be acknowledged,” he
adds, “that this nation’s presence of mind, firmness of temper, and
undaunted bravery, are past all question.”
In abatement of these praises, he adds the following reflections: “If,
to so many military qualifications, they knew how to join the art of
government, no nation would be preferable to them, or prove worthier of
command; but such is their little regard to the people of these
kingdoms, and such their apathy and indifference for their welfare, that
the people under their dominion groan everywhere, and are reduced to
poverty and distress.”
Though this censure is in so far unfair, that all is, in Oriental
fashion, imputed to the ruling power, without allowance for the
circumstances of a period of troublous transition, it is evidently
penned in an honest and friendly spirit; and evinces no repugnance
whatever to the domination of the English, provided they would acquire
some better knowledge of “the art of government.” In another passage he
recounts how gallantly a Hindoo of high rank, Rajah Shitab Roy,
co-operated with Captain Knox in attacking an immensely superior force,
and how heartily, on returning to Patna, the English captain expressed
his admiration of his Hindoo ally, exclaiming repeatedly, “This is a
real Nawab; I never saw such a Nawab in my life.”
Soon afterwards the French officer with the force opposed to the
English, the Chevalier Law, having been deserted by his men, remained
by himself on the field of battle, when, bestriding one of his guns,
“he awaited the moment of his death.” His surrender and courteous
reception are dwelt on with evident delight; and, after stating how a
rude question addressed to the Chevalier by a native chief was checked
and rebuked by the English officer, he makes the following
observation:—“This reprimand did much honour to the English; and it
must be acknowledged, to the honour of these strangers, that as their
conduct in war and in battle is worthy of admiration, so, on the other
hand, nothing is more modest and more becoming than their behaviour to
an enemy, whether in the heat of action or in the pride of success and
victory.”
These extracts, borrowed from the notes to the third volume of Mill’s
History, might be supported by many other passages of a similar tendency
in the native work itself; and all tend to prove that the social
estrangement since prevailing between our countrymen and the native
gentry has not had its origin in the religious scruples of the latter,
or in any decided aversion on their part to a closer intercourse with
the strangers to whom Providence has assigned the mastery over their
land.
This view is confirmed, in as far as the Mahommedans are concerned, by
what Mrs Colin Mackenzie tells us of the comments of the Afghan chiefs
on the reluctance of their co-religionists in Hindostan to share a
repast with their Christian rulers, and the absence of any fellowship
between the two classes is traced by that lady to the very cause to
which it is in our opinion also mainly to be ascribed; namely, to our
peculiar and somewhat repulsive bearing towards all who differ from
ourselves in tone of thought, in taste, or in manners.—With a scrupulous
respect for the persons and property of those among whom we are thrown
by the accidents of war, or trade, or travel, we too often manifest a
great disregard for the feelings; and as insults rankle in the memory
long after injuries are forgotten, we find that liberal expenditure and
strict justice in our dealings cannot make us as popular as our rivals
the French, even in countries where we paid for all, and they for
nothing, that was supplied or taken. Now, it is well remarked by Mr
Marshman, at p. 63 of his Reply to Mr Cobden, that “everything in and
about our Eastern Empire is English, even to our imperfections;” and
among them we need not be surprised to find an undue scorn of all that
is foreign, heightened by the arrogance of conquest and the Anglo-Saxon
antipathy to a dark complexion. This last is a more potent principle
than in our present humour of theoretical philanthropy we may be
disposed to admit; but it seems to be born with us, for it may be seen
sometimes in English children at an age too young for prejudice, or even
a perception of social distinctions.
It was said by “the Duke,” that there is no aristocracy like the
aristocracy of colour; and all experience in lands where the races are
brought into contact, proves the correctness of the aphorism.
During the first thirty years of our ascendancy in India, this most
forbidding of our national characteristics was kept in check by the
exigencies of our position; and the consequence was, that,
notwithstanding all the corruption of the time, we were then
individually more popular than we have ever been since. There was so
little of what could be called European society then to be met with
throughout the country, that Englishmen were drawn into some degree of
intimacy with natives, in order to escape from the painful sense of
total isolation and solitude. That this intercourse was favourable to
morality in the highest sense of the term, is more than we can venture
to affirm; each party too often acquired more of the faults than of the
virtues of the other. But still, bad as the public and private life of
Anglo-Indians was at that period, and however great the corruption that
prevailed, these defects in those who ruled were perhaps more tolerable
to the governed than the ill-mannered integrity of a succeeding
generation.
The abuses had probably gone on increasing, and the palliating courtesy
most likely diminishing, when a new era was ushered in by the arrival of
the first Governor-General of superior rank, in the person of the
Marquis Cornwallis.
We must refer our readers to Mr Kaye’s pages for a clear description of
the state of the Bengal Presidency at the commencement of this the
second of the three periods into which we have assumed that its history
may be distributed. Our space will not allow of our entering into the
controversy about the merits of the system then introduced by Lord
Cornwallis and his coadjutors, but we gladly make room for the following
picture of the state of the peasantry in Bengal, sketched as we are
assured by an eyewitness, in the course of the year 1853.
“What strikes the eye most in any village, or set of villages, in a
Bengal district, is the exuberant fertility of the soil, the sluttish
plenty surrounding the Grihasta’s (cultivator’s) abode, the rich
foliage, the fruit and timber trees, and the palpable evidence against
anything like penury. Did any man ever go through a Bengalee village
and find himself assailed by the cry of want or famine? Was he ever
told that the Ryot and his family did not know where to turn for a
meal, that they had no shade to shelter them, no tank to bathe in, no
employment for their active limbs? That villages are not neatly laid
out like a model village in an English county; that things seem to go
on, year by year, in the same slovenly fashion; that there are no
local improvements, and no advances in civilisation, is all very true.
But considering the wretched condition of some of the Irish peasantry,
or even the Scotch, and the misery experienced by hundreds in the
purlieus of our great cities at home, compared with the condition of
the Ryots who know neither cold nor hunger, it is high time that the
outcry about the extreme unhappiness of the Bengal Ryot should
cease.”—(P. 194.)
It is cheering to read in the chapter of Mr Kaye’s work, from which the
above extract is taken, the proofs that the labours of Cornwallis and
his able coadjutors have not been fruitless, and that the peasantry of
the part of India more immediately under their care, are not, as some
have asserted, to this hour suffering from their blundering humanity.
It would indeed be most mortifying to think that regulations, pronounced
at the time of their promulgation by Sir Wm. Jones and the best English
lawyers in India (though, in the true spirit of professional pedantry,
they would not allow them to be called laws), to be such as would do
credit to any legislator of ancient or modern times, should really in
operation have proved productive of little or no good.
The preambles to some of the first of these regulations are worthy of
notice, even on the score of literary merit; and it is impossible to
peruse them without feeling that they must have proceeded from highly
cultivated minds, deeply impressed with the importance of the duty on
which they were engaged.
It was the recorded opinion of the late Mr Courtenay Smith, of the
Bengal Civil Service (a brother of the celebrated Sidney Smith, and,
like him, a man of great wit and general talent, though unfortunately
his good things were mostly expressed in Persian or Hindostanee, and are
thus lost to the European world), that succeeding governments have
always erred as they have departed from the principles of the Cornwallis
code; and that it would have been well if they had confined their
legislation to such few modifications of the regulations of 1793 as the
slowly progressive changes of Oriental life might have really rendered
necessary.
For very nearly thirty years the government of Bengal resisted the
tempting facility of legislation incident to its position of entire and
absolute power, and was content to rule upon the principles, and in
general adherence to the forms, prescribed by those early enactments.
The benefits resulting from this system were to be seen in a yearly
extending cultivation, a growing respect for rights of property, and the
gradual rise in the minds of the people of an habitual reference to
certain known laws, instead of to the caprice of a ruler, for their
guidance in the more serious affairs of life.
The counterbalancing evils alleged against it were, the monopoly of all
high offices by the covenanted servants of the East India Company; the
accumulation of suits in the courts of civil justice—a result partly of
that monopoly, and partly of the check imposed by our police on all
simpler and ruder modes of arbitrement; and its tendency, by humouring
the Asiatic aversion to change, to keep things stationary, and
discountenance that progress without which there ought, in the opinion
of many of our countrymen, to be no content on earth. Indeed, the very
fact of the natives of Bengal being satisfied with such a system, would,
we apprehend, be advanced as a reason for its abolition—a contented
frame of mind, under their circumstances, being held to indicate a moral
abasement, only to be corrected by the excitement of a little
discontent. But, in truth, there was nothing in the Cornwallis system to
preclude the introduction of necessary amendments.
The great reproach attaching to it was the insufficient employment of
natives, and the exclusive occupation by the Civil Service of the higher
judicial posts. Now, we hope to make it clear, by a brief explanation,
that the correction of both of these evils might more easily have been
effected under the Cornwallis system, than under that by which it has
been superseded. There are, as we have remarked at the outset of this
article, questions of difficult solution inseparable from conquest;
among which, that of the degree of trust to be reposed in the conquered
is perhaps the greatest.
Where attachment can hardly be presumed to exist, some reserve in the
allotment of power appears to be dictated by prudence; and to fix the
amount of influence annexed to an office to be filled by one of the
subjugated, so as to render its importance and respectability compatible
with the supremacy of the ruling race, is far from being so easy as
those imagine who, in their reliance on certain general principles of
supposed universal application, leave national feelings and prejudices
out of account in making up their own little nostrums for the
improvement of mankind.
Under the Cornwallis system, there was an office which, though then
always filled by a member of the Civil Service, seemed, in the
limitation as well as the importance of its duties, to be exactly suited
for natives to hold. When the civil file of a district became overloaded
with arrears, the government used to appoint an officer to be assistant
or deputy judge. To him the regular judge of the district was empowered
to refer any cases that he thought fit, though there his power ceased,
as the appeal lay direct to the provincial court from the award of the
deputy.
The deputy being made merely a referee without original jurisdiction,
was a wise provision for keeping the primary judicial power in the hands
of the officer charged with the preservation of the peace of the
district, while importance and weight were given to the office of the
deputy, by making the appeals from his decisions lie to the Provincial
Court, and not to his local superior. A single little law of three
lines, declaring natives of India to be eligible to the office of Deputy
Judge, would, by throwing a number of respectable situations open to
their aspirations, have provided for their advancement, without any
disturbance of institutions to which the people of the country had
become accustomed and reconciled. Again, as to the monopoly of higher
judicial office by members of the Civil Service, the Cornwallis system,
perhaps, provided a readier means of abating even this grievance than
will be found in that by which it has been supplanted.
Nothing can be more extravagant than the scheme of sending out
barristers from Westminster Hall, to undertake, without any intermediate
training, the management of districts in Bengal and Hindostan. Sir
William Jones himself, unintelligible as he was, on his first arrival,
to the natives of India, would have failed if he had undertaken such a
task. This visionary proposal has happily received its _coup de grace_
from Sir Edward Ryan, the late Chief Justice in Bengal, in his evidence
before the Commons’ Committee; but it does not, in our opinion, follow
that the aid of lawyers trained in England is therefore to be altogether
discarded in providing for the administration of justice in India.
Although the man fresh from England would be sadly bewildered if left by
himself in a separate district, it does not follow that he should not,
after some preparatory training, be able to co-operate vigorously with
others. The horse will go well in double-harness, or in a team, who
would upset a gig, and kick it to pieces.
If barristers chose to repair to Bengal, and, while there practising at
the bar of the Supreme Court, would study the native languages, it
appears to us that, on their proficiency being proved by an examination,
they might have been advantageously admitted, under certain limitations
as to number, into the now abolished Provincial Courts.
Had these experimental provisions in favour of natives of India, and
barristers from England, been found to succeed, their eligibility to
every grade in the judicial branch of the service might have been
proclaimed, and the most plausible of all the complaints against our
system of Indian government would thus have been removed. But
improvement without change was not to the taste of those by whom the
last of our three administrative periods was ushered in; and in further
confirmation of Mr Marshman’s remark, already cited, on the parallelism
of movement in England and in India, it was in the changeful years 1830
and 1831 that a revolution was effected in our system of internal
administration, which has since given a colour and a bent to our whole
policy in the East. In the course of those two years the magisterial
power was detached from the office of the judge, and annexed to that of
the collector; the Provincial Courts were abolished, their judicial
duties being transferred to the district judges, and their ministerial
functions of superintendence and control to commissioners, each with the
police and revenue of about half a dozen districts under his charge.
Two Sudder, or courts of ultimate resort, were established, one at
Calcutta, the other at Allahabad in upper India; but all real executive
power centred in the magisterial revenue department, presided over by
two Boards, located, like the Sudder Courts, at Calcutta and Allahabad.
One of the new provisions then introduced abolished the office of
Register, or subordinate Judge, held by young civilians conjointly with
that of Assistant to the Magistrate. This was a most serious change, for
it abolished the very situation in which young civilians received their
judicial training, and fitted themselves for the better eventual
discharge of the higher duties of the judicature.
The Registers used to have the trial of civil suits for property, if not
more than five hundred rupees (£50) in value. The abolitionists urged
the injustice of letting raw youths experimentalise upon small suits, to
the supposed detriment of poor suitors. There was a show of reason in
this mode of arguing; but those who used it did not give due weight to
the consideration that these youths were to become the dispensers of
justice to all classes, and that it was better for the country to suffer
a little from their blunders at the outset, than to have them at last
advanced to the highest posts on the judgment-seat without any judicial
training whatsoever. But, in fact, the whole argument was based upon a
mere assumption. The young Registers certainly committed occasional
blunders, as old Justices and Aldermen, if we are to believe the daily
papers, constantly commit them in England; but, on the whole, their
courts were generally popular and in good repute among the natives. The
young civilian had often a pride in his own little court of record,
liked to know that it was well thought of, and was sometimes pleased to
find parties shaping their plaints so as to bring them within the limits
of his cognisance.
They thus often acquired a personal regard for the people, whom it was
their pride, as well as their duty, to protect—a feeling which has
since, we fear, been too much weakened. The young civilians of the
present day, though excellent men of business, and accomplished
linguists, have seldom any individual feeling for the natives, whom they
regard in a light for which no word occurs to us so happily expressive
as the French term, “les administrés.” Thus it happened that the
abolition of Registerships proved almost the death-blow to the
Cornwallis system, and shook, not merely the framework, but the very
principles of judicial administration throughout the country. It was
followed up by a series of measures, all calculated to lower the
judicial department of the service, and to prove to the natives that the
protection of the law, promised in the still unrepealed regulations, was
thenceforward to prove illusory, wherever it was required to shield them
from the encroachments of any new scheme or theory finding favour for
the moment with an executive government ruling avowedly upon principles
of expediency, and seeking every occasion to shake off the trammels
imposed upon its freedom of action by the cautious provisions of the
Cornwallis code.
The people soon found in their rulers under the new system a scrupulous
discharge of all positive duties, combined with a diminished
consideration for native prejudices, a neglect of many punctilios of
etiquette, and a stern hostility to every exceptional privilege
exempting an individual in any degree from the operation of the rules of
general administration. This last-mentioned tendency showed itself
particularly in the case of the rent-free tenures, which had for some
ten years previously been undergoing revision.
These landed tenures were held under grants from former rulers,
exempting the grantee and his heirs from all payment on the score of
revenue, though sometimes, as in our own feudal tenures, imposing upon
him obligations of suit and service in some form or other.
When the framers of the Cornwallis code, in 1793, determined on
recognising the validity of every such tenure as was held under an
authentic and sufficient grant, a provision was at the same time made
for their being carefully recorded and registered.
This duty of registration was, however, either totally neglected or very
imperfectly performed, and the consequence was, that by collusive
extensions of their limits, and other means, such as it would be tedious
to explain, the rent-free tenures were gradually eating into the
rent-paying lands forming the main source of the revenues of the state.
Careful revision, therefore, became necessary, and was in fact commenced
so far back as the year 1819. The inquiry was intrusted to the officers
of the revenue department; but for some time permission was left to
those discontented with their award, to bring the question at issue
between them and the Government before the regular courts of justice for
final decision. This process proving too tardy, in about ten years
afterwards a sort of exchequer court, called a Special Commission, was
erected for the trial of appeals from the decisions of the revenue
authorities on the validity of rent-free grants. This commission was
filled by officers of the judicial branch of the service, and their
proceedings, carried on in strict conformity with the practice of the
courts of civil justice, gave no offence, and created no alarm,
notwithstanding that extensive tracts were brought by their decisions
under the liability of paying revenue to the state. But not long after
the country had entered into the third period of its administration, the
revenue authorities got impatient of all restraint, and sought to break
through the impediments of judicial procedure and rules. The primary
proceedings, being intrusted to young deputy-collectors, were carried on
with a rapidity which rendered due investigation utterly impossible, and
all real inquiry must have been deemed superfluous by juniors, who saw
their superiors gravely pronounce, even in official documents, that the
very existence of a rent-free tenure was an abuse, and ought to be
abated.
We have said that the forgeries practised by some, and the extension of
their privileges by others of the holders, rendered strict investigation
of rent-free tenures an immediate necessity and a duty. Still, it was to
be borne in mind, that our faith was pledged to the recognition of all
_genuine_ grants, and that, in the larger of these tenures, the fallen
nobility and gentry of the land found their solace for the loss of
power, place, station, hope of advancement, and all that gives a zest to
the life of the upper classes in every part of the globe; while the
smaller tenures of the kind constituted, in many instances, the sole
support of well-descended but indigent families. There was something to
move the compassion even of a universal philanthropist, in the thought
of the humble individuals of both sexes to whom a sweeping resumption of
all such tenures was in fact the extinction of almost every earthly
hope. The Indian government itself, though at that period described by
Mr F. H. Robinson (p. 12) as “a despotism administered upon radical
principles,” became startled at the havoc which the zeal of its
subordinates was committing among this class of sufferers, and
interfered to mitigate the severity of their proceedings. Many of the
“soft-hearted” seniors of the Civil Service rejoiced at a resolution
which relieved them from an odious and painful duty. But thus reasons a
strong-minded junior on what he regards as a feeble concession:—
“Unfortunately the long delay in making the investigations had
established in their seats the fraudulent appropriators of the
revenue; and when it came to be taken from them, the measure caused
great change and apparent hardship to individuals in comfortable
circumstances; hence arose a great cry of hardship and injustice. We
were still most apt to view with sympathy the misfortunes of the
higher classes; many soft-hearted officers of Government exclaimed
against the sudden deprivation; and some of the seditious Europeans,
who find their profit in professional attacks on Government, raised
the cry much louder. But the worst of the storm had expended itself; a
little firmness, a little voluntary beneficence to individual cases,
and it would have ceased; and the temporary inconvenience to
fraudulent individuals would have resulted in great permanent addition
to the means of the state; but the Bengal Government is pusillanimous.
Since Warren Hastings was persecuted in doing his duty, and Lord
Cornwallis praised for sacrificing the interests of Government, and of
the body of the people, it has always erred on the side of abandoning
its rights to any sufficiently strong interested cry. It wavered about
these resumptions. It let off first one kind of holding, then another,
then all holdings under one hundred beegas (about seventy acres),
whether one man possessed several such or not: life-tenures were
granted where no right existed. Finally, _all_ resumed lands were
settled at _half_ rates in perpetuity, and the Board of Revenue
intimated that they ‘would be happy to see all operations
discontinued.’ The result therefore is, that the Government have
incurred all the odium and abuse of the measure, have given the cry
more colour by so much yielding, and in the end have got not half so
much revenue as they ought to have had. There has been an addition of
about £300,000 to the annual revenue, at an expense of £800,000.”[36]
According to Mr Campbell’s calculation, a stricter enforcement of the
resumption laws might have doubled the above sum; but as only the
smaller tenures were let off, it is scarcely possible that more than
half as much again as was actually realised could have been wrung out of
the remnants to which the Government so timidly, as he asserts,
abandoned its rights. An addition, therefore, of about £450,000 to our
annual income would have been all that we should have gained by a
measure violating the most solemn pledge given to the people that every
VALID grant should be respected, reducing many families to ruin, and
shaking the general confidence in our honesty and good faith. Though the
passage cited is open to many objections on the score of arbitrary
assumption and false reasoning, it is to its hardness of tone that we
would chiefly draw our readers’ attention, as strongly confirmatory of
the following remark, taken from Mr F. H. Robinson’s pamphlet:—
“I have said enough, I think, to demonstrate that the disaffection
which exists is traceable to the despotic character our administration
has of late years assumed, simultaneously with its sedulous diffusion
of liberal doctrines; to the unhappy dislike of natives, as natives,
which has crept in among the servants of Government; to the many acts
of abuse, oppression, and arbitrary misgovernment, arising as much
from misguided zeal as from evil intention, which, on the part of the
administrative officers, harass and vex the people.”—(P. 31).
We have already recorded our assent to Mr Marshman’s remark on the
thoroughly English character of our Indian empire and its
administration; but we have, moreover, to observe, that, in the
application of new principles even of European growth, India often
outstrips the mother country. That which in England is still theory has
in India become practice. There are not wanting in England people to
maintain that all grants of olden times ought to be forfeited, and their
proceeds applied to the purposes of general government. If these people
had their way, they would certainly resume the lands of the deans and
chapters, probably those of the schools and colleges, and possibly such
also as are devoted to the support of almshouses, and other charitable
institutions scattered over the face of the country. These speculations
in England evaporate in pamphlets, and cannot for a long time assume any
more positive form than that of a speech in the House of Commons. But
the following passage in Mr F. H. Robinson’s pamphlet shows us how
differently such matters are ordered in India:—
“The Government have systematically resumed, of late years, all
religious endowments; an extensive inquiry has been going on into all
endowments, grants, and pensions; and in almost every one in which the
continuance of religious endowments has been recommended by
subordinate revenue authorities, backed by the Board of Revenue, the
fiat of confiscation has been issued by the Government.”—(P. 17).
Again, there are many in England who would gladly reduce the landed
possessions of great proprietors, like the Duke of Buccleuch and others,
to more moderate dimensions; but they hardly venture to put forth
speculations upon a measure which, in India, has been carried into
positive and extensive execution.
The fourth chapter of Mr Kaye’s work contains a clear and admirable
account of the recent settlement of the provinces of the Upper Ganges,
in the course of which the reader will meet with the following passage:—
“There was a class of large landed proprietors, known as Talookdars,
the territorial aristocracy of the country. The settlement officers
seem to have treated these men as usurpers and monopolists, and to
have sought every opportunity of reducing their tenures. It was not
denied that such reduction was, on the whole, desirable, inasmuch as
these large tenures interfered with the rights of the village
proprietors. But the reduction was undertaken in too precipitate and
arbitrary a manner; and the Court of Directors acknowledged that it
had caused great practical embarrassment to Government, against whom
numerous suits were instituted in the civil courts by the ousted
talookdars, and many decided in their favour.”—(P. 265).
The redress afforded by these decisions of the civil courts has not, we
fear, been sufficient to avert the ruin of such members of the
“territorial aristocracy” as had the hardihood to withhold their
adhesion to a scheme for their own extinction. The principle of that
scheme was to grant, in the form of a per-centage on the revenue
realised from the village communities of what had been his domain, a
pension to the talookdar who was willing, for such a consideration, to
give up all the other advantages of his hereditary position. Many of
these men, or their immediate predecessors, had rendered us great
service in the war by which we acquired the country; but they stood in
the way of a favourite scheme, and before its irresistible advance they
were compelled to retire. The provision made for their future wants may
have been a liberal one; but how would the Duke of Buccleuch or the
Marquess of Westminster like to be thus pensioned off?
The truth had better be frankly avowed; the object aimed at is, to get
rid of the old territorial aristocracy altogether,—indeed, it is so
stated by Mr Campbell in the following sentences:—
“It is, I think, a remarkable distinction between the manners of the
natives and ours, and one which much affects our dealings with them,
that there does not exist that difference of tone between the higher
and lower classes—the distinction, in fact, of a gentleman. The lower
classes are to the full as good and intelligent as with us; indeed,
they are much more versed in the affairs of life, plead their causes
better, make more intelligent witnesses, and have many virtues.
“But these good qualities are not in the same proportion in the higher
classes; they cannot bear prosperity; it causes them to degenerate,
especially if they are born to greatness. The only efficient men of
rank (with, of course, a few exceptions) are those who have risen to
greatness. The lowest of the people, if fate raise him to be an
emperor, makes himself quite at home in his new situation, and shows
an aptitude of manner and conduct unknown to Europeans similarly
situated; but his son is altogether degenerate. Hence the
impossibility of adapting to anything useful most of the higher
classes found by us, and for all fresh requirements it is necessary to
_create_ a fresh class. From the acuteness and aptness to learn of the
inferior classes, this can be done as is done in other
countries.”—(Pp. 63, 64).
We fully subscribe to all that is here said in commendation of the lower
classes of our Indian subjects, but we demur to the author’s very
disparaging estimate of the capacity of the higher orders. Doubtless
there are, or rather were, many dull men of rank on the banks of the
Ganges; but are there none on those of the Thames?—no squires of cramped
and confused notions, no fortunate inheritors of wealth content to
wallow through life in utter disregard of the duties attaching to
property, while fiercely jealous of its rights? It would be a sad day
for our own landed aristocracy if Mr Campbell were to obtain sway in
England, and try to rule that country upon the principles of which he
approves in the East. But if he could, would our peasantry be
_permanently_ bettered by a change tending towards a destruction of all
the gradations of society? If the reply to this query should be in the
affirmative, we may contemplate with unalloyed satisfaction the progress
of a system the description and defence of which is the main object of
Mr Campbell’s work; but if we feel any hesitation as to the future
effects of such a change in England, then, human nature being much the
same in every clime, we ought to have some misgivings as to its eventual
results in the East. We say _eventual_, because the _immediate_ fruits
of the measures described by Mr Campbell have, we are assured by him,
and have heard from other quarters, been satisfactory and cheering. But
is it probable that a whole nation should rest satisfied for ever in
this state of flat and tame sufficiency? and can we wonder to find
alongside of Mr Campbell’s picture of what ought to be the feelings
towards the English of the present day on the banks of the Ganges, Mr F.
H. Robinson’s gloomy account of what, in his opinion, those feelings
really are? Having been compelled, as a member of the Board of Revenue,
to make a communication to an old retired officer of Gardiner’s
Irregular Horse, and to a Mussulman of rank, calculated to hurt the
feelings of both, Mr Robinson thus describes what followed:—
“I shall never forget the looks of mortification, anger, and at first
of incredulity, with which this announcement was received by both, nor
the bitter irony with which the old Russuldar remarked, that no doubt
the wisdom of the _new-gentlemen_ (Sahiblogue, so they designate the
English) had shown them the folly and ignorance of the gentlemen of
the old time, on whom it had pleased God, nevertheless, to bestow the
government of India.”—(P. 17).
Mr Robinson goes too far when he taxes the rulers of the present day
with dislike to the natives generally; but it is evident, from Mr
Campbell’s own admission, that there is a strong prepossession in the
minds of the young men of his school against all natives with any
pretensions to rank. This feeling extending to those beyond the limits
of our own dominions, has stamped on our foreign policy the character of
our internal administration, and found its full development in the late
Afghan war. Thirty or forty years ago, when natives, if excluded from
office, were more often admitted to familiar intercourse with their
European rulers, a mere regard for our own character in the eyes of our
subjects would have withheld us from making an unprovoked attack upon an
unoffending neighbour, and thus incurring a certain loss of reputation
for a very uncertain amount of gain. This view of the case does not of
course even occur to Mr Campbell as one likely to be taken by any
reasonable being, and he sums up his account of the Afghan war with the
following remarks, suggestive to our minds of little beyond a most
earnest hope that the future advancement, doubtless in store for one of
his abilities, may lead him far away from meddling with matters either
political or military:—
“Such it was—a grievous military catastrophe and misfortune to us,
both then and in our subsequent relations with the country; but in no
way attributable to our policy, from which no such result necessarily
or probably flowed. To the policy is due the expense, but not the
disaster.”—(P. 136).
Mr Campbell has evidently not made very minute inquiry into the facts of
the war, or he would never have hazarded the assertion contained in the
following passage, that Sir George Pollock literally paid his way
through the Khyber Pass:—
“Through the Western mountains only has India been invaded; for beyond
them are all the great nations of Central India, and they are
penetrable to enemies through one or two difficult passes. But these
passes are so narrow, difficult, and easily defended, that _it is
believed_ that no army, from Alexander’s down to General Pollock’s,
has ever passed without bribing the mountain tribes. In the face of
regular troops and an organised defence, all the armies in the world
could not force an entrance; but in the absence of such a defence,
experience proves that the local tribes are always accessible to
moderate bribes.”—(P. 27).
The absolute impracticability of any mountain barrier is, we believe,
disputed; but, without offering any opinion on that point, we are happy
to have it in our power to correct the mistake into which the author has
fallen, in supposing that it was by bribing that Sir George Pollock
carried his army through the Khyber Pass. It is true that, in the
anxious time preceding our army’s movement from Peshawar, negotiations
had been entered into with the local tribes; but we have the most
unquestionable authority for asserting that, before the march towards
Cabool began, the sum advanced to their chiefs, being 20,000 rupees or
£2000, was demanded back from them by the political agent on the
frontier, and actually repaid; so that the mountaineers had not only the
clearest warning of the British general’s intention, but the strongest
possible inducement to oppose him, as they did to the utmost of their
power.
But our chief motive for alluding to the Afghan war is, that we may show
how the spirit of the two schools, under which, according to our theory,
those engaged in the work of Indian government may now be classed,
showed itself even in the direction of our armies in the field. Sir
George Pollock was there the representative of what would be called by
us the considerate and moderate, by Mr Campbell the soft-hearted and
over-cautious school; while Sir William Nott was at the head of that
which, going straight to its object, tramples under foot, without
compunction, every consideration that might hamper its freedom of
movement. We select but a few instances in proof of our position,
choosing such as, from their notoriety, can be cited without injury or
offence.
As the two avenging armies, the one from Candahar on the south, the
other from Peshawar on the east, drew nigh to Cabool, a powerful party,
consisting chiefly of the Kuzzilbashes or Persians, who had never taken
part against us, prayed earnestly that the citadel, the Bala Hissar,
might be spared to serve as a place of refuge to themselves amid the
troubles likely to ensue on our again evacuating the country.
This prayer General Nott would have rejected, and in so doing would have
gained the applause of every member of that school by which concession
to the feelings of natives in opposition to the requirements of
expediency, or the sternest justice, is regarded as a proof of weakness.
With this prayer General Pollock complied; and to his doing so may the
safety of the ladies and other prisoners, in whose fate the whole
civilised world took so deep an interest, be ascribed; for it was
through the co-operation of those thus conciliated that the Afghan
chief, charged with the custody of the captives, was won over to assist
in their escape. General Nott was fortunately the inferior in rank; for
had he commanded in chief, we have his own words for the fact, that he
would have destroyed the Bala Hissar and the City of Cabool, and marched
on with the least possible delay to Jellabad, of course leaving the poor
captives to their fate; or, in words which, from the manner of their
insertion in the pages of the historian, it is to be feared he must have
used, “throwing them overboard.”—(KAYE’S _History of the Afghan War_,
vol. i. pp. 617, 631).
Incomplete indeed, to use Mr Kaye’s words, would any victory have been,
if these brave men and tender women, who had so well endured a long and
fearful captivity, had been left behind; and it is well to reflect that
we were saved from this reproach by the ascendancy of the milder
principles of rule in the mind of the officer upon whom the chief
command at this moment, we may almost say providentially, devolved.
Many more instances are recorded, in the chapter just quoted, of the
influence of a contrary spirit on the closing events of the Afghan war;
but we must pass on to what happened in Scinde, where the anti-judicial
principle may be said to have reached its climax.
The following is Mr Campbell’s short and flippant account of that
transaction, reminding us in one passage of a letter from the Empress
Catherine to one of her French correspondents, wherein she congratulated
herself “qu’il n’y a pas d’honneur à garder avec les Turcs”:—
“But though we withdrew from Cabool, our military experiences were not
yet over. On invading Afghanistan by the Bolan Pass, Scinde became a
base of our operations, and troops were there cantoned. When our
misfortunes occurred, it was supposed that the Beloch chiefs would
have liked to have turned against us, but dared not—did not.
“Major-General Sir C. Napier then commanded a division in Bombay; he
was a good soldier, of a keen, energetic temperament, but somewhat
quarrelsome disposition; had at one proud period of his life been in
temporary charge of a petty island in the Mediterranean, but was, I
believe, deposed by his superior—most unwisely, as he considered; and
he had ever since added to his military ardour a still greater thirst
for civil power—as it often happens that we prefer to the talents
which nature has given us those which she has denied us. He was
appointed to the command in Scinde; and Lord Ellenborough, an admirer
of heroes, subsequently invested him with political powers. He soon
quarrelled with the chiefs, and came to blows with them. Their
followers were brave, but undisciplined, and they had no efficient
artillery. An active soldier was opposed to them; he easily overcame
them, declared the territory annexed, and was made Governor of
Scinde.”
Now, the Beloch chiefs had no other right to the territory than the
sword; _and we, having the better sword, were perfectly justified in
taking it from them if we chose_, without reference to the particular
quarrel between Sir Charles and the chiefs, the merits of which have
been so keenly disputed, and on which I need not enter. But the
question _was one of expediency_; and this premature occupation of
Scinde was not so much a crime as a blunder,—for this very simple
reason, that Scinde did not pay, but, on the contrary, was a very
heavy burden, by which the Indian Government has been several millions
sterling out of pocket.
“The Ameers had amassed, in their own way, considerable property and
treasure, which the general obtained for the army. He was thus
rewarded by an unprecedented prize-money, and with the government of
Scinde, while Bengal paid the costs of the government he had gained.
Scinde was so great a loss, for this reason—that it was not, like
other acquisitions, in the midst of, or contiguous to, our
territories, but was at that time altogether detached and separated by
the sea, the desert, and the independent Punjab; while on the fourth
side it was exposed to the predatory Beloches of the neighbouring
hills. Consequently, every soldier employed there was cut off from
India, and was an expense solely due to Scinde; and while a great many
soldiers were required to keep it, it produced a very small revenue to
pay them. It is, in truth, very like Egypt—that is, it is the fertile
valley of a river running through a barren country, where no rain
falls. But there is this difference—first, that while no broader, it
is not so long, nor has the fine delta which constitutes the most
valuable portion of Egypt; second, that while Egypt is free from
external predatory invasion, Scinde is exceedingly exposed to it; and,
thirdly, that while Egypt has a European market for its grain, Scinde
has not. Altogether, the conquest was, at the time, as concerns India,
much as if we had taken the valley of the Euphrates.
“Half a dozen years later, when we advanced over the plain of the
Indus, and annexed the Punjab, we must have arranged to control Scinde
too, directly or indirectly, as might be done cheapest; but during
those intermediate years it was a gratuitous loss, and the chief cause
of the late derangement of our Indian finances.”—(Pp. 137–139).
The better sword gives the better title! When such is the doctrine
maintained, even by a man of the pen, we cannot wonder at its finding a
ready expositor in the man of the sword.
But, in truth, Mr Campbell’s sword plea, having the merit of honesty and
openness, is by far the best that has been advanced; and yet, as he
shows, it is only available in support of the right, and not of the
policy, of the measure. After-events, he observes, alluding to the
conquest of the Punjab, have given a value to Scinde, which in itself it
did not possess; but he has omitted to remark that the one event very
probably grew out of the other. The Sikhs, who not only had refrained,
like the Ameers, from molesting, but had even assisted us in our recent
difficulties, had some reason for apprehending that, in due time, the
policy pursued in Scinde would be extended to their own more inviting
country; while, as if to remove an obstacle to an apparently desired
misunderstanding, Sir George Clerk was promoted to the nominally higher
post of lieutenant-governor of Agra, and an officer, his very opposite
in every quality excepting earnest zeal and undaunted courage, was
appointed to be his political successor at Lahore.
Though he is little disposed to state any case too favourably for the
party opposed to us, this peculiarity in our relations with the Sikhs,
immediately before their invasion of our territory, is frankly admitted
by Mr Campbell. After mentioning various military movements calculated
to give them alarm, he describes a political difficulty as to certain
lands belonging to the Sikh state, lying on our side of the Sutledge,
which he says had been so managed by two successive political agents,
Sir Claude Wade and Sir George Clerk, that through their personal
influence “it had so happened that our wishes were generally attended
to.” He thus concludes:—
“Sir George Clerk having been promoted, new men were put in charge of
our frontier relations, and seem to have assumed as a right what had
heretofore been yielded to a good understanding. In 1845 Major
Broadfoot was political agent. He was a man of great talent and
immense energy, but of a rather overbearing habit. In difficult and
delicate times he certainly did not conciliate the Sikhs....
Altogether, I believe the fact to be, that had Sir George Clerk
remained in charge of our political relations, the Sikhs would not
have attacked us at the time they did; it might have been delayed: but
still it was well that they came when they did.”—(Pp. 142, 143.)
The annexation of the Punjab followed hard on the conquest of Scinde,
and both events may be regarded as sequels to the Afghan expedition, and
this again as but a fuller development of the anti-judicial school,
which, since the downfall of the Cornwallis system, has held almost
undisputed sway on the banks of the Ganges.
When a government essentially despotic, like that of British India,
spontaneously engages to adhere to the rules of judicial procedure in
dealing with its own subjects, a pledge is thereby given to neighbouring
states that towards them also its conduct will be regulated on
principles of justice and moderation.
We admit that the ruling power may thus sometimes create obstructions to
its own progress along the path of improvement; but it seems probable
that such self-imposed restraints should more frequently operate (to
borrow a term from the railway) as “breaks” to save it from
precipitately rushing into acts of rashness or injustice.
History confirms these conclusions, and shows the practical result to
have been precisely what _a priori_ reasoning would have led us to
expect.
Five great wars were waged in India during the second or judicial period
of its administration—that is, from 1793 to 1830. These were—the Mysore
war in 1799, the Mahratta war in 1803, the Nepaul war in 1814, the
Pindaree war in 1817, and the Burmese war in 1825. There is not one of
these against which even a plausible charge of injustice can be
maintained by our bitterest foreign foes, or most quick-sighted
censorious countrymen.
The acuteness of Mr Cobden himself would be at fault if he were to try
to make out a case against the authors of any one of these wars, to
satisfy a single sensible man beyond the circle of the “Peace Society.”
But how is it with the wars which have occurred since, wandering from
judicial ways, the rulers of Gangetic India have pursued whatever course
for the moment found favour in their own eyes, with little or no
reference to the feelings of their subjects, and with hardly a show of
deference to the laws enacted by their predecessors?
The Afghan war of 1838, the Scinde affair of 1843, the Gwalior campaign
of 1844, have each in their turn, especially the two first-named, been
made the subject of comments neither captious nor fastidious, but
resting on indisputable evidence, and supported by reasoning such as
pre-formed prejudice alone can resist. The two wars in the Punjab come
under the category of the just and necessary; and Lord Hardinge’s
generous use of the privileges of victory, at the close of the first of
these hard-fought conflicts, did much to re-establish our character for
justice and moderation. But still these wars are, we fear, coupled in
the minds of the people of India with those out of which they sprang,
and share in the reproach attaching, in their estimation, to the
invasion of Afghanistan and the conquest of Scinde.
We have now reached a point where we may stop to consider the several
merits of the works on our list at the head of this article. Mr F. H.
Robinson’s pamphlet is written in a frank conversational style,
indicative of his earnest sincerity and his real sympathy with the
people of the Upper Ganges, among whom his official life has been spent.
We could wish occasionally that his language was a little more measured,
for there are passages to startle some of his readers, and so to impair
the general effect of his otherwise interesting pamphlet.
Of the style, as well as the matter, of Mr Campbell’s more elaborate
work, hardness is the chief characteristic. Indeed, he seems to discard
all ornament from the one, and all sentiment from the other, and to aim
at nothing beyond correctness as to his facts, and positiveness as to
his deductions. In this he fully succeeds. His volume is a repertory of
useful facts, and his conclusions can never be misapprehended. Some of
Mr Campbell’s descriptions also are amusing; and we insert, as a
specimen of his lighter style, the following sketch of the day of a
magistrate and collector in Upper India, that functionary whose labours
are so little known to any but those of his own service, or the people
among whom he lives. After enumerating many out-of-door duties
despatched in the course of an early morning’s ride, the description
thus proceeds:—
“At breakfast comes the post and the packet of official letters. The
commissioner demands explanation on this matter, and transmits a paper
of instructions on that; the judge calls for cases which have been
appealed; the secretary to Government wants some statistical
information; the inspector of prisons fears that the prisoners are
growing too fat; the commander of the 105th regiment begs to state
that his regiment will halt at certain places on certain days, and
that he requires a certain quantity of flour, grain, hay, and eggs; Mr
Snooks, the indigo-planter, who is in a state of chronic warfare with
his next neighbour, has submitted his grievances in six folio sheets,
indifferent English, and a bold hand, and demands instant redress,
failing which he threatens the magistrate with Government, the supreme
court, an aspersion of his character as a gentleman, a Parliamentary
impeachment, a letter to the newspapers, and several other things
besides. After breakfast he despatches his public letters, writes
reports, examines returns, &c.
“During this time he has probably a succession of demi-officials from
the neighbouring cantonments. There is a great complaint that the
villagers have utterly, without provocation, broken the heads of the
cavalry grass-cutters, and the grass-cutters are sent to be looked at.
He goes out to look at them, but no sooner appears than a shout
announces that the villagers are waiting in a body, with a slightly
different version of the story, to demand justice against the
grass-cutters, who have invaded their grass-preserves, despoiled their
villages, and were with difficulty prevented from murdering the
inhabitants. So the case is sent to the joint magistrate. But there
are more notes; some want camels, some carts, and all apply to the
magistrate; then there may be natives of rank and condition, who come
to pay a serious formal kind of visit, and generally want something;
or a chatty native official who has plenty to say for himself.
“All this despatched, he orders his carriage or umbrella, and goes to
cutcherry—his regular court. Here he finds a sufficiency of business;
there are police, and revenue, and miscellaneous cases of all sorts,
appeals from the orders of his subordinates, charges of corruption or
misconduct against native officials. All petitions from all persons
are received daily in a box, read, and orders duly passed. Those
setting forth good grounds of complaint are filed under proper
headings; others are rejected, for written reason assigned. After
sunset, comes his evening, which is probably like his morning ride,
mixed up with official and demi-official affairs, and only at dark
does the wearied magistrate retire to dinner and to private
life.”—(Pp. 248–249).
Mr Kaye’s essay recommends itself by the same easy flow of language as
made his _History of the Afghan War_ such agreeable reading. His plan
does not admit of his giving more than a series of sketches; but his
outlines are so clear, and his selection of topics to fill up with is so
happy, that we can safely recommend his volume to any one who, without
leisure or inclination for more minute study of the subject, may still
wish to obtain some general idea of the administration of our vast
Eastern empire. In a note at page 661, Mr Kaye informs us, that in the
summer of 1852 the Duke of Newcastle told the Haileybury students that,
during a recent tour in the Tyrol, he had met an intelligent Austrian
general who, in the course of conversation on our national resources,
said that he could understand all the elements of our greatness except
our Anglo-Indian empire, and _that_ he could not understand. The vast
amount of administrative wisdom which the good government of such an
empire demanded, baffled his comprehension.
The Austrian general, perhaps, would not have readily assented to the
explanation of the marvel given by the young French naturalist, Victor
Jaquemont, who, in a letter dated from the confines of Tartary, in
August 1830, thus writes to a relative in Paris: “The ideas
entertained in France about this country are absurd; the governing
talents of the English are immense; ours, on the contrary, are very
mediocre; and we believe the former to be embarrassed when we see them
in circumstances in which our awkwardness would be completely at a
stand-still.”—(_English translation of Victor Jaquemont’s Letters_,
vol. i. p. 169).
The lady whose three volumes come next under our notice is certainly one
of the most intelligent travellers of her sex who has visited India
since the days when Maria Graham, afterwards Lady Callcott, amused her
readers in England, and enraged many of her female acquaintances in
India, by describing the latter as generally “under-bred and
overdressed.”
It is curious to observe how little change the lapse of forty years
seems to have made in the outward peculiarities of Anglo-Indian
drawing-room life, and how much in unison the two fair authors are in
their remarks on their own countrymen.
Mrs Colin Mackenzie, however, has enjoyed opportunities which her
predecessor could not command, of observing the private and domestic
side of Oriental life, and has evinced a wonderful aptitude in turning
these opportunities to the best account. The great charm of her work is
that it admits us within the Purdah, and lets us see what is hidden from
all European masculine eyes,—the interior, namely, of an Asiatic
household.
It is pleasing to read an English lady’s lively account of her own
friendly intercourse with families of another faith, upon whom her
industrious energy, quickened and regulated by a zeal for her own
religion, openly avowed and studiously exhibited as her main motive of
action, cannot, we imagine, have failed to produce a deep and lasting
impression. We trust that Mrs Mackenzie’s example may be followed by
many of our countrywomen; for the information in which, of all others,
the English functionaries in the East are most deficient—that regarding
natives in their private and domestic sphere—is precisely what our
ladies alone have the power to acquire and impart. Mrs Mackenzie, it is
true, mingled chiefly with the Afghans, who are a more attractive race
than the people of India.
The Afghans, also, must have felt inclined to open their hearts to the
wife of one who, both as a soldier in the field, and afterwards as a
captive in their hands, had commanded the sincere respect of those among
whom he was thrown. But though all cannot have her advantages, there is
no lady whose husband holds office in India, who, if she makes herself
acquainted with the languages of the country, will not find native women
of rank and respectability ready to cultivate her acquaintance, and thus
afford her the means of solving some of those problems of the native
character which elude all the researches of our best-informed public
functionaries. Having said thus much in praise of Mrs Mackenzie’s book,
we cannot but censure most strongly the attempt at spicing her work with
gossipping tales calculated to wound the feelings of private individuals
among her own countrymen, and even of the officers of her husband’s own
service, with whose characters she deals with a most unsparing degree of
reproachful raillery, designating individuals as Colonel A., Major B.,
or Captain C. of the — Regiment, stationed at such a place, so that
there cannot be a doubt as to whom the anecdotes, which are always to
the discredit of the parties, refer.
The difficulty of commenting on a posthumous work is much enhanced when
the author happens to have been, like the late Sir Charles Napier, one
whose errors of the pen are more than redeemed by a career of long and
glorious services. Still, though this consideration may soften, it ought
not to silence criticism, for errors never more require correction than
when heralded by an illustrious name. An additional reason for not
passing over the last work of so distinguished a man is, that it
contains many admirable remarks on the Native army, well deserving to be
detached from the mass of other matter in which they are imbedded. The
contents of the book may be classed under three heads: Censure of
individuals; censure of public bodies; suggestive remarks on the civil
and military administration of India.
On whatever comes under the first of these heads, our strictures shall
be brief.
We find in the list of those censured, the names of so many of the best
and ablest men who have taken part in Indian affairs, either at home or
in the East, that we feel loth to give any additional publicity to what
we have read with pain, and would gladly forget. Public bodies being
fair targets to shoot at, the censures coming under the second head are
open to no objection excepting such as may arise from their not standing
the test of close examination. The Court of Directors, the Supreme
Council of India, the whole body of the Civil Service (with one or two
exceptions), the Political Agents, the Military Board in Calcutta, and
the Board of Administration in the Punjab, follow each other like
arraigned criminals in the black scroll of the author’s antipathies. To
notice all that is advanced against those included in this catalogue
would be impossible, for a few lines may contain assertions which it
would fill a folio to discuss. Of the East India Company, the instrument
through which India has been providentially preserved from the
corruptions of an aristocratic and the precipitancy of a more popular
rule, Sir Charles Napier’s view is not more enlarged than what we might
have got from his own Sir Fiddle Faddle, of whom he has left us (at page
253) so amusing a description. Though capable, as we shall soon see, of
rising above the prejudices of his profession on other points, he looks
at this singular Company and its governing Court with the eyes of a
Dugald Dalgetty, who, while pocketing the commercial body’s extra pay,
accounts it foul scorn to be obliged to submit to such base and
mechanical control.
But none are all bad, and we rejoice to see it admitted at page 210 of
the unfriendly book before us, that “the Directors, generally speaking,
treat their army well;” and at pages 49, 261, that the Company’s
artillery, formed under the rule of these very Directors, is “_superb_,
second to none in the world—perfect.” Yet it never seems to have
occurred to the author, that those under whose rule one department has
reached perfection, are not likely to blunder in every other, as in his
moments of spleen he made himself believe. So able a man as Sir C.
Napier could not always be blind to his own inconsistencies; and
accordingly, in the midst of some declamation on what India might be
under royal government, he seems to have been suddenly brought up by a
thought about what the Crown Colonies really are.
From this dilemma he escapes by saddling one distinguished personage
with the blame of all that is wrong in the colonies, and thus punishes
Earl Grey for the speech about Scinde, made by Lord Howick, some ten
years ago, in the House of Commons.
To the Supreme Council of India, though he was one of their number, the
author never makes any but disparaging allusions. Discontented with
being a commander-in-chief under a ruling body, of which he was himself
a member, he sought to be recognised as the head of a separate military
government. He wished, in short, to be, not what the Duke of York was in
England, but what, under peculiar circumstances, the Duke of Wellington
was in Spain during the war in the Peninsula. In this he was not
singular; for we suspect that the real cause of that uneasiness in their
position, stated at page 355, to have been manifested by many of Sir C.
Napier’s predecessors, is to be found in a desire on their part for such
an independency of military administrative power, as is totally
incompatible with the necessary unity and indivisibility of a
government. Yet it is admitted that, in England, “when war comes, the
war-minister is the real commander,”—(p. 220.) The author evidently felt
how much this admission must tell against his own complaints of undue
interference with his authority; for he endeavours, by some feeble
special pleading, to abate its effect, and to prove the “poor Indian
general,” with his £15,000 a year, to be more unfavourably placed than
his _confrère_ in England.
One circumstance, however, is such, that while the latter is excluded
from the Cabinet, the former can take his seat at the Council-Board, and
his part in the guidance of the counsels of the State.
It is, we think, greatly to be regretted that Sir C. Napier did not more
frequently avail himself of this privilege, for by keeping apart from
the Supreme Council he lost the benefit of free personal communication
with equals, and incurred the evil of having none near him but
subordinates, whom he could silence by a word or a look.
The Civil Service is represented simply as a nuisance requiring
immediate abatement.
We are told that “a Civil form of government is uncongenial to
_barbarous_ Eastern nations.” There is some truth in this, if a proper
stress is laid on the word _barbarous_. In the first chapter of the
fourth part of his work, Mr Kaye has shown how, in reaching the
outskirts of civilisation, we are brought into contact with rude tribes
like the Beloches in Scinde, “to whose feelings and habits the rough
ways of Sir C. Napier were better adapted than the refined tenderness or
the judicial niceties of the gentlest and wisest statesman that ever
loved and toiled for a people.” But the error of such reasoners as Sir
C. Napier is, that they would treat all India as barbarous, and rule it
accordingly. Now, with all our respect for Sir C. Napier’s talents, we
doubt much whether he would have governed the more civilised provinces
of Upper India better than the late Mr Thomason, whom he condescends to
praise—(p. 37); or managed the subtle and well-mannered Sikhs with more
tact and skill than Sir George Clerk during the perilous period of our
disasters in 1841–42.
It is true that the utter failure of the system in operation in the
Punjab is confidently predicted at p. 366; but it is consolatory to
find, from the very last Indian newspapers, that no progress is making
towards a fulfilment of this prophecy; but that, on the contrary, a
reduction of taxation has been effected by the Board, such as would be
felt as a boon by the tenant-farmers of England, its influence having
been counteracted by nothing but by the effects of an excessive plenty.
It is creditable to the candour of the Bengal Civil Service, that its
members themselves furnish the information to be turned against their
own body, and it is from a work published by the Hon. F. J. Shore, in
1837, that Sir C. Napier has borrowed his most plausible charges.
On this we can only observe, that Mr Shore, in his zeal for the
improvement of his own service, forgot that what he wrote would be read
by the ignorant and the unfriendly; by those who could not, and by those
who would not, comprehend the real scope and meaning of his words.
The faults imputed by him to his brother civilians are mainly those of
manner, already noticed by ourselves as being common to the English,
generally, in their deportment towards strangers in every clime.
If we were writing only for those who know what British India is, our
ungrateful task of correcting errors might here conclude; but it is
upon those to whom that country is unknown that the work before us is
calculated to produce an impression, and therefore we must try, in as
few words as possible, to point out one of its most striking
inaccuracies. On referring to the pages noted below,[37] the reader
will find a series of assertions, to the effect that in Bengal the
army is scattered over the country for the protection of the Civil
servants. From the _Indian Register_ of this very year, it appears
that, in the country below Benares, which, in extent and population,
is about equal to France, there are only about ten battalions;[38] the
half of these being stationed at Barrackpore, in the immediate
vicinity of Calcutta. In the provinces above Benares, under the rule
of the Lieutenant-governor at Agra, with a somewhat smaller but more
hardy population, it appears that there are thirteen stations occupied
by regular troops; of which eight are close to large towns, such as in
every country require to be watched—or else purely military posts.
There are only five other places where regular troops seem to be
stationed, and of these, one is on the frontier of Nepaul.
Admitting that the Civil power derives its support from the knowledge of
a military force being at hand, still the exhibition of the latter is as
rare on the Ganges as on the Thames; and a magistrate would sink in the
opinion of his superiors, and of his own service, if he were to apply
for the aid of troops in any but the extreme cases in which such an
application would be warranted in England. It would be just as rational
to argue that our provincial mayors and magistrates in England are
hated, because troops are stationed at Manchester, Preston, or
Newcastle, as to adduce the distribution of the regular Sepoys in Bengal
and Upper India as a proof of the hatred borne to the Civil servants,
through whose administration that vast region is made to furnish forth
the funds to support the armies with which heroes win victories and
gather laurels.
What is meant by “guards for civilians” it is hard to guess. The
Lieutenant-governor at Agra is, we believe, the only civilian, not in
political employ, who has a guard of regulars at his house. In some
places in Upper India, regulars may be posted at the Treasury, for the
same reason that a corresponding force is posted at the Bank of England
in the heart of London; but even to the Treasuries in the lower
provinces no such protection is given.
Sir C. Napier, we suspect, has confused the collector with the
collections, and fancied the force occasionally posted to protect the
latter to be, in fact, employed to swell the state or guard the person
of the former. That regular Sepoys should be employed to escort treasure
is much to be regretted; but treasure is tempting, and the mode of
conveyance on carts very tedious, the ways long, the country to be
traversed often very wild, and the robbers in some quarters very bold.
It is not often that in England bullion belonging to the State has to be
conveyed in waggons; but when this happens, it is, we think, usually
accompanied by a party of soldiers.
It would be tedious to follow out all the mistakes made about
Chuprassees and Burkundazes—the former being a sort of orderly, of whom
two or three are attached to every office-holder, military or civil, to
carry orders and messages, in a climate where Europeans cannot at all
hours of the day walk about with safety; and the latter being the
constabulary, employed in parties of about fifteen or twenty at the
various subdivisions into which, for purposes of police, each district
is laid out. To form them into battalions would be to strip the interior
of all the hands wanted for the common offices of preventive and
detective police.
We now gladly turn to the more pleasing duty of pointing out the
brighter passages, and rejoice to draw our reader’s attention to the
strain of kindly feeling towards the men and officers of the Company’s
army, both European and Native, pervading the whole work.
It is pleasing to observe the anxiety expressed by so thorough a
soldier, to see the armies of the Crown and Company assimilated to each
other, and all “the ridiculous jealousies entertained by the
vulgar-minded in both armies”[39] removed. It is delightful to read the
assurance given by such a man that, “under his command, at various
times, for ten years, in action, and out of action, the Bengal Sepoys
never failed in real courage or activity.”[40] It is instructive to
learn from so great a master in the art of war, that “Martinets are of
all military pests the worst;”[41] and still more so to read his earnest
and heart-stirring exhortations to the younger of his own countrymen not
to keep aloof from Native officers;[42] and his declaration that, even
at his advanced age, he would have studied the language of the Sepoys,
if his public duties had not filled up all his time. Our space will not
allow us to give any specimens of the author’s style. It is ever
animated and original. There was no need of a signature to attest a
letter of his writing, for no one could mistake from whom it came.
Though deformed by occasional outbursts of spleen, our readers may find
much to admire in the narrative of the expedition to Kohat.[43] It will
be well, however, after reading it through, to take up the _Bombay
Times_ of the 14th of December last, to see what progress is being made
by the very Board of Administration so contemptuously spoken of in the
narrative,[44] towards reducing the turbulent Afridee tribes to a state
of enduring submission and good order.
Long practice had given great fluency to the author’s pen when employed
in what we may call anti-laudatory writing, but this sometimes led him
into that most pardonable of plagiarisms, the borrowing from himself, as
in the following sentence, at page 118: “He,” meaning the
Governor-General, “and his politicals, like many other men, mistook
_rigour_, with cruelty, for _vigour_.” If our memory is to be relied on,
this very antithetical jingle may be found in a pamphlet, published some
twenty-five years ago, about the alleged “misgovernment of the Ionian
Islands.” The author’s political speculations, when unwarped by
prejudice, were generally correct, and we fully concur with him, and, we
may add, with his predecessor, the late Sir Henry Fane, in the opinion
expressed at page 66, that the Sutledge “ought to bound our Indian
possessions;” and we now fear that, having crossed that river, we must
also throw the Indus behind us, and fulfil the prediction hazarded at
page 374, that, “with all our moderation, we shall conquer Afghanistan,
and occupy Candahar.” Sometimes, however, his disposition to paint
everything _en noir_ has misled our author even upon a military point,
as in the following instance: “The close frontier of Burmah enables that
power to press suddenly and dangerously upon the capital of our Indian
Empire; and such events are no castles in the air, but threatening real
perils. The Eastern frontier, therefore, is not safe,”—(p. 364).
In former days, when the Burmese territories were dovetailed into our
district of Chittagong, there might have been some ground for this
opinion, supposing the Burmese to have been, what they are not, as
energetic a people as the Sikhs. But a glance at the map might satisfy
any one that with our occupation of Arracan, a country so intersected by
arms of the sea as to be impassable for any power not having that
absolute superiority on the water which a single steamer would give us,
all danger of invasion from that side has for the last twenty-five years
been at an end.
The mention of Burmah naturally leads to the next work in our list, that
of Mr J. C. Marshman, the well-known editor of the ablest of the
Calcutta journals, the _Friend of India_.
His pamphlet is a reply to another, by Mr Cobden, entitled “The origin
of the Burmese war.” Mr Cobden could not, of course, write about a war
excepting to blame it, consequently Mr Marshman appears in defence of
what the other assails.
We cannot devote much time to the consideration of this controversy, but
at one passage we must indulge in a momentary glance.
Towards the end of the fifth page of Mr Marshman’s pamphlet our readers
will find a sentence throwing some light on the origin of the war which
he undertakes to defend. He there dwells, with great emphasis, on the
“unexampled and extraordinary unanimity which was exhibited by the
Indian journals on the Burmese question,” and describes, with much
unction, the happy spectacle of rival editors laying aside their
animosities, to combine in applauding the course pursued on that
occasion by the Government. Editors, like players, must please, to live;
and as the whole Anglo-Saxon community in the East, most especially
those of the shipping and shopping interest at Calcutta, have, for the
last twenty-five years, had a craving for a renewal of war with Ava, the
newspaper must have been conducted upon most disinterested principles,
which had opposed itself to any measure conducive to so desiderated a
result.
We have now skimmed over the annals of a hundred years, endeavouring, as
we moved along, to detect the ruling principle of each successive
period, and to trace its influence upon the leading events of the time.
In looking forward to what is to come, we shall not speculate on the
spontaneous limitation of conquest, because we feel that this will never
be; for this simple reason, that we shall never sincerely wish it to be.
Wars, then, will go on, until, on the north-west, we shall have
accomplished all that Sir C. Napier either predicted or recommended, and
until, on the south-east, we shall have added Siam to Pegu, and Cambodia
to Siam. Within the geographical boundaries of India Proper, also, there
are several tempting patches of independent territory to be absorbed,
such as the Deccan and Oude, both of which, along with the Rajpoot and
Bondela states, are all marked like trees in a forest given up to the
woodman. The inexhaustible plea for interminable conquest, internal
mal-administration, will ever furnish grounds for the occupation of the
larger states; and though many of the smaller Hindoo principalities are
admirably governed, according to their own simple notions, still, as
they certainly will not square with our ideas of right, some reason will
always be found to satisfy the English-minded public that their
annexation is both just and expedient. Then we shall, indeed, be the
sole Lords of Ind; but after destroying every independent court where
natives may hope to rise to offices of some little dignity, we shall be
doubly bound to meet, by arrangements of our own, the cravings of
natural and reasonable ambition.
In searching for a guide at this point of our inquiry, we have hit upon
the work standing last upon our list, the production of a gentleman who
has extraordinary claims upon the attention of English as well as Indian
readers. Mr Cameron carried out with him to India a mind stored with the
best learning of the West; and during twelve years spent out there in
the high posts of Law Commissioner, Member of the Supreme Council, and
President of the Committee of Education, his best powers were exerted,
not merely to impart instruction, but to inspire with a true love of
knowledge, the native youth attached to the various institutions within
the sphere of his influence.
His work is truly one of which his country may be proud, for a more
disinterested zeal in the cause of a conquered people was never
exhibited by one of the dominant race, than is evinced in this noble
address to the Parliament of England on behalf of the subject millions
of India.
Many, however, as Mr Cameron’s qualifications are for the task which he
undertakes, there is one of much importance not to be found among them.
He never served in the interior; never was burdened with the charge of a
district; never spent six hours a day, at the least, in the crowded
Babel of a Cutcherry,[45] with the thermometer at 98° in the shade. His
Indian day was very different from that of the magistrate collector of
which we have inserted Mr Campbell’s lively description. It was passed
in the stillness of his library, or in the well-aired and well-ordered
halls of a college, among educated young natives, mostly Bengalees, who
were about as true specimens of Indian men as the exotics in a London
conservatory are of British plants.
Such a life is compatible with the acquirement of great Oriental lore,
but not with the attainment of that ready knowledge of native character
which is picked up by far inferior intellects in the rough daily school
of Cutcherry drudgery.
This reflection has somewhat damped our pleasure in perusing Mr
Cameron’s eloquent and high-toned address. We devoutly hope to see our
misgivings proved to be groundless; but in the mean time we must give
one or two of our reasons for doubting whether the day is at hand when
the natives of England and India may meet on terms of perfect parity in
every walk of life. In the first place, to judge by precedent, we doubt
the strict applicability to the present question of that drawn from the
practice of ancient Rome. Of the people subjugated by Rome, a vast
proportion were of the same race as their victors, with no
peculiarities, personal or complexional, to check the amalgamation
resulting from popular intermarriage. It is in Egypt that the closest
similarity to our situation in India is likely to be found, and, judging
by the contemptuous tone of Juvenal’s allusion to the people of that
country in his 15th Satire, we can hardly imagine that, when employed in
any public capacity, the “imbelle et inutile vulgus” were placed exactly
on the same footing as the Roman knights who constituted the “covenanted
service” of those days in that particular province.
The geographical circumstances were also different. Rome grew like a
tree—its root in the eternal city, its branches stretching forth in
continuous lines to the furthest extremities of its vast domain.
Our Indian empire springs from a transplanted offshoot of the parent
State. No one part of it has a firmer hold on the soil than another. It
is all equally loose. Our dominion is, in fact, based upon our ships,
and it is to our ships that both Englishmen and natives, in touching on
the possibility of our eventual downfall, always speak of our retreating
or being driven. From our ships we sprung, and to our ships we shall
some day perhaps return. It is in vain, therefore, to draw, from the
practice of a purely continental empire like that of Rome, rules for the
government of an essentially maritime dominion such as we have
established on the Ganges. Ours is a power without a precedent, and
perhaps, therefore, without a prognostic. There is nothing like it in
the past, and its future will probably be stamped with the same
singularity as has characterised its whole existence.
We must try, therefore, to better the condition of our subjects by means
such as our own experience teaches us to be best adapted to their
nature. To open to them at once the civil and military services; to give
to any number of them that absolute right to preferment implied in their
enrolment in the ranks of a peculiar body, would not, we imagine, be to
follow the guidance of experience. Presumption on the one side, and the
pride of race on the other, might lead to serious jarrings between the
English and the Indian members, who, though standing in the ranks of the
same service, would still differ from each other like the keys of a
piano-forte. It would, we think, be safer to commence, as we have
already suggested, by selecting for preferment individuals from the mass
of our native subjects. Situations in the judicial and revenue
department may be found or created which natives can fill with great
credit; but their general fitness for the office of magistrate remains
to be proved. It is easy to imagine a case wherein to leave the powers
wielded by a magistrate in the hands of any one open to the influences
from which a fellow-countryman alone can be secure, would be, to say the
least, most imprudent. Besides, there is a duty, perhaps but imperfectly
performed at present, and to which, at least in the lower provinces, a
native functionary would be quite incompetent, and that is, affording
protection to the people against the violence of Englishmen settled in
the interior as merchants, landholders, or Indigo-planters. We have now
before us a letter written in excellent English by a native of Bengal,
in which the following passage occurs:—“The fact is, that European
traders have obtained, in many places in the interior of the Bengal
Presidency, almost uncontrolled power—a power which they are seldom
sufficiently scrupulous not to exert to the injury of those with whom
they come in contact. It is not exaggeration to say, each
Indigo-factory, together with its surrounding estate, is a little
kingdom within itself, wherein avarice and tyranny hold unlimited sway.
The police is too feeble to render effectual aid in suppressing the
lawless oppression of the factor.”
Now, let us figure to ourselves one of Mr Cameron’s slender dusky
_élèves_ on the bench as magistrate, and (to take what ought to be the
mildest specimen of a gentle Englishman) the leading member of the Peace
party at the House of Commons at the bar in an Indigo-planter, taxed
with oppressing the Hindoo, and we shall easily see that the law must
have an almost supernatural inherent majesty, if, under such
circumstances, it can be effectually enforced and impartially
administered.
The regulation of the intercourse between our own countrymen not in the
service of Government, and our native subjects, will rise in importance
with the progress of those works in which European agency is essential
to insure success. Railways, electric telegraphs, improved
cotton-cultivation, steam, and all other complicated machinery, must, if
overspreading the country as many anticipate, bring with them a vast
increase to the European section of the community, whose influence will
still be out of all proportion to its commercial strength.
To give to this little section full scope for the development of its
industrial energies, and yet to restrain it from abusing its strength to
the injury of the native population, is in fact the only real service
ever likely to be rendered by the Law Commissions and Legislative
Councils called into existence by the enactment of last session.
In as far as the natives of Bengal and Upper India are alone concerned,
we are convinced that all of this cumbrous law-making apparatus is quite
superfluous. The existing regulations, with occasional pruning and
trimming, would, if fairly enforced and adhered to, amply suffice to
meet all of their simple wants. But the natives can no longer be left to
themselves. Europeans will intrude, and legislation must therefore be
shaped and stretched so as to fit it to the characters of the intruders.
As at present constituted, the magistracy and the police are hardly
equal to the control of British-born settlers, half a dozen of whom are
more difficult to rule than half a million of natives. There prevails
among Englishmen of every grade a notion of the East India Company being
a body of a somewhat foreign stamp, to whose servants it is almost
degrading for a free-born Britain to be obliged to submit.
The amalgamation of the Queen’s and the Company’s superior tribunals,
known at Calcutta as the Supreme, and the Sudder, Courts, would, by
coupling the home-bred judges appointed by the Crown with the
country-trained nominees of the local government, give a weight to the
magistracy acting under this combined authority, and thus fit it for the
better discharge of the difficult duty of controlling and correcting the
excesses of Englishmen settled in the interior. These settlers often
find in the menace of an action or prosecution before a remote and
somewhat prejudiced tribunal, a weapon wherewith to combat the immediate
power of a functionary, amenable individually to the Queen’s Court in
Calcutta, for every act which legal ingenuity can represent to be
personal, and so beyond the pale of official protection.
The fusion of the two superior courts will not, in fact, lessen the
personal responsibility of the English magistrate; but it will remove an
apparent antagonism, calculated to keep alive a spirit of defiance
towards the _local_ authority in the breast of many an English settler,
the effects of which, as described in the extract above given, from the
letter of a Bengal gentleman, are felt by every native with whom he may
have any dealings. Much has been written and spoken about the duty of
protecting the people of India from being oppressed by the Government
and its agents, but few seem to have thought of that more searching
tyranny which a few strong-nerved and coarse-minded Englishmen in the
interior, invested with power by the possession of land, may exercise
over the people among whom they are located, and from whom they are
eager to extract the wealth which they long to enjoy in a more congenial
climate.
This species of tyranny will of course be most felt among the feeblest,
and is, consequently, likely to be more grievous in Bengal than among
the hardier population of Upper India. But wherever the Anglo-Saxon
goes, he will carry with him his instinctive contempt for tribes of a
dusky complexion; and where this is not counteracted by the imposed
courtesies of official life, or checked by the presence of a sufficient
controlling authority, it will ever be ready to break out in a manner
injurious to the interests and feelings of those subject to his power.
Our future rule will, it is evident, become daily more and more European
in its tone, and there will consequently be an increasing call upon
those engaged in its direction to watch over the conduct of the dominant
race, to restrain its arrogance, and to see that the equality announced
in the laws does not evaporate in print, but is something real and
substantial, to be felt and enjoyed in the ordinary everyday intercourse
of life.
If this can be accomplished by legislation, the new Commissions and
Councils will not have been created in vain; but if their labours end in
merely adding to the existing tomes of benevolent enactments, without
effectual provision for their enforcement, then we cannot but fear that
our projected measures of improvement, being all of a European
character, will add little to the happiness of our subjects on the banks
of the Ganges, and be regarded by them merely as ingenious contrivances
for extending our own power, and completing their subjugation.
THE SECRET OF STOKE MANOR: A FAMILY HISTORY.
PART III.
CHAPTER IV.—AU CENTRE DU MONDE.
“Oh, Paris! ville pleine de brouillard,
Et couverte de boue,
Où les hommes connoissent pas l’honneur,
Ni les femmes la vertu.”
ROUSSEAU.
The Willoughby family, as has been already said, left England for the
Continent; and the spring which succeeded Sir John’s death found them
temporarily residing in Paris. It was very far from the Colonel’s
intention, however, to remain there long; the household was only
incomplete, as yet, without Francis, who in a few weeks would join it on
leaving Oxford; and there had to be some consideration before finally
settling, from among no slight variety of advertisements in the public
journals, what district of the provinces might be best suited for a
retreat, probably during some years. One or two points of business,
also, requiring attention to his English letters, continued to make
their early arrival a convenience; not so much from the Devonshire
lawyer, whose methodical regularity left nothing to desire, as with
regard to the sale of Sir Godfrey’s commission, and some arrangements
left unfinished in town, of that tedious nature which characterises
stockbroking. Meanwhile their establishment was certainly simple
compared with that lately given up in Golden Square, where society, at
no time deficient to the Willoughbies, had, since the Colonel’s last
return home, been doubling itself every year, and had begun, since his
brother’s death, absolutely to send visiting-cards by footmen, to call
in carriages, to bespeak the earliest possible share of their company at
dinner: contrasted with the extent which must have been necessary for
Stoke, it was diminutive. Yet it was by no means one of a restricted
kind, although the income from Lady Willoughby’s own small fortune would
alone have sufficed to keep it up, leaving some surplus; so that, living
as yet without new acquaintances, and, so far as their countrymen were
concerned, in perfect obscurity, they had not a wish which it did not
suffice for; as long, at least, as the vast, strange city held its first
influences over them. To these, probably, it was owing that Colonel
Willoughby appeared for some time to have had no other object in coming
to Paris; if distinctly aware of any, beyond the facilities there for
choosing a place of residence in the provinces, for awaiting his son
Francis, and finishing the more important part of his correspondence,
with the convenience of respectable banking-houses—besides the
possibility of avoiding English acquaintances, which at Dieppe or
Boulogne would not have been so easy—then he would without doubt have
mentioned it to his wife. A reserved man, and in the strictest sense a
proud one, he was amongst the last to have secrets; they would have sat
on his brow, and troubled his manner; nor had he at any time had such a
thing apart from _her_. During the whole course of their wedded life,
whether together or separated, by word or letter, their mutual
confidence had increased: for her part, she was of that easy, placid,
seemingly almost torpid nature, which, save in a receipt of
housekeeping, or a triumph of domestic management, appears merely to
produce in it nothing worth the hiding, nor to receive, either, anything
of that serious kind; while the course of time, that had begun to turn
the fair features of Mrs Willoughby rather large, giving her form a
somewhat more than matronly fulness, had so increased this peculiarity
in her disposition as to make strangers think her insipid. Older friends
thought very far otherwise, and it was, in some way, chiefly old friends
Mrs Willoughby had had at all; but neither they, the oldest of them, nor
even her children, perhaps, could so much as imagine the truth of heart,
the perfect trust, the intimate, unhesitating appreciation, which, since
they were first gained by him, her husband had been ever knowing better.
Indolently placid as she might seem even to ordinary troubles, tumults,
and embarrassments, as if the world’s care entered no imagination of
hers—quietly busied, with attention fixed on household matters, knitting
or sewing in her endless, noiseless manner—yet if his eye had shown
anxiety, if he had ceased to read, if he paced the room, or had been
very silent, a kind of divination there was, that, without any watching
or any questioning, would have roused her up—the work suspended on her
lap, her cheek losing the old dimple-mark which maturity had deepened
there, and her glance widened with concern; till, if he had still not
spoken, Lady Willoughby would have risen up gradually, looking round as
if startled from a sort of mild dream, and have moved towards him,
beginning of her own accord—which was a rare thing—to speak. Not
necessarily, indeed, though they had been alone in the room, to invite
confidence by any inquiry; but rather in the way of performing some
slight office that might have been neglected, or with endeavours at such
interesting news and small-talk as, to speak truth, she scarcely shone
in, unsupported—nor any the better for the confused sense she evidently
had at these times of having been by some means in fault, and having
failed to be a very lively companion. She was of a plain country
squire’s family, in fact; and in her day, if sent at all to
boarding-schools, they had not lingered long over music, still less at
flower-painting or the sciences; while with successive sisters waiting
at home for their turn, as she had had, it was but to finish off baking
and mending, with dancing and embroidery, then to come back, and bake
and mend again. So when the dancing ended with marriage, the embroidery
at the first birth, it might have been thought the officer had gained no
very valuable society, sometimes in barrack-lodgings, sometimes abroad,
sometimes for distant communication by letter; she might, at least, have
been expected to form no great ornament in London circles, or among
country people at Stoke Manor-house. Still there had been nothing in all
their previous intercourse so precious to him as his wife’s letters,
when almost for the first time, in her own natural way, she had to
attempt expressing fond thoughts, soothing motives, and yet confessions
of impatience—mixed up with accounts of children’s complaints, their
faults, and their schooling—country gossip, and fashionable arrivals,
with some stray suggestions and admissions, never before confided to
him, of a pious kind: and when long afterwards came the events at Stoke,
instead of any undue flutter or sense of importance being caused in her,
she had fallen in as naturally to title or prospects, as she had sat
before that at the head of their dinner-table in Golden Square. It was
no doll’s disposition, as had been at the time hinted round some
ill-natured card-tables in that region; if one thing more than another
troubled Sir Godfrey in their present plans, it was that he believed
devoutly in his wife’s aptitude for a high station, where expectations
would be formed and occasions raised; his feeling was—and the partiality
was excusable—that her chief value lay obscured in ordinary
circumstances. Whereas at the new abode in Paris, with ample scope and
convenience, all the earlier habits of domestic superintendence seemed
returning, the making, baking, mending—almost even to washing; in
reference to which alone Lady Willoughby seemed really active, and the
more so that everything might go on as in England, had the mere economy
of the thing not been a vital point. Her pleased air would alone have
hindered him from reasoning it with her, had Sir Godfrey so much as
dreamt, in the latter respect, how their case really stood: and when,
indeed, there did lie any care on his mind, which he might be unwilling
she should share, yet so gently did the conversation win it from him,
and so quietly did something like the old manner woo him to bear no
burden alone, that, ere he knew, it was no longer his, but they were
talking of it plainly. What tranquil reassurance _then_, and grave,
prompt advertence to the point—and pure sympathy, and that repose of
soul from which a woman’s instinct can express so much by a tone, a
look, silence itself! Sir Godfrey had sometimes been ashamed to find how
much more he could be disturbed by trifles, or how cautiously he had
been underrating his wife’s affection. So that she knew as well as he
did, and almost as soon, how affairs stood at Stoke, with the tenor of
his brother’s intended will, and any the slightest incident which could
concern them. He had even casually mentioned, as among the more trivial,
Sir John’s wishes for the benefit of the person entitled Suzanne Deroux,
for Lady Willoughby had long known, of course, what of Sir John’s early
history his brother knew. The matter had well-nigh escaped his memory,
he said; till on happening to want a banker in Paris, it struck him that
the house formerly employed by his brother, in the payment of the
annuity referred to, might suit himself. To these gentlemen,
accordingly, he had sent a memorandum of the address left by Sir John,
with a request that they would have the money paid to her. It was a
small sum, but might be important to the people, whoever they were,
living in one of the poorest and most wretchedly-crowded quarters of
Paris. Still, as Sir Godfrey smiled on that occasion cheerfully, and
resumed his English newspaper, he did not, he could not tell all the
painful and pertinacious impressions, of circumstances unknown or acts
untraced, which any allusion to his late brother’s former stay in Paris
still called up.
Everything did not exactly go on in the household as in England, indeed,
but all was as nearly so as a quiet assiduity could make it. The house,
a somewhat dull and dilapidated mansion, very barely furnished, and
taken by the month from an adjoining notary, stood far to the western or
court-end of the city, though rather involved in the dinginess of a sort
of minor fauxbourg, where, in those days, between the sudden curve of
the river and the lesser alleys of the Champs Elysées, a motley
population still clustered about the tan-pits or dye-houses, and towards
the bridge and quays: it occupied one corner of a short,
deserted-looking street, the other end of which was reduced to a narrow
lane by the high enclosure of a convent; in front was a small paved
court, very shady and damp, by the help of two or three stunted poplars
it contained, yet not by any means private, being overlooked by dusty or
broken staircase windows, one over the other, from at hand; while it,
nevertheless, could boast of a wall surmounted by a railing, with a
heavily-pillared gate of open ironwork, a little lodge on one side
within, where the porter lived—at one end of the house a diminutive
stable and coach-shed, at the other an entrance to a high-walled garden,
laid out in intricate confusion, without sign of flowers, and overgrown
with a luxury of weeds. Some rising bourgeois had probably at first
designed it, with a moderate eye to fashion; although its prime
recommendation from the notary was, that successive families of the
English nobility had chosen it for their temporary residence; nor did
the old concierge fail to point out, with some emphasis, when showing
the garden, that it was in the English style. The place was, at all
events, at a convenient distance from the central parts of Paris, and
within an easy drive to the Protestant Episcopal chapel. At a sharp
angle with the street ran a main thoroughfare from the city barrier, one
way confused in the dense suburb, the other way breaking towards a leafy
promenade of the public park; sending all day a busy throng of
passengers into that brighter current, where it glimpsed broad past the
gap of light, with the glitter of equipages, the shifting glow of
dresses, and the constant hum and babble of its gaiety; while nearer by
was an opening in the contiguous street, through which the first-floor
windows of their house looked at the motion along the quay, and saw the
stately piles of building on the opposite bank, in brighter perspective,
curve away from the eastern avenue of the Champ de Mars, with the
bending of the river. They had still a carriage, too, though it was
merely hired by the month, like the house, from the nearest
livery-stables—a light, English-shaped barouche, with its pair of
soot-black, long-legged Flemish horses, long-tailed and square-nosed,
barrel-bodied and hollow-backed, and formally-stepping, which the owner
called English also, for everything English seemed the rage: they were
objects of no slight scorn, in that light, to Sir Godfrey’s groom, a
stiff old trooper, who, with his duties towards his master’s horse,
Black Rupert (the only possession they had brought from Stoke, save the
title), had soon to unite that of coachman. Since besides Jackson
himself, there was not merely an English housemaid, but there was young
Mr Charles’s tutor, a grave, rather middle-aged bachelor of arts from
Cambridge, and in clerical orders, who was to make up for the lost
advantages of Eton, while he looked forward to the first opening in the
curacy at Stoke: there was Miss Willoughby’s governess, a lady
apparently also of middle age, whose perfect breeding and great
accomplishments had made her acceptance of the position a favour, when
the sudden necessity arose for the young lady’s leaving school; she had
been in the highest families, and her conversational powers were of a
superior order, so that there was a continual silent gratitude towards
her on the part of Lady Willoughby. To the latter, indeed, whose whole
heart lay in her family, these unavoidable changes had been a source of
pure satisfaction, so far as she was concerned; compared with the
privilege of having their children about them, educated under their own
eye, expecting Frank so soon, too, nothing else was a deprivation; she
merely missed England and English habits when some one else did, and had
seen Stoke but once; only through the occasional abstracted looks of Sir
Godfrey did she regret its postponement. As for the old French concierge
at the gate, indeed, with his wife, family, and friends, she could have
gladly spared them; but the concierge was indispensable—he _lived_
there—he went with the house, in fact; and at the very hint of his being
superfluous, the old cracked-voiced porter had drawn himself up
indignantly in his chair, while his bare-armed, black-browed wife had
turned her leatherlike face up from her tub, looking daggers. True, the
English family had, in the mean time, no visitors, but the concierge
had;—_he_ was well known to his respectable neighbours; and, besides, it
was possible that the misanthropy of the Chevalier Vilby and of Madame
might be to some extent diminished; they would probably yet enter into
society—all the previous tenants of the mansion had done so; Paris was,
in reality, so attractive a capital. Such had been the response to the
diplomacy of Jackson, who, having once been a French prisoner, far
abroad, knew the language after a fashion of his own; and he received it
in grim silence. The truth was, the gossipping receptions at the little
lodge were somewhat troublesome, and seemed to concern themselves
greatly with the affairs of the household within, had there been nothing
else than the general interest taken in it by the adjacent windows, or
the popularity of the whole family, collectively or individually, which
had sometimes accompanied their exit or entrance with applause from
crowds of street children—a prestige which had as evidently deserted
them afterwards, to be replaced by tenfold scrutiny of a less partial
kind, not unmingled with sundry trivial annoyances. Nor, although it
resulted, with Lady Willoughby’s usual easy disposition, in her
employing the services of the porter’s daughter within the house, did
the one parent open the gate with less sullen dignity, and the other
seem less jealously watchful against some abstraction of the furniture,
or nocturnal evasion of the rent.
Nevertheless, Paris itself was not more restless or more lively than the
spirits of the young people in their first enjoyment of its scenes. The
earliest summer had begun to lighten up what was already bright with
heat that came before the leaves, quickly as these were bursting into
verdure along every avenue; and when the dust is hovering in the sun,
when the level light streams along causeway and pavement, crossed by
cooler vistas, when the morning water-carts go slowly hissing past, the
shopmen sprinkling their door-steps, putting out their canopies, setting
their windows right—with the moist smell of market-carts still in the
air, the stray fragrance of fruit-stalls near—steeples shining high
beyond the steel-blue roofs, the dazzling skylight panes,—chambermaids
looking far out from upper windows, long perspectives of architecture
blending, and a vast hollow azure over all, ere the smoke is gathered,
and before the street-cries are confused, or the growing rush of sounds
has become oppressive in the heat—then who remembers not the fairy
feeling of a city to youth! It is when they still look to life from
under protection, with no experience, nothing like the need of directing
for themselves; but most of all from a simple household, used to
temperate pleasures, and to the sort of kindness that rests more in
purpose than upon indulgence; the city need only be Paris, with sights
as foreign as the language, to crown that morning cup of enchantment to
its brim. For the two younger members of the family it wore all its
charm: Rose Willoughby had seen little more of the world in her
boarding-school, at sixteen, than if it had been a nunnery; while
Charles, who was younger, had been fancying his knowledge of life at
Westminster school and Eton rather uncommon;—so that every morning set
them astir early, watching at the windows, impatient to get
breakfast-time past, to have those studies severally over, in which, so
far as the lad’s tutor was concerned, Mr Thorpe bore the chief
difficulties of the task. Each day, in fact, found the party rolling
farther from the shady environs, through into the hot heart of the city,
towards scenes or structures that were multiplied by each previous
discovery: for if the long stately façades of the Tuileries, from its
formal gardens swarming with people and statues, ran already half-linked
to the gorgeous old Louvre, steeped pale in the southern flood of light
above the river, till all its deep-set, embossed windows seemed diamonds
in the rich Corinthian filagree that framed them, though the workmen
were still busy at its unfinished roof, like emmets from the crowd along
the quays; so these also pointed to the Palais Royal court, with its new
arcades and glittering shops—or, again, far through the labyrinth of
exhaustless streets, where moted and dusty shadows plunged into the
gloom of deep lanes, to the grim grey towers of the Bastille rising
embattled out of the squalid fauxbourg, which blackened in manufactory
smoke beyond—miles back, too, it led across some bridge, to the
Gobelins, to the close and dingy quarter of the university, with its old
legends of learning, or magic in dark ages; its careless students
swaggering past, or smoking from their high-perched casements; its
grisettes, that sat at work opposite with an air of coquettish grace
amidst their poverty, their hair neither frizzed nor powdered, with a
bright cotton handkerchief twined half about it, watering their little
mignonette-boxes, or chirping to their bird-cages that hung outside to a
gleam of sunshine;—or to where the golden dome of the great hospital
hung in the air, faintly bright; to the bronze form of Henry of Navarre
riding regardless above the throng of the market-place, and where the
two huge cathedral-towers of Notre Dame stood over their mountain of
roof, above the gaunt old houses of the island Cité; with the
sharp-peaked prison-turrets and grated loopholes of the Conciergerie
lifted from the river’s edge, whose muddy eddies swam each way by, among
the barges. The Colonel had been in Paris many years before, ere he had
had any interest in it save that of a young man, in lively company; when
all sons of gentlemen made the grand tour, and the old glories of
Versailles were still reflected even at the court of Louis Quinze, in
the elegant dissipation of his latter days: he had come since then,
indeed, into sterner contact with Frenchmen abroad; but it served him
now, in making shift to act as guide among the principal wonders of the
capital—when he rode near the carriage, sometimes accompanied by Mr
Thorpe, the tutor, on a quiet white mare from the hackney stables. And
Lady Willoughby mildly eyed the Bastille, or gently noticed the
sumptuousness of the Louvre, at her husband’s remark; suffering herself
to be handed out to some sentinel-guarded vestibule, and led along some
chill historical corridor, although it might cost a shudder at what was
told of it; if some positive domestic duty did not rather keep her all
day at home. While Mrs Mason, the governess, following with the party,
would sedulously express assent, at due intervals, by word or sign, to
the statements of the baronet; not seldom addressing to the young lady
beside her some comment of her own, or improving inference, such as Mrs
Trimmer had recently brought into educational vogue. It might have been
that Rose on these occasions sometimes caught her brother’s eye, so that
her absorbed face and lighted look would grow all at once intensely
demure, or she had to turn away to hide a smile at his air of
exaggerated attention; while Mr Thorpe was usually so deep in
abstraction, or had wandered so far, as to be in danger of their leaving
him altogether behind. It was all one storm of spectacle and excitement,
in fact, to the two; antique memories mingling in it with the record of
fearful deeds, and quaint traces of rude manners with the grandeur of
the church, the magnificence of the days of great kings—it only added
zest to the living rush of the streets, the foreign faces and
unaccustomed accents, the endless variety of movement that shone,
flickered, or darkened every way about them. Then, slowly extricated
from fetid lanes and old overhanging houses, patched, and stained, and
ruinous, where the low-stretched cord of the street lantern showed that
carriages seldom passed, they would wheel out suddenly from the rough
causeway and its filthy middle-gutter, into the broad light and sunny
air of the verdurous boulevards, where the ramparts of old Paris ran. So
as the sounds of wheels grew soft, and they rolled leisurely along, the
girl and her brother would look to each other, with something of the
same feeling; her eyes would sparkle, while Charles’s were everywhere:
when on either side of the curving vista, either way lost to sight, and
heaped with the motion of equipages and riders, the showering elm-leaves
and blossoming lime-twigs rose green ’gainst the tall, bright, ornate
houses, tinted variously, and dappled fitfully by the shade—where the
scattered passengers lounged, the loitering groups mingled, and all was
open-air existence—while the gay shop-windows and café signs shone
beneath the boughs, the open upper-casements seemed to drink coolness
beneath their striped canopies through green-barred jalousies, the
double shutter-frames were thrown out either way against the wall, and
no care, no business appeared to hang on Paris far as eye could reach,
as it thickened there through the swimming light of afternoon. To Rose
and Charles it left no dissatisfactions about Stoke, nor regret for the
smoke of London; and instead of wishing the place of their residence
settled soon, although neither had confided it to the other, they would
fain, no doubt, have had their father decide on staying where they were,
so as to fulfil the suggestion of the worthy concierge, by making
acquaintances and going into society. The truth was, that they were
unconsciously somewhat conspicuous; whether it was that the full, fair,
lady-like features of Lady Willoughby, with her hair aristocratically
enough drawn up, heaped high, and powdered, had yet an air of
half-sleepy ease and comfort that offered the strongest contrast to
French looks, or that the hood-like bonnet of black crape which
surmounted them, drawn in folds together and hung with its short
curtain-like veil of black lace, however according to matronly usage
then in London, had already been left behind in Paris by a barer and
more classical taste; or the girlish grace and bloom of Rose in her
mourning-dress and hat; the half clerical air of Mr Thorpe, with his
mingled awkwardness and endeavours at attention to the ladies; or the
military air, tall figure, and splendid English hunter of the baronet:
all which, perhaps, taken together, might even in passing have suggested
food for the proverbial Parisian curiosity. Especially if, as at times
might have been done, they had noticed the grave silence of the elderly
English gentleman on horseback, when his companion addressed him in
vain, or when with a start he looked up to answer, sometimes running his
eye keenly about the passing people, over the seated and trifling
groups, up to the windows of the houses, or along the shop-signs, like
one all at once awake to them. Indeed, out of the charmingly private
_allée des veuves_ in the Elysian fields, where alone the equipages of
the rich widows of the whole capital were in propriety seen to drive,
and the doubtful widowers and needy bachelors to seek opportunities of
consoling them, with a similar gravity of dress and demeanour—it was
questionable whether the people of Paris were accustomed to observe so
puzzlingly attractive a sight. It had altogether, no doubt, a sincere
insular air in their eyes.
It happened that on the day they had visited Notre Dame cathedral,
Colonel Willoughby took advantage of their return through the Rue St
Honoré to call at his banker’s in that leading street. He had transacted
his principal business there, and only found some difficulty in
detaching himself from the subsequent animated conversation of the
courteous financier, whose spirits seemed to be excellent on account of
some continued increase in the price of corn; a motive but dimly
understood by Sir Godfrey, while at each step or two of his egress from
the antechamber he was still detained by some fresh ground of
satisfaction. As regarded places of abode to be had, in any part of
France whatever, the perplexity did not certainly result from want of
choice; since his last inquiry, the notices and advertisements had
increased, particularly in the rural provinces; to be let or sold, they
seemed surprisingly plentiful; nor were their advantages in every point
omitted, after the usual style of such description, which sometimes
dilated on the very nature of the landscape, or dwelt with gusto on the
particular character of architecture. “It is doubtless owing, Monsieur
le Baron,” suggested the banker, complacently, “to the immense resort,
at the present, of the nobility to Paris. The attraction is excessive!
It will indeed be impossible to reside but in the vicinity—and M. le
Baron sympathises, I imagine, with the party of our ——, probably to a
certain extent in the ——?”
“I really know very little of political matters, Monsieur,” said the
baronet, smiling, “even at home,—and as for those in this country, I can
scarcely say that I have attended to them much.”
“It is exactly the position which I have myself assumed, M. le Baron,”
responded the banker, with a subdued air of confidential understanding.
“In finance it is indispensable. But affairs are solid here;” and he
gaily struck his hand on his pocket. “Things will move—they will go—now
that M. Neckar is at the head! M. le Baron is doubtless aware that the
meetings of the States-General have commenced, and are open to
attendance, like the English parliament itself? Bah we are aware that in
affairs nowadays, the minister is everything; to speak properly—the
king, nothing! The discussions grow interesting—it was a happy stroke—to
render the nation—yes, conceive, Monsieur,—responsible for its own
expenses! And, after all, the world is governed by this money here!” Sir
Godfrey sighed involuntarily, while the banker, slightly rubbing his
hands together, bowing and smiling, still conducted him with
_empressement_ towards the court in which his horse was held. “It would
be easy to secure a distinguished place of audience for M. le Baron in
the minister’s gallery at Versailles,” persisted Monsieur Blaise, with
interest, “and for the family of M. le Baron, whom we have not yet,
indeed, had the honour to see?” M. Blaise had, in fact, made sundry
half-subdued advances, at various times, towards a mutual introduction
of the families; which seemed latterly to become more obvious. “Thank
you, Monsieur,” was the rather dry answer—“no. The fact is, we intend
immediately leaving town, as soon as my eldest son arrives. And, of
course, this matter as to a place of residence must be settled. I should
prefer some remote, quiet, country place.”
“Ah, you should then purchase, M. de Vilby,” said the banker,
oracularly. “It is, on the whole, I assure you, cheaper—more
satisfactory.” To this, however, he received a decided negative; Colonel
Willoughby had as little interest in the idea presented to him by
Monsieur Blaise, of a profitable re-sale at a future period, as of
possessing property or forming permanent ties in France, or of leaving
his son a landowner there. He was about to mount his horse amidst the
attentions of the banker and his Swiss porter, when a depressed-looking
clerk from the banking-office hastened out, with an air of some
timidity, to offer a paper to his master. The latter frowned, while he
received a hurried statement from the official. “What is this? not to be
found!” he inquired. “It is a trifle, Monsieur,” added he, turning
round; “the woman, it seems, to whom your communication referred, has
for some time removed her residence. Inquiries shall be made, however.
These poor people are of the most changeable habit—the notary of the
proprietor is naturally ignorant of their new destination—the
neighbours, they affect an unconsciousness which is probably feigned, on
account of some sympathy with a fault, a defalcation in rent,—a crime,
perhaps. But in this case, there is the police, under whom the emigrant
necessarily falls, though unconsciously—and our police are now more
efficient than ever. Yes, M. le Baron, this person shall be promptly
discovered, believe me—if, indeed, this payment is still considered
proper to be made?” The indifferent, languidly commercial tone of
Monsieur Blaise, at that moment, jarred disagreeably on Sir Godfrey’s
ear, in the full sunlight of the street, while its gay throng poured on
either way like a twofold procession.
“Yet there is a slight mistake, pardon me, Monsieur,” added the former,
“in the understanding that Monsieur your brother had continued this
pension, which is alluded to, during the late years. It was indeed paid
with regularity, when transmitted; but although the promise remained
subsequently, yet, after a certain point, by some omission, doubtless,
the effects—the sums—ceased to arrive. I believe the inadvertency was,
however, more than once reported from this office to the notary of M. de
Vilby at Ezzeterre, in England—eh, Maître Robert?” And the clerk, to
whom he again turned sharply, gave a reverential affirmative. It was not
merely the revival of this trivial matter in this way that troubled Sir
Godfrey; there was some slight concern stirred at his heart by the
discovery of the slight sum having failed so long to reach its object,
mixed with a little compunction at his remembrance of the crowded Cité,
near the religious shadows of Notre Dame, which he had passed by that
very day; there was a vivid feeling once more, too, of his brother’s
characteristic carelessness, which was by no means lessened on
recollecting his wife’s mild remark, when he had mentioned the
circumstance, that possibly, if the person were very poor, it might have
been better to see into it personally. The gross mingling of M. Blaise’s
inquiries in it, besides, with his hint at crimes which might render the
benefit undeserved, annoyed him. Sir Godfrey took the paper from the
banker’s hands, expressed his intention of managing the matter at his
own leisure, and with a hasty bow rode homewards.
Willoughby was, as before said, a man with little imagination in his
temperament, at least of no very lively fancy; but there was a kind of
vague impatience at times in his mind, scarcely to be any better
accounted for than the fits of gloom he felt creeping, as it were, over
him, and which he checked only by a strong effort to think. Sir Godfrey
felt, in fact, rather an indescribable satisfaction than otherwise, and
a somewhat reviving interest, at the little matter of business that had
returned on his hands, none the less that it took the aspect of a kind
duty. Paris itself was certainly a degree nearer his attention, so soon
as the concerns of any one in it, however obscure, were thus dependent
on his own, stirring up an odd anxiety as to whether she were alive or
dead, and really deserving; all which, the more unusual it was to his
habits, bore with the greater novelty of sensation on a man whose
ordinary habits had been somewhat abruptly broken up. Singular, indeed,
as he rode along, grew the thought of how this vast city contrived to
live from day to day? the question, yet more perplexing, how it spent
its time? still less conceivable, to what end was all the constant
movement, thickening and shifting far along the Rue St Honoré, in dust
and sunlight? Nay, with a smiling sense of its absurdity, the baronet
caught himself involuntarily pondering some such incalculable problem,
and for a moment striving to put its organisation together, while the
bridle lay slack on his horse’s neck, and his limbs kept time to the
motion, as the noble black went stepping elastically on. Even in that
fashionable street they excited notice amid its rattling cortège of
equestrians and equipages, its rainbow quivering of dress, feathered,
embroidered, gilded and laced and rustling, where all the artifice of
French fashion was in its afternoon glory, with bell-hoop and white
hair—from the queue-tag and three-cornered beaver, lace cravat, and
ruffles, and pocket-flap, to the knee-buckles and the false calves,
white or flesh-coloured, and high-heeled—treading on out-turned
toes—while the smooth, tinted faces, with their mole-specks and black
beauty-spots, seemed to have banished from about them, in the sun’s full
influence, all effect of hair: though it was scarce so much the
soberly-garbed rider, in dark riding-coat and boots, with military
stock, as the jet gloss of Black Rupert, whose full nostril seemed half
conscious of his master’s pride in him. Nor was it merely that the
flickering blaze of the street disagreed with his mood, when Colonel
Willoughby turned out of it through a quieter line of that gay
fauxbourg, slightly using the spur: he shrank involuntarily from those
of his countrymen who seemed to be in Paris, with their gregarious yet
unsocial air, their loud voices, causeless laughter, and cool stare,
their ill-affected ease of dress, their round morning hats at all hours,
and their sudden knowing looks of interest from his horse to him, not
seldom unaccompanied by distinct English questions of “Who is he?” or
the drawling answer, with an eyeglass raised, of “Don’t know.” Yet in
public places they were everywhere; they were looking out of corner
cafés, and talking back to friends within, watching narrowly where some
Parisian belle tripped carefully athwart a crossing, or leaning out of
billiard-room second-floors and yawning; and it struck him the more in
contrast, as two gentlemen, evidently French, turned before him into the
same more secluded street, the one quietly shrugging his shoulders
together, the other turning a silent look to his friend. They sauntered
easily along on the sunny side of the gutter, as if delaying to cross;
though side _trottoirs_ were as yet almost unknown, while the cry of
_gare!_ from a rapid vehicle at times hurried the foot-passengers
together towards the wall, or out amidst the causeway; so that a snatch
of their conversation more than once reached the English baronet’s ears,
or was mingled with other voices; as he looked round for the names of
the streets, with some idea of at once beginning inquiries at the
nearest police-office. “These, then, Jules,” said the taller and elder,
who wore the gallant uniform of the Royal Body-Guard, sky-azure and
gold-laced, with its white-plumed black hat, crimson-velvet breeches,
stiff cavalry boots, and gilt spurs, and ruffles of rich lace—“are your
allies—your Weegs, as you call them! Corbleu!” He looked back over one
shoulder, as he spoke, with a supremely supercilious air, swinging the
tassel of his sword-knot round his hand; the other, whose dress and
manner were those of an elegant young man of fashion, seemed gently to
draw him onward by the arm. “My dear Armand, what a fancy!” the latter
ejaculated; “the generous sympathy of the enlightened English—of the
descendants of Hampdeun and of Seednè, the Wheegs—but I forget, we
agreed to——” “Yes, Comte,” said the other gloomily, “we agreed to
observe silence on it, since it is impossible for us——” and by another
influx from a cross street they were taken out of hearing; although the
grave air of the young officer, enhanced by his long side-visage, and
cavalier-like uniform, despite all the hair-powder and the smooth
elaborateness of the time, had drawn Sir Godfrey’s interest from the
matter he had in hand. They were walking near him again next minute.
“He is at La Morgue, then?” asked the officer, in reference to some
statement of his friend; “what was it—gambling? His mistress, perhaps?”
“No, she was beautiful, and attached to him,” replied the other,
carelessly; “she still slept, while he had left her, to shave in the
adjacent dressing-room—the whole hotel was roused by her cries. The
police can make nothing of it. Even his passport affords no clue.”
“It was probably a plot, about to be discovered,” said his friend.
“Paris, in my opinion, is full of plots—which had better soon be dashed
to pieces.” He made an emphatic motion with the sheathed sabre on his
left arm, and glanced firmly along the street, from face to face. “My
dear Armand!” ejaculated the other, stopping for an instant till their
eyes met, and the cheek of the garde-du-corps seemed to redden—“this
is”—but the remainder was lost to Sir Godfrey, as he held round towards
the outskirts of the Faubourg St Honoré. Crossing by a shorter way,
however, they still preceded him at the next corner. “On the contrary,”
continued the younger, “had there been anything to discover”—“—stupidly
acute as the police are”—“—but believe me, my friend,” he added with
animation, “there was nothing—nothing—it was merely _ennui_. And what
police, were it the very espionage of old De Sartines himself, his
apprentice and friend Lenoir, or even my fine cousin De Breteuil, with
your thrice-humble servitor here, can guard against ennui? ’Tis the only
spectre I dread, for the philosophers, the Encyclopédie, have still left
it us!” Sir Godfrey had passed them, indeed, hardly heeding their
detached words so much as the young soldier’s chivalrous air; a little
on, he checked his horse at sight of a gendarme’s blue and red livery,
to inquire for the police-bureau of the quarter; at which the man turned
sharply, struck no doubt by the accent or the form of the question, and
surveyed him before attempting to give an answer.
“Ennui!” repeated the officer energetically, as they came on; “my faith,
we shall soon have little enough of that luxury, I think! I had imagined
it the disease of England!”
“But without her suspecting it,” rejoined his livelier companion; “while
France alone endeavours to expel, to define the malady! What is
Versailles, Fontainebleau, Marly, Luciennes, but a vast sigh, a drowsy
effort, a yawn (_baillement_)? Those parterres of Lenotre, those
fountains, those statues, which are like the crimes of Paris! But we
awake—and assure yourself, my friend, it is at the root of one half—”
Colonel Willoughby had repeated his question rather impatiently, for the
speaker, as he passed on, was turning a glance of attention that way:
the gendarme, too, with a sudden motion of his hand to his huge cocked
hat, seemed less careful to reply than to leave full room for the two
gentlemen. The younger of them stopped, turned, and addressed a word of
sharp reproof to the official. “Permit me, monsieur,” he added, coming
forward with a slight bow, and speaking tolerably good English; “it is
probably rather to the commissary of your quarter you would address
yourself, and his residence is not far; at —— the number which I forget,
in the Place Montaigne, Champs Elysées.” The Englishman thanked him
briefly; bowing in return the more profoundly, as he felt the usual
unwillingness of his race to receive a favour he had no claim to.
“It is denoted, besides,” continued his informant with increased
courtesy, “by the red lantern over the portico, which since two years
has been fixed over the doorway of every commissary’s residence in
Paris. Day or night this will serve to distinguish them by a glance.”
“Indeed?” was the sole answer, in a tone of some indifference. There was
nothing officious in the younger gentleman’s unasked interference; while
his singularly handsome face, his vivacious eyes, the air of life in his
expression, along with an undeniable elegance of manner, were contrasted
for the first time with his elder companion, who stood apart, and almost
haughtily silent, a dark shade seeming to gather on his thin and dusky
cheek, as he gazed into the street, having even withdrawn his momentary
notice of the spirited horse. Yet the baronet felt less annoyed thus
than by the prolonged politeness of his friend; he involuntarily bit his
lip; there was something disagreeable even in being so promptly
addressed in his own language.
“Might it be possible for one to assist monsieur in any yet further
manner?” inquired the stranger, with the same easy grace; though a
peculiar smile, at the time unintelligible to Sir Godfrey, had hovered
about his lips.
“My best thanks, monsieur,” was the stiff response. “I think not—it is a
mere ordinary piece of business;” and, bowing deeply towards his horse’s
shoulder, the English baronet turned in the direction indicated. He
could see them from the distance, however, overtaken by a light
cabriolet, which seemed to have been slowly following them all the
while; the young _élégant_ stepped leisurely in, and with a gesture of
adieu to his friend, was driven swiftly off towards the city again; the
white plume of the garde-du-corps disappeared among the passengers.
When Sir Godfrey had found the commissary’s office, shown the
indispensable passport, and received, as he had expected, but little
prospect of speedy information, he yet rode homewards in considerable
ease of mind; the thing had in fact passed from his thoughts as he took
the nearer way from the grand avenues of the Champs Elysées, thronging
with gaiety, by the overhanging shade of garden walls and backs of
stables, across the open spaces flushed green with the afternoon light,
alive with strolling girls in their teens, beside their prim
_gouvernantes_, or children scattered about the groups of their sitting,
gossipping, sewing _bonnes_; while here and there, into a line of
secluded street, full of tall, stately, old-fashioned houses in massy
blocks, or separate in their high-walled court-yards, sloped lazily the
white, gushing glory from far above; till the way towards a bridge, or
some glimpse of the bustle about the airy quays, renewed again the sense
of being in Paris. But it seemed as if some of its occurrences,
otherwise as apparently fragmentary as the street-cries or confused
accents, bore every now and then a more connected purport to the baronet
as he came in contact with them.
He had already thrown a coin or two mechanically to some squalid
cripple, or some one-eyed beggar in his route, thinking no more of it;
as he turned into the thoroughfare near home, however, out of one of
these sun-bright and silent streets, where a few figures crossed here
and there, a singular little incident presented itself, which was but
part of many such scenes throughout the quieter quarters of the French
capital. It was one of the strangest symptoms of that strange time, that
while the king had been suppressing dungeons and projecting the good of
the people, while the nobles desired reform of abuses, and the whole
nation seemed to breathe peace, philanthropy, and enthusiasm—the very
fashion of the salons had conceived a sudden sensibility to the miseries
and wants of the lowest class. The late winters had been severe, and the
last desperate, amidst dear provisions: there had been fêtes, lotteries,
and performances of classic dramas in the theatre, although for these
last the curés had refused to distribute their unhallowed proceeds: yet
greatest of all had been the activity of the ladies in the genteel
faubourgs, who, in graceful _toilettes de quête_, the most becoming of
dresses, and with purses bearing embroideries of flowers, cupids, and
touching mottoes, turned their morning calls into a quest for alms. In
the less aristocratic quarters, where morning calls were scarcely made,
it had taken hold chiefly on the little girls, from mere childhood up to
their teens; lasting longer, doubtless, because exercised only in the
open air on the street-passengers, with all the amusement of a play
mingled in its touch of reality. How interesting was it, too, to the
subjects of the performance, as they were chosen from the passing
current with all that faculty of prompt organisation so peculiar to the
race of France; for the _rendezvous_ was made in the neighbouring
archway of some porte-cochère, apart from the bustle of the crowd, to
hold the table with its white fringed cloth, and the silver salver,
where the savings of their own pocket-money had been first put for a
handsel, as they gathered from the various houses near. The old
gentleman, as he approached, had his skirts pulled by some lisping
little one, with chubby cheeks, and curls that had vainly been
flattened, while her face peered from under the grey stuff of the mimic
beggar’s cloak: the most simply dressed would hold the salver to the
lady of quality; the most polite to the bourgeois; the plainest-featured
to the widow, the spinster, or faded beauty; the tallest to the
middle-aged gentleman, the prettiest to the gallant: and no rivalry, but
how to get most, disturbed the co-operation of those young quêteuses.
The English baronet, indeed, knew nothing of it as he trotted forward,
before the archway could be seen, with its lurking, listening, peeping
group, holding their breath in expectation: he only saw a slender young
form, too tall for the grey cloak to smother the whole of her white
summer dress, trip from beside the wall, and hold up her rosy palm
before him, like a beggar; they had chosen the eldest, for her eyes and
complexion, to try the rich Englishman.
“Pour nos pauvres, s’il vous plait, Monsieur,” said a clear sweet voice,
plaintively. Sir Godfrey had checked his horse with a start; she was a
girl little younger than his own Rose, with the very blue eyes and that
palest yellow hair, which are so rare in France, though with that
warmly-bright complexion which is never seen out of it, suffused as it
seems through a strange shadow of brown. The folds and hood of the cloak
could not disguise the girlish grace of her figure, just shooting
towards womanhood; the studiously plain arrangement of the hair _à la
quête_, virgin-like, added to her pure beauty, and did not take away
from the slightly coquettish glance from her drooped head as she thus
made her appeal. “My dear little one!” ejaculated Sir Godfrey
hastily—“how—what—_you_ are not a—in poverty?”
Her cheek reddened as she drew up her head proudly. “Me? Yes, we are
poor, but noble—Armand and I. It is for the poor of the city,
Monsieur—of Paris.”
Sir Godfrey reddened too, and listened calmly to her eager explanation.
“Ah, _you_ are rich—you are English!” she added anxiously, as if afraid
he hesitated. His glance of surprised inquiry did not escape her.
“I know you, Monsieur,” she said, “for you live close to our convent in
the Rue Debilly, near the Quai de Change, where I am a pensionnaire, and
where my aunt is the superior. I come often with one of the sisters to
arrange the quête here. There are so many poor!”
“And to whom do you give this money, _belle petite_?” asked the baronet,
smiling at her delighted thanks for the gold he placed in her hand.
“To the curés and their vicars, Monsieur,” she said gravely, “who will
distribute it—they know every one so well!” Sir Godfrey mused.
“And you live near us!” he said, thinking of his own daughter, as he
asked her name.
“It is Aimée—and my brother is Armand de l’Orme, an officer at
Versailles. We are orphans, Armand and I, and we do not belong to Paris.
We were both born in the south, in Provence—Were you ever in Provence,
Monsieur—ah, how much more beautiful it is!” With an air of empressement
she clasped her hands, and standing there in the quietly sunny street,
while the stream of the populous chaussée passed athwart its end, the
girl seemed to forget her impatient company beyond, whose whispers and
exclamations at last betrayed them to the surprised glance of Sir
Godfrey. “Was she allowed,” he asked, however, “to make visits from her
convent—for _he_ had a daughter, little older than herself, who had no
companions of her own age in Paris.” And the young quêteuse responded
eagerly to the hint. “Oh, yes—she was allowed—on certain days—and she
would positively come. Indeed—perhaps—mademoiselle herself would assist
at their quête.”
The baronet shook his head, almost starting in his saddle at the
thought. But it struck him suddenly that his oddly-made new
acquaintance, through her friends the curés, might aid him in discovery
of the missing Suzanne Deroux; and she was all readiness and sanguine
expectation when he explained the matter. There was one young vicar in
particular, so mild, so missionnaire, so apostolique, whose acquaintance
with all the poorer quarters was miraculous: she would be able to bring
the news, she was sure, very soon indeed. So giving her, at her request,
the same paper he had recalled from his banker, Sir Godfrey saw her
rejoin her archway amidst the impatient welcome of her companions, and
took his way into the Rue Debilly, with a feeling half-amused,
half-meditative.
At home, there were fresh letters and newspapers awaiting him, with the
dinner-time, unwontedly late. There had been already the expected
tidings from Francis to his mother, though brief, that he was finally
free of term-times, having reached London, which he was ready to leave
next week; his father’s remaining business there seemed fully settled,
but he was to dine, before starting, at their friend the solicitor’s,
and bring over with him everything wanted. He enclosed his sister’s
letter, however, from her dearest school-fellow, crossed and recrossed,
with all its precious gossip for common use, its inexpressible
sentiments that were not to be seen by another creature, and its
postscript with the sole piece of real, intelligible information. Mrs
Mason’s correspondence also, whose contents had at no time been breathed
to any one, had been forwarded: while Sir Godfrey himself had a packet
from Mr Hesketh’s office in Exeter, giving on the whole satisfactory
prospects, and containing a few papers from among the late Sir John’s
dreary mass of lumber; hitherto overlooked, but which he might care to
examine. They were for the most part unimportant, but he saw, from the
first glance at one of them, that had it arrived that morning, it might
have simply saved him a little trouble and uncertainty; as it was a
French letter of date not long before his brother’s death, evidently
written by some humble notary’s clerk, to state the case of the Suzanne
in question, who had received a pension for an injury received while in
his service, probably interrupted through the change of abode by her
children, whose work supported them; but her son had been ill, and the
winter severe; the application had been rather made at the penman’s
instance, as he lived _au quatrième_ in the house where their attic was,
and had himself discovered the address by going to the banker’s, where
he had obtained no other prospect. It stated the place and number
distinctly, and had in all likelihood led to the memorandum of Sir
John,—though no doubt thrown aside at the moment, and with his confused
mind in those latter days, so busy amidst out-door matters or convivial
meetings, its chief point had been forgotten.
Joining in the eager table-talk it had all excited, with a mind at rest,
the baronet could fully share the pleasure of home-thoughts: the very
atmosphere of the room seemed English, for all its bare waxed floor and
patch of carpet, its airy paper-hangings of pastoral scenes, its light
curtains and tall glaring windows with flimsy frames, its stove-filled
chimney-place, and the white folding-doors of its antechamber, about all
which there lurked no corner of substantial comfort, as round the
wainscot and panelling, the recesses and embayments, corner-cupboards,
and hearth-places, and presses of home, with its high-backed arm-chair,
noiseless floors, and family pictures: the sound of the convent-bell,
and Sir Godfrey’s account of his pretty little _quêteuse_, alone brought
back their recollection. It had been long since Lady Willoughby saw her
husband so cheerful, even when he turned to his newspaper, and sat
absorbed in its varied matter, leaning back on that hard diminutive
sofa;—Mrs Mason, as her custom was, has withdrawn to the mysterious
privacy of her own apartment; Mr Thorpe, to a book, apart in the wide
naked antechamber; while at its further windows, looking out, sit the
two young people in their unwearied charge of the street;—till, as that
after-dinner repose steals through the sitting-room, with cool shade
from the early May twilight, she feels instinctively that his old easy
habit of middle age has returned on him, the first time since reaching
France—nay, on second thought, since the day of that melancholy message
from Devonshire—of sinking at that hour into a doze. It scarce needs her
turning her head, to see how the affairs and concerns of the world at
large have fallen from his mind; while gently netting on, without word
or other motion, perhaps with no particular thought besides, she sits
quiet that it may last the longer. It had seemed vague, in its
connection with a trifle; but neither she nor he could have told the
indescribable relief it had given him to find the only singularity in
Sir John’s memoranda cleared up; in this commonplace way, too, when even
casual circumstances had seemed joining to give it a feverish
importance. That intended but ineffectual will of his, by which he had
evidently contemplated a formal bequest, with those slight exceptions,
of everything to the colonel, already his legal heir, could after all
have had no rational motive; it was probably but one of those strangely
groundless suspicions, those longings to exercise influence from the
very tomb, which cross an unsound mind. The colonel had not been
unconscious of the superior abilities of his eldest brother, nor of the
still brighter parts which were attributed to his brother John in early
life; he only felt reassured by the conviction, again confirmed, that
the unhappy results of his foolish match had been such as to touch his
brain with insanity. There was a vulgar old story about their family, in
fact—a sort of absurd country superstition—that owing to some ancient
ancestral impiety, even when the ghost ceased to be heard of in the long
portrait-gallery at Stoke, over the great staircase—which had been
invisible to the family alone—then somewhere or other a Willoughby was
mad. Often had the colonel smiled at it, when merely a younger brother
in the army; a wound once received in his head in America, which had
cost him delirious days and nights, seemed formerly to entitle him
doubly to his smile at the corroboration, when restored to full health:
nay, from some cause, he had found himself thinking of it once or twice
in the full blaze of the streets of Paris, with their vivid
reminiscences—though his smile had been but faint, now he was the
younger brother no longer. For _why_, really, after all, had he come to
Paris in particular, or lingered there, persuading himself under so many
different forms about its convenience, the novelty to his children, the
advantage of his brother’s banker, the little legacy, the comparative
privacy, the rapid post, or the many notices of places to let? Why, in
that indirect way, had he sought to make inquiries of the police, and
caught himself listening to words in the street, of unknown suicides,
baffled investigations, and French ennui? Why had he mechanically shrunk
from the Boulevards and rushing St Honoré, yet glanced askance at
windows full of faces, or looked again with an irresistible suspicion,
to see if he recognised or was recognised by any one—not merely on that
day, but on previous ones also? Actually, in the hot, beating sun, it
had for a moment or two resembled the preface to his fever in the
colonies, after that affair with their rabble of militia, among whom he
had fancied he saw a known visage disguised; and the strong effort of
his understanding which recovered him had only brought more keenly the
sudden question—whether his brother indeed, or he himself, had been
touched with the germs of a growing madness. There had been strange
horror in the thought. For, had there really been a deliberate, sober
meaning in his brother’s stray purposes, through the confusion of all
his neglect, and though cut off by death? While the quick, clear
self-suspicion had seemed to pierce his own mind with shame, how, amidst
an uneasiness to associate with his countrymen, he was still traversing
Paris everywhere, under cover of guidance to his family, mingling
private anxieties with the grandeur of royal edifices, and continuing to
expect some chance vestige of things which his brother might have chosen
wisely to leave in silence. Since his succession to Stoke he must have
been altering insensibly. Even selfish feelings, impatient wishes,
hidden thoughts, or half-fretful expressions towards her who had been so
long his solace, had then recurred to mind with a painful surprise;
compared with which, his brother’s eccentricity appeared innocent
indeed, sadly as his earlier follies had brought it on. And had he heard
before from Mr Hesketh what he learned from the letter on his return,
that the manor-house and park were unlikely to be soon let, or to bring
any profitable addition to the rents at present, from a fresh and
growing rumour that they were haunted, it would have startled him with a
superstitious feeling far more oppressive than any at Stoke. But, as it
was, with a sober return to accustomed thoughts, calmed by his unwonted
self-scrutiny, for him so deep—and soothed by gentle presence—Sir
Godfrey slipped from his practical, matter-of-fact English newspaper to
repose; though with the melancholy conviction that his brother’s
understanding had indeed partially given way. They had not latterly seen
very much of each other: John was now at peace; his fruitless life had
come to an end. The baronet was awoke only by the rustling entrance of
Mrs Mason to pour out the chocolate—Mr Thorpe’s awkward haste to set her
chair—the bringing in of wax-lights—the pause before grace was said,
with the tutor’s devout formality. The evening talk was as duly closed
by Mr Thorpe’s reading of the appointed prayers—another advantage never
gained by Lady Willoughby till their departure abroad required a tutor.
As if there were not strange noises dying far and wide through the city,
till across the river could be heard the great clock of the Invalides.
As if the atmosphere of the world were not at that hour infected with
inscrutable sympathies and mysterious desires; which gathered in Paris,
as after long heat that malady of the air, felt keenly by the lower
creatures: so that it might have been working vaguely even with Sir
Godfrey. And as if, though clouded and stagnant, even well-nigh lost,
the judgment of the departed might not have exercised some acute
thought—deeper even than the sharpest lawyer could track it.
So quiet, after prayers, was the outer night over the bare roofs, and
lights, and distant pinnacles of the city—the glimpse of the river, the
lamps on the bridge, the trees of the Champ de Mars—and so wide with its
floating films of fair May-cloud, softening the few stars—that Rose
Willoughby shaded her candle to peep out at it, lifting the blind, and
putting her face close to the window-glass, after she had said her
prayers, and was half ready to go to bed. Listening to Mrs Mason’s steps
in the next room, extinguisher in hand, lest her door should suddenly be
opened to that lady’s most indignant surprise—Rose thought still of
to-morrow’s drive toward Versailles.
CHAPTER V.—FALLING FLEUR-DE-LYS.
“Quel triste abaissement!
Quelle immortelle gloire!
Que de cris de douleur!
Que de chants de victoire!
Cessons de nous troubler; notre Dieu, quelque jour,
Devoilera ce grand mystère.
Révérons sa colère;
Espérons en son amour.”
_Athalie._
Pleasant was it, on that bright hot morning, to escape at last from
Paris altogether. Sir Godfrey, indeed, remained at home to write his
letters, with the purpose of riding out to meet them on their return:
and Mr Thorpe, on horseback, with charge of the magic passports, was the
sole cavalier; shrewdly overseen, doubtless, by the hard-eyed,
rough-visaged, experienced Jackson, to whose sturdy driving there lay no
perplexity about those great, straight, formal French roads, with
staring guide-posts and swarms of Parisian people.
Soon, in fact, does the grand road towards Versailles sweep away from
sight of Paris in its wide basin, among avenues and closing woods. With
no lanes, nor secluded cross-ways, save to towns, it was harder to leave
behind the Parisian people; and they soon heard that Versailles was
stripped of its glory, so far as they were concerned, since nothing was
doing there that day; the king had gone to Marly, or Fontainebleau,
instead of passing in state to the Assembly, as had been expected from
the journals. Much to the relief, it must have been, of Lady Willoughby,
who disliked crowds and pressures of people, with the bustle and the
dust; and to whom foreign kings and queens had but a dim,
half-chimerical reality, after all, compared with the accustomed
Georges, whose power and royalty were interwoven with any thoughts she
had of public life; yet she appeared as much vexed as it was possible
for her to be, proposing still to go on and see the outside of the
palace, the fountains, or the remaining courtiers, the “houses of
parliament,” which perhaps might be worth the pains. But these Charles
disdained till another day, when the king should have returned—being
even set against the remotest view of the town, its very smoke or
spires; and, out of his father’s presence, Charles was always, by some
peculiar force of his, indirectly master. His sister Rose, though the
expedition had been fondly planned, nor did his arguments seem worth
answering, too well knew the issue not to be resigned; while her
governess, referred to as a matter of course, expressed as duly an
entire acquiescence in any arrangement most satisfactory to Lady
Willoughby, preserving an intense calm, and seeming to observe the
various objects as their course was changed, the leaves of the trees,
the tops of palisades, the very hats of market-people, with strange
elevation of countenance, and with an air of suffering which required
her vinaigrette. Even Jackson, who had a great share of the selfishness
of privileged old servants, and greatly consulted his own personal ease,
ventured to console his mistress, turning round and touching his hat, to
remark that it was a long drive after all, and they would have had to
put up at the town to bait these Flanders beasts—he carefully abstained
from calling them horses—_which_ it might cost a deal of trouble, as
these French inns very likely had no stables; the inward satisfaction of
Jackson, indeed, somewhat belied his rueful effort to look grieved. All
appeared disappointed, save the tutor, ever fain to be serviceable, if
seldom very successful where the office was of the present kind. Yet
that day Mr Thorpe was excelling himself, now riding on, or now
remaining behind, always for some object; nor was it long ere he came
posting back, his plain, ineffectual features animated, and his mild
short-sighted blue eyes shining moist through the thin-framed spectacles
which enlarged them, to mention that they were close to Sèvres, where
the royal porcelain was made. And at Sèvres, with its quaint old village
houses, and its bridge across the Seine to another village, seeing what
could be seen of its manufactory, its water-mill where the clay was
ground, or its woody island amidst the river, the earlier part of the
day was spent. Then turning to make a wide circuit into the Versailles
road again, where the afternoon was to bring Sir Godfrey, the carriage
passed at leisure through the quieter country that slopes and rolls
westward from the Seine.
It was scarce country, indeed, where no hedgerows seemed to break up the
wide spaces, no field-gates or clustered farms, nor half-sequestered
hamlets, with the sprinkling on of solitary cottage and quiet house
toward the next, where the church spire should rise, or tower; but
sometimes with no division from the wide crops, save the lines of bushy
pollards, they rolled over the paved roadway; again between continual
park walls or wooden palisade, from which suddenly it would burst on the
space about a large square village, with its cabaret and sign-board of
the _Lion d’or_ or _d’argent_, its old fountain-well, and double row of
trees, noisy, and alive with children, while another road brought
through it the market-life from Paris. Though over the nearest wood
would peep the white turrets of chateaus, peaked with purple slate, or
tin, or gilding, like chandeliers extinguished in the light of day; and
near to them were the little stunted churches, with their rounded ends,
the squat towers that had lids to them like pots and vases, or the mean
belfries perched on the roofs; where the church-yard was blooming with
flowers that made its cypresses and yews look gloomier, and the small
lonely curacy near it, snowing the cross on some wide gable, had an air
of pious seclusion from the world. And still the parks spread round; the
woods, with formal alleys striking through them, widened and surged
outward, downward, into vale and over height; sometimes opening to let
the high road pass on with its vehicles and pedestrians, or the traffic
that seemed greater for its confinement,—oftener to show the terraces
and bowers of still nobler mansions than before, till the country
appeared fading away. They had forgotten their forenoon disappointment:
the girl’s eyes sparkled as the sweet sense of being out of Paris grew,
in spite of all it held in it; placid, tranquil, her mother leant
opposite, while she breathed the freshness, enjoying the mere motion,
and the vague variety as she heard it noticed, on pure trust, pleased at
what pleased the others—it was not like England, indeed, but how pure
and exhilarating seemed the French air—its sun gave a still sleepier
stillness to her mild eyes, yet with so healthy a tint and soft fulness
of person, that the holding of her parasol, in Lady Willoughby, the
trouble she took to observe an object, were pleasant to see; as Mr
Thorpe, riding by, devoted his conversation to the governess and her;
the while Charles, still in a discontented mood, vented it on the whole
country, and leaning across to his sister, one elbow on his knee, kept
up his side-current of livelier talk.
For one thing, their constant popularity displeased him, however
acceptable to Rose. That national sharpness and curiosity had all at
once become particularly disagreeable to the youth, in his grumbling
humour; and it mingled through the whole thread of his discourse, not
without some acute notions of the people’s character, on which he
appeared to have been oddly brooding. Nor the less was his zest in
showing that France and England were natural foes, because his tutor on
the other side rode discoursing benevolently to the reverse effect;
while Mrs Mason responded, in all that propriety of sentiment, which was
blended, in her dialogue to gentlemen, with a slight shade of delicate
reserve. But really there was a domineering style of argument in
Charles, if one ventured to express a different view, that provoked his
sister in the end—especially as he was a year younger; she turned her
shoulder to him, and sat resolutely looking the other way, as if
absorbed in the mild commonplaces of Mr Thorpe, and Mrs Mason’s weary
platitudes, which diffused such additional complacency over her mother.
After all, they _were_ tiresome things, such as all good books and
worthy people said over and over; though Charles had no right to look
down on his tutor with such secret contempt, because he knew nothing of
what Charles called “life”—or to hint, because he looked serious, that
his mind had got bewildered among triangles ever since he studied so
terribly for a degree, leaving out nothing but his memory: perhaps,
indeed, it _might_ be true that Mrs Mason, in spite of her early loss of
some inestimable kind, had a sort of soft regard for him, and paid him
little attentions, especially at table, with the sugar,—though
moderately, till the curacy at Stoke should be sure; but what she would
not for a moment be so disrespectful to Mr Thorpe as to credit, was that
a hopeless love, never to be revealed, consumed him, amidst all his
learning, for—for herself. Her indignation mounted at the thought,—for a
moment even at the excellent tutor, so highly respected by Sir Godfrey,
with his thin hair already leaving his forehead bald, through long delay
of any preferment—whose sister was his only relative alive, and was to
keep his house when he had one,—but most to Charles, with his rough
boy’s jokes; even although the girl’s thoughts wandered the more
irresistibly to foreign counts and picturesque barons that had hovered
in vision before the whole boarding-school, being now eagerly inquired
after by her dearest friend, who was still there.
There were none of these, certainly, about the highway which the
carriage struck into, alive though it was with people of every kind.
Charles had ceased, at his mother’s unusually earnest request, to
whistle indistinctly between his teeth, as it was of all sounds the one
that most annoyed her; he had even left off, of his own accord, the
substitution of a drumming motion with a small cane against his boot, as
he superciliously noticed the passengers. He got quite silent, in fact,
to watch the passing faces that seemed bent towards Paris; though the
faint smoke of another large village appeared in the hollow, prettier
than any they had passed, among inclining vineyards and whole knolls of
roses. It might have been St Genevieve’s own, with that holy well
resorted to by kings, where she had kept her sheep long ago; and where,
at the May fête of _la rosière_, they still crowned the most virtuous
girl in the place with roses; as the last work of Madame de Genlis had
informed Mrs Mason. The summer afternoon sloped wide above it, full of
light and the swarming hum of insects, through the outspread walnut
leaves, flickering amber in the sun, from over the white wall that was
dappled by the shadows; while the hedgeless corn-fields on the other
side were rippling under the long air from the woods, one sea of
tenderest green, full of blue-cockle flowers and scarlet poppies; the
cottage casements flashed from amidst a pink-white glow of
orchard-blossom, of milky cherry-boughs, of old rugged propped-up
pear-trees that foamed over to the moss-green thatch, with the wooden
chimney shot high, as it breathed blue among the leaves; with here and
there a hooded dovecot window on the roof, where the pigeons sat sunning
and swelling themselves, and cooing, white, blue, and purple together,
in a gush of warm light—all the place beneath them bespattered and
splashed with whiteness, through the shadow, to the very foliage of the
nearest branch. The hum of the place burst round them as they crossed
its little bridge, rattling over the rough causeway; and there were no
carriage-ways save through the villages and towns.
It was odd that for some time along the road, as if to meet the lad’s
inclinations, the notice of them had been unaccompanied with signs of
interest; every one had seemed occupied with his neighbour, talking, or
hastening on somewhere; the voices had even grown suppressed as they
passed. Here they were busier still, and talking louder, in a perfect
babble of sounds. It was wonderful, at least to Charles Willoughby in
his private mind, how the cobblers lived—the weavers, blacksmiths, or
carpenters, found time to work; how the mill-wheel had a hand to feed
it, or the women to mind their matters; they were letting their pitchers
run over, in fact, at the old carved fountain-spout, till there was a
little brook across the street, down into some one’s door-steps, and a
duck that seemed comparatively quiet began to lead her troop of
ducklings that way. The French infants even, held plainly enough here
and there, in full sunlight, to their slatternly feeding-places, looked
dissatisfied as the throng pressed about the doorway of a cabaret, with
the sign of the Golden Crown: a horse stood by it with foam-flecked
sides, and his head stooped in its corn-bag; while a man in a green
jacket, with a leather case slung across him by a belt, apparently a
courier, gesticulated in vain from the open window; the door being
blocked up by a drunk dragoon, who stood swaying slightly to and fro,
yet balancing himself carefully, as he surveyed the various groups from
his half-closed eyelids with extreme sternness and grave suspicion; till
at length drawing himself up, to extend his hand with a summons for
attention, he essayed to speak; but all at once rushed forward with
furious gesture amongst the crowd, where he fell flat from the steps.
The blood gushed from his features, women shrieking, men running,
without a glance behind, as the landlord hurried to his aid from the
tavern, followed by more dragoons, who stamped their spurred feet upon
the steps, and half drew their sabres, with fierce gestures and
execrations. Yet as the carriage passed on through the narrow and
awkward street, however slowly, it did not attract attention from any of
the party except Charles, who preserved a seemingly sullen silence; not
distracted by so much as a look to his sister, when her governess said
there must be something improper going on, and sloped her parasol that
way, using a scented handkerchief, with evident desire that the young
lady should do the same; while his mother had no more suspicion of its
not being common to villages all over the world, possibly on a
market-day, than a duchess. The tutor was, as usual, on before, with his
little note-book, to put down the name of the place, the probable
population, and apparent area of the church, according to some dim
theory that had been growing on him since he crossed the Channel. As for
Jackson, he merely whipped his horses, and made a slash at some dogs,
with obvious inclination to curse whatever came in his way. So they
rolled through by degrees in sight of the church; but there was a
greater throng at that end, in and about the low-walled enclosure before
a smart new building, the use of which was not plain at first sight; for
considering the size of the place, with the general squalidness of the
long cottages or bald white houses, really the number of people of all
ages was extraordinary, till one observed that single roofs seemed
shared among ever so many families,—a thing the odder to the lad, as at
school he used to know plenty of Eton folks, from bargemen to bat-maker.
He even thought, somehow, of that one visit to Stoke. Oh! that was the
school—the first he happened to have seen in France; and that youngish
man, in an old figured dressing-gown, with a sharp dry face, standing up
on something, without a hat—the schoolmaster; while they pushed and
jumped to hear him, though quietly enough except for the hushing of each
other, since the schoolmaster had evidently a weak voice; it only
reached the carriage in an occasional screech, when he lifted his hand
impressively in the air. “_Ecoutez—ecoutez, au Père Pierre!_” This Père
Pierre must be rather an odd fellow; why, his school was in a perfect
riot within, to judge by the dust, the flying books, and the noise
sometimes louder than his voice outside. But he was not making a
speech—the white article he held up to the blaze of the sun was not a
pocket-handkerchief, but—yes—a newspaper. He must have a good deal of
influence there, this teacher—at least over the grown-up men, with
leather aprons and bare arms—one could not help marking him—with that
scanty head of hair done up in bobs from his temples, and such a short
queue behind, not to think of his short nose and high cheekbones, or a
chin as bare as one’s palm. Perhaps something had happened—something
important—a battle somewhere? There was peace, though. Some murder, it
was likely—or a shipwreck—well, at any rate these boys didn’t mind, so
crop-headed and stunted-looking, who were playing pitch-and-toss with
such an old-mannish look in their eager faces, at the end of the school.
There were more beneath the big bulging church-gable, with its black
ugly windows and its zigzag crack in the plaster—in such long old livery
coats, with plated saucer-buttons. Actually it was with the buttons they
were playing—as if it had been money—cutting them off their coats, too,
and their breeches, to rush back for another chance! The silent
speculations of Charles reached their climax in profound wonder. It was
beneath his notice to regard Mrs Mason’s words, as they cleared the
place, and began to rise from the hollow—that it was an interesting
village, so lively, so full of a holiday air, not without a degree of
quick intelligence. “After labour,” his mother said, lifting up her
eyelids, “it must be pleasant.”
Beyond the church and an old crooked, high-arched bridge, was Mr Thorpe
in the turning of a very narrow by-road, stony and grass-grown, that
took a winding as if to avoid the village, by ditch-side and over
rubbish, till it caught the highway behind again: the worthy tutor had
drawn up his horse, he was settling his spectacles, putting in his
note-book, and feeling in his pocket for some coin, apparently to bestow
on a man he had been talking to. A very singular group revealed itself
as they reached him. A dark-faced jet-eyed man with a beard, black and
bushy, his rough cap in hand, and a little organ slung from his back,
stood replying to Mr Thorpe in strange broken French, mingled with
English; while he seemed carefully to keep the trees between himself and
the village: somewhat further down the by-way sat a disconsolate-looking
boy with a guitar, beside a crouching monkey; while another man held the
chain of a huge muzzled beast, shaggy and brown, which reared on its
hind-legs, now growling, now dancing, now shrinking from the threatened
whip, like a creature enraged by the distant voices. Their trade had
been ruined, the man said; for it was the first time they had been
turned out into the _chemin des affronteux_, belonging to thieves and
villains. It would be known for miles round Paris in a day, for it was
wonderful how the news travelled there. They had often been at
Charlemont before, and were received well. The bear felt it worst, he
thought. He was as good a bear as you would see, owing to his love of
society. Perhaps it might have been owing to some news in the place—but
one could not know what tunes would offend people nowadays, to dance to.
At Mr Thorpe’s condolence, however, backed by his gift of a six-sous
piece, the Italian retreated thankfully. They watched him as he was
joined by his singular company, slowly and with a crestfallen air
disappearing round the by-way. All the tutor could find out was that
they had been chased out from that end of the place just before, with
sticks, stones, and pitchforks, by the very young people who had been
dancing sociably enough along with the bear and monkey—because an air
they commenced was _contre la liberté_. How any tune could be against
liberty, Mr Thorpe could not conceive: nay, if they did not like dancing
to it, they might have stood still; they might have requested it to be
stopped; indeed, it was probable that some of these very people might
have wished the liberty of dancing it! Still less could he perceive how
_liberty_ could be connected with that particular tune—“_Richard o mon
roi_”? And he looked interrogatively to Mrs Mason. Certainly not, the
governess responded: Gretry’s new music! In fact, he rejoined, the
musician could not, either: but that day mysteries seemed to grow, he
added,—for, before himself emerging from the place, at sight of the
church, he had very civilly inquired, from a group of inhabitants, what
was the name of the village. What had been his astonishment to perceive,
that passing from uncivil silence, from stares of wonder, and
extraordinary, sudden indignation, they looked very much disposed to
treat him as it now seemed they had before treated these inoffensive
strangers. Until, adding insult, they had significantly touched their
foreheads, looking to each other, or whispering, until one, perhaps
still more ingenious in giving offence, had suddenly called out, “Bah!
c’est un Anglais!” There had been then no farther notice of him—indeed
absolute indifference; nor did he discover, till he encountered the
injured foreigner, what the name of the place actually was. And was
there, then, really any peculiar crime in asking the name of
_Charlemont_—any strange privacy—any unutterable horror connected with
_it_—that no one should put the mere question? But, at all events, was a
spirit of inquiry to be thought madness! Nay more, was it lower than
madness to be—an Englishman!
Mr Thorpe looked a little discomposed and changed, in fact, even since
they last had seen him. Usually, though not pedantic, he was tedious;
but he began for a moment to appear almost respectable in the very eyes
of his pupil, who had often thought before that the present curate at
Stoke could not be more monotonous, nor the old rector duller: a spark
of spirit seemed for the time to have given emphasis to his words, and
meaning to his face—some faint dignity to his lengthy awkward person,
sitting ordinarily like a sack on his horse, with the gaiters dangling
in the stirrups. Yet how amazingly simple was Mr Thorpe; it was chiefly
the Italian with his battered instruments and beaten animals that seemed
to have roused him from his wont: while as for his chief puzzle, a light
broke on it to the boy at once, from all he had seen and heard of these
French. Why,—of course they thought the whole world should know
Charlemont already!
But, to the ladies, softly plashed and clattered below, from among
alders in the deeper hollow, the mill-wheel of the village, dusty light
flying from the upper door: the cracked striking of a clock was heard
from farther off, till they saw the grey turrets of another yellow
chateau among trees, though but a thread of smoke rose from it, and its
discoloured plaster, where the sunlight struck, gave it a dilapidated
aspect, helped by the pigeons from the dovecote tower close by, that
were sitting on the window-sills and eaves. Full to the light on the
brow of the eminence rose the carriage, widening the landscape on every
side, save where the woods before it extended: there was a smooth, broad
road in front, sweeping round where the labourers were still at work on
it: they were on a hill, and all was exquisitely solitary otherwise for
the first time, except close by, where the highway ran between the two
porter’s-lodges of two great gates that faced each other. These great
gates were, indeed, gorgeously beautiful, being each double, with
side-wickets, all of open ironwork, elaborately complex; gilt crowns
surmounted the globes upon their massy pillars of stone, their upper
rims were formed of fleur-delis, as if of lance-heads, richly gilded;
while the blade-shaped leaves, damasked and lettered with mottoes,
stretched throughout the whole, hither and thither, like guardian
swords, from the uncouth grasp of grotesque naked monsters at the lower
corners; everywhere were small puzzling circles of cipher, and in the
midst the joined halves composed a grand shield-shaped device, burnished
and resplendent on either hand, of the royal arms of France. The very
radiance of the afternoon sun came dazzling towards it, and threw the
other way on the cross road, into one park, a mottled shadow of
fleur-de-lis; shapes of crowns, ciphers, and monsters, even vanished
among the dust of the horses’ feet on the highway as they trotted
past—strange traces from the days of Louis Quatorze. Still was all that
nothing to the broad glimpses of park scenery both ways through them.
Mrs Mason herself saw one way, with unusual commendation, where a
stately distance was made by Lenotre’s taste, in straight avenue, level
turf, and high-clipped side-alleys, where a few well-dressed people were
walking; her frequent headache did not, perhaps, at any time wholly
leave her, but the vinaigrette paused in her hand, as she directed the
attention of Lady and Miss Willoughby to each fine effect. Yet it was
difficult to draw the latter from her absorbed delight the other way;
for there the wilder chase seemed left to nature, the sun levelled more
and more all his yellowing splendour through its deep-green, sinking
glades, flinging out fantastic shadows, shooting gushes of verdurous
light, in which the delicate young fern peeped from about the trunk of
some far-off oak, while the broad umbrage of its gnarled boughs
retreated crisply into cooler shade; the knolls were hung with the
foxglove buds, like crimson bells that had not found a tongue; and all
there was moist, secluded, solitary, sweet, save when some single bird
seemed to wake up and make it musical, till again it trilled and rang
with their innumerable notes. But gradually the road had lifted the
carriage higher yet; it seemed to drive slow by instinct; and ere they
well knew, the whole party made exclamations together, as, with Rose,
they did not know which way to look first. Mr Thorpe came to a
stand-still, and Jackson was shading his eyes, whip in hand, to look
under the sun. Even Lady Willougbby said, fanning herself gently, “Dear
me—what a fine country! what crops!” “Yes—the harvest will be excellent,
I should think,” Mrs Mason replied, using her fan also, it was so hot.
The young lady stood up, and her brother jumped out to get from the top
of the bank upon the wall.
They were nearer Paris than they thought; it bristled and shone through
its haze, some miles away on the plain: westward, the high woods of
Marly showed faint through the edges of two broad sunbeams, as through a
veil, with bluer distinctness between, here a spire, there smoke; the
waves of forest verdure undulating round, began to burn and blaze
towards sunset; all was spotted with towns, sprinkled rich-red and white
with villages, flushed with orchards, and in the barer spaces
embroidered like a carpet that blended with the dark suburbs of the city
on the horizon. Here and there appeared a soft misty glitter of the
circuitous Seine in the level, with some faint white sails; the distant
azure of some hills could be seen; it was all like one mighty map made
real. Yet greatest of all to their eyes, even greater than the dusky
grimness of Paris in the sun, showing its domes so helmet-like, and its
pinnacles so like weapons—was where, with one accord looking back, they
could perceive the silvered slates of one large town among the avenues
they had turned from that forenoon, its steeples shining, its windows
sparkling—and through that transparent French air, some lustrous snowy
glimpses between embosoming bowers, of long level palace-roofs,
embossed, and fringed, and tipped with undistinguishable ornament.
Palaces, indeed, seemed to be visible in every direction; but they
thickened towards _it_; all that way the landscape was but one mass of
park-woods, and with those alleys, gardens, terraces, that long road at
intervals perceived, it could be nothing but Versailles! Charles himself
could not but look. The rainbow flashing of the fountains, and gleam of
statues—the grand stairs of the terrace—they could almost fancy they
distinguished.
It was he who first broke the thread of their interest. Well, he
shouldn’t care to have seen King Louis XVI.; he had once seen George
III. It was easy enough to see him, in fact; if you only but knew it was
he. He had seen a boy at Eton, fag to a friend of his, who was once
spoken to a good while at a turnstile in Windsor Park by an elderly
gentleman in drab gaiters, a nankeen waistcoat, and a blue coat with
bright buttons; and when a ranger came up afterwards from behind, and
told him it was the king, he nearly fainted. He could never learn
anything after that, and always turned pale at the sight of a gold
sovereign, so he had to be sent to sea.
“My dear young gentleman,” said Mr Thorpe seriously, “the King of France
is a much more powerful monarch than even His Majesty King George! I
must beg to correct you on a point of history. He is absolute ruler, not
only of all the land we see, but over the property, nay, the very
persons of his subjects—he is the State himself—as the great Louis XIV.
so emphatically told his nobles. Think of those _lettres du cachet_,
given away even blank in thousands upon thousands—a kind of money, as it
were—exchanged by the courtiers for all kinds of objects—with which, for
all one knows, were he worth notice from some enemy, he may be sent to a
Bastille on no account whatever, to remain there unknown the rest of his
life!”
Charles Willoughby still endeavoured to look indifferent, though the
slight whistle died between his teeth, while he pushed his cap down on
his head, deeply resolved never to lift it to a French king. Mr Thorpe,
drawn into unwonted earnestness, by the expression of the ladies’ faces,
sought to reassure them.
“The character of the present king is such as to make this power a
benefit,” he said. “There seems a rapid decrease of superstition in the
church. Really, Lady Willoughby, there was something idolatrous in this
excessive honour to a human being! To conceive that at his Majesty’s
death, while the body lay for forty days embalmed in lead, a waxen
effigy was placed in the grand hall of entertainment, and served by
gentlemen-waiters at the usual times, while the meal was blessed by the
almoner, the meat carved, and the wine presented to the figure; its
hands were washed and thanks returned. The queen, in white mourning—”
“In white mourning?” inquired the governess, with interest.
“In white, I think, Mrs Mason—sat for six weeks in a chamber lighted by
lamps alone. For a whole year she could not stir out of her own
apartments, if she had received the intelligence there. Although similar
ceremonies were observed after her own decease.”
The feminine impression of former evils in France grew deep. The tutor
could not say whether his present majesty would require such honours.
There was only one person of inferior rank who had ever been
distinguished by a shade of the same respect, though for a shorter time
her effigy had sat. It was the far Gabrielle d’Estrées. “Who was she?”
Rose asked,—“and why”—
“Miss Willoughby,” interrupted Mrs Mason with a sudden air of severity,
rustling and extending and drawing herself erect, “there are some
questions too shocking and improper for us to ask?” Mr Thorpe, with a
frightened look, sat dumb in his saddle; yet Mrs Mason professed to know
history, and her charge must surely learn it: nay, unknown to them all,
among the distant chateaus, palaces, and mansions they were gazing at,
were St Germain’s in the blue eminence, which the great Louis had given
to La Vallière when he wearied of her for Madame de Montespan; and
Luciennes, where Madame du Barry was then living in fashionable
retirement. But the one had been gallant, stately even in his vices; the
royal patron of the other, in his dissipations, had at least been
elegant. Probably Mr Thorpe’s confusion led him to a graver topic.
“The chronicler I have lately perused,” he said, hastily, “is really
worth study. Nothing can be so mournfully salutary. As the coffin was
borne at night to yonder Notre Dame, and thence thereafter to the
ancient town of St Denis, the streets were hung with black, and before
every house was planted a tall lighted torch of white wax. First went
the Capuchins, in their coarse sackcloth girt with ropes, bearing their
huge cross, crowned with thorns—then five hundred poor men, under their
bailiff, all in mourning as for a father—the magistrates and courts of
justice, the parliament of Paris in rich sable furs, the high clergy in
purple and gold—followed by the funeral car drawn by white horses,
covered with black velvet crossed with white satin, and the long train
of officers of the household.”
The great knowledge of the tutor as to textile fabrics interested Mrs
Mason. “Think of the expense!” Lady Willoughby said.
“This vast procession,” pursued Mr Thorpe with solemnity, “went on in
silence, while, as the chronicler quaintly expresses it, ‘ever and aye
the royal musicians made a sound of lamentation, with instruments
clothed in crape, very fierce and marvellously dolorous to hear or to
behold, until they arrived at the church of St Denis,—blessed be his
name! And the bier was borne into the choir, it being a-blaze with lamps
and tapers beyond number, and the service lasted for the King’s soul
several days—whereupon was the body let down into the vault, but not
admitted within the inner chamber until the end of the next reign—and
Normandy, the most ancient king of arms, summoned with a loud voice,
that the high dignitaries should therein deposit their ensigns and
truncheons of command—which done, the sacred oriflamme of France was let
fall down upon the coffin, until the _fleur-de-lis_ began with the noble
Bourbons—and the king of arms cried three times so that the vaults heard
and replied—Ho! the king is dead! The king is dead! The king is dead!
And when silence had been renewed, the same voice proclaimed—Long live
the king!—and all the other heralds repeated it. Then was all finished,
and they departed joyously.’ Really, in those older writers, compared
with those of the present day,—however superstitious, there is
considerable profit to be found.”
And the worthy graduate settled his glasses complacently, used his
pocket-handkerchief in the loud manner he was addicted to, and looked
round with increased attention on the mighty view; for devouter wishes
had long been breeding dimly in his mind, such as the chill
Protestantism even of his revered mother-church did not at that period
satisfy. He did not notice the shrinking, under that full sunlight and
wide azure, with the swarm of summer flies in the ears, and the warble
of birds at hand, with which the youngest of his hearers, at least, felt
the thought of death—above all, that universal one, of sovereign power.
As for Lady Willoughby, her anxious look was chiefly from a reference to
her watch; and it had been growing. She had not even heard Mr Thorpe. It
was time for them to turn into the road from Versailles, as Colonel
Willoughby—Sir Godfrey—would soon be leaving Paris, and he was punctual
to a moment. There was no other way, Jackson said in reply, but by
turning right again through the last village; at his mistress’s request,
accordingly, he suited the action to the word, by backing and wheeling
round. But where was Charles? He had vanished over the wall, apparently,
during his tutor’s irrelevant remarks. To the calls of Mr Thorpe, echoed
from among the woods, he returned no sign. It was annoying. They must
wait; and, at any rate, according to the views of Jackson, generally
unfavourable if required—with these beasts, it would be impossible to
get on in good time, besides having to walk through that village, which
was like nothing English whatever—with perhaps a bucket of water needed
at that there tavern, if such a thing was to be had. The sudden
intelligence of Mr Thorpe suggested a way: he could ride off at once to
meet Sir Godfrey, and set him at ease; in fact, for himself, at least,
it would be easy to avoid the village of Charlemont altogether—by—yes—by
taking that _chemin des affronteux_, as they called it. Lady
Willoughby’s face brightened. Her thanks to Mr Thorpe were something
energetic for _her_: and spurring, rising in his stirrups, bumping up
and down on his white mare, that worthy man disappeared. Rose pressed
her parasol against her mouth to repress a smile, at the thought how
Charles would have enjoyed his following the bear and monkey: but,
through _her_ means, she was resolved he should know nothing of it.
When least expected, Charles reappeared, jumping with a flushed face
over the wall, and carrying a load of wild-flowers for his mother, for
Rose, even for Miss Mason. He had heard distant sounds over the woods of
the chase, which he thought were those of hunting-horns. But all was
again still, bright, sleepy and solitary, under the glory of the sloping
sun. He got in; Jackson whipped his horses at last to a trot, for again
and again they had been passed each way by humbler vehicles; and they
rolled on their way back towards Charlemont. Mr Thorpe’s mission excited
no extraordinary satisfaction in Charles, though he was sure they would
get on better without him. Mr Thorpe ran a strong chance of being taken
up as a spy. All at once it occurred to him that Mr Thorpe had all their
passports. But a scene of far more exciting interest next moment
eclipsed everything like that. Again, from the distance of those
secluded glades, did a sound draw his ear—and it was really the sound of
a bugle-horn—a faint, far-off, musical sound, sometimes smothered by the
woods, then breaking out clearer. It sank into a long-drawn, almost
wailing note, that rose up into a livelier quaver, joined by a burst
from others. It must be a hunt. They were blowing the _Mort_—as they did
only for a stag, and a stag that was dead. Such luck!—for it came ever
nearer. But what a crowd at the turning, near those splendid
gates—twenty times even Charlemont must be there, by the swarming noise!
And the gates themselves, thrown each way open with their double leaves,
closed up the road.
The lad rose half up, with breath suspended, and without a look to spare
for his party, kept mute as the carriage rolled into the crowd on that
side. He did not so much as think what it could be.
Though had there been a chance of the _chemin des affronteux_, and the
carriage could have gone through it—indeed through one long enough and
circuitous enough to avoid all France—it might have been better for the
Willoughbies. Yet who knows? The master-history that shapes our ends is
wiser than we.
CONSERVATIVE REASCENDANCY CONSIDERED.
Ours is an age of peculiar importance. Events seem to be crowded into a
small space of time which, if, spread over half a century, would yet
mark the time as one of peril, action, and renown. In the political
world we view a rapid succession of exciting scenes. The calm of peace
yields to the turmoil of war, and Europe, but lately placid, is now
rocked to its very base, and every nation on the Continent seems torn
with present evils or convulsed in the contemplation of those to come.
The strife of nations has doubtless called forth all the energies of
mankind; and though England is removed from the sphere of action, and
the immediate influence of the war, yet it cannot be said but that she,
too, lies in peril, and partakes the general restlessness of the times.
It becomes her, then, to consider in what lies her safety, and into
whose hands she should commit the guidance of her affairs at this moment
of danger.
Is not England, too, a sharer in this general convulsion? Let us look to
her senate, the heart of this great nation, where all the movements by
which she is agitated can be seen and analysed. First, we see the Whigs
quarrelling amongst themselves, and their consequent fall from power.
Next, we see the Conservative party, with the general acquiescence of
the country, installed in power. Ten short months have elapsed, and we
see that Government, after having conferred, in its short tenure of
office, lasting benefits upon the country, now falling, though by a
slight majority, before a combination of all those various sects,
panting for office, which range between conservatism and turbulent
democracy—between Popery on the one hand, and practical atheism on the
other; at war amongst themselves, yet combined together against a
Government which seemed determined to legislate for the country, and not
for the exclusive interests of any one party. Well might the Minister
exclaim, as he fell before the machinations of his enemies, prescient of
the future, while contemplating the events of the present—“England has
not loved coalitions.” Well might he “appeal from that coalition to that
public opinion which governs this country,” and before whose searching
tribunal that unprincipled combination must soon be brought. If he
desired revenge, he has it now. A government of “all the talents,”
containing, as we are told, within its ranks all the men of official
experience, administrative ability, of parliamentary renown, and so
forth, calling down upon them the contempt of Parliament and the scorn
of the country, succeeds the Derby administration. Forced to abandon
measure after measure, fairly vanquished in those with which they
proceed, obliged to fall back upon their own imagined talent and
ability, which must at any sacrifice of character be preserved at the
service of the country, they are evidently, to all men but themselves,
and a few of their own devoted adherents, eliciting the pity of their
friends and the derision of their enemies. But, then, we are told that
it is the war which prevents them from carrying their measures; that
last session they carried their budget, India bill, &c., with large
majorities, which they regard as a sign that they possess the confidence
of Parliament, and that now Parliament and the country, with their
attention distracted by the war, simply refuse to legislate. We protest
against such arguments as these. It is introducing a dangerous
principle, though it may serve as an excuse for clinging to office with
a disgraceful pertinacity. But does it not occur to them, that probably
the reason they carried their measures last year with such a semblance
of triumph, was in consequence of that forbearance—nay, even favour—with
which every government, new to office, is regarded; that it was, to a
great extent, the result of that disorganisation of their opponents
which ever follows defeat; and that the people, dazzled with
appearances, were willing to admit that we had a government which was
worthy of the confidence of the country. But how have these feelings
been dispelled? Credulity or connivance, disgraceful in such
keen-sighted and patriotic statesmen, has done it all—Parliament has
lost confidence in them, and the country contemns them. Moreover,
blinded by their confidence in their own talents, which has now become a
byword among sensible men, they still declare they carry with them the
confidence of the country, because in all matters connected with the war
they still possess majorities. Such reasoning as this does not hold. The
reason that they carry their financial measures so decisively through
the House is, that many, who do not feel so strongly as others on the
injustice of the measures proposed, are willing to support those
measures rather than have it appear on the Continent that the House of
Commons has refused the sinews of war at the very commencement of the
struggle. It is not the war which prevents their carrying other
measures, it is the war which enables them to carry what they do.
But how has this been brought about?—how is it that this Government has
so rapidly lost the favour of the people, and been reduced to the
position of being a Government on sufferance? The reason is to be found
in that general discontent and excitement which from Europe have
infected England. Men are excited at what is passing abroad, and
distrustful of affairs within. The want of union and mutual distrust
which exist in headquarters, is spread throughout the kingdom. Those
feelings of distrust and disagreement existing in the Government become
every day more apparent, and add to the anxiety with which its motions
are regarded. This distrust and anxiety must be prevalent whilst this
state of things continues. It is only by the reascendancy of the
Conservative party that they can be surmounted, and by the advent to
power of men who have confidence in each other, who have unity of
sentiment amongst themselves, and who are backed by united followers;
who have, each and all, the same objects in view—viz., a firm resistance
to Russian aggression and the establishment of a durable peace, the
maintenance of our Protestant religion, and justice to all parties in
the State. Unity of sentiment amongst the members of a government is of
the greatest importance to the happiness and welfare of the people.
There never, probably, was a Cabinet in which there were so many “open
questions” as the present. Since so many of them are Peelites, we may as
well have the opinion of Sir Robert Peel himself on those self-same open
questions. We subjoin an extract of a speech delivered in 1840 by that
eminent statesman, on a motion of want of confidence in Ministers, in
which he refers, without any ambiguity of expression, to the fatality of
open questions:—
“But there is a new resource for an incompetent Administration—there
is the ingenious device of open questions, the cunning scheme of
adding to the strength of a weak government by proclaiming its
disunion. It will be a fatal policy, indeed, if that which has
hitherto been an exception, and always an unfortunate exception in
recent times, is hereafter to constitute the rule of Government. If
every government may say, ‘We feel pressed by those behind us—we find
ourselves unable, by steadily maintaining our own opinions, to command
the majority and retain the confidence of our followers, our remedy is
an easy one—let us make each question an open question, and thereby
destroy every obstacle to every possible combination;’—what will be
the consequence? The exclusion of honourable and able men from the
conduct of affairs, and the unprincipled coalition of the refuse of
every party. The right honourable gentleman has said that there have
been instances of ‘open questions’ in the recent history of this
country. There have been; but there has scarcely been one that has not
been pregnant with evil, and which has not been branded by an
impartial posterity with censure and disgrace. He said, that in 1782
Mr Fox made Parliamentary Reform an open question; that Mr Pitt did so
on the Slave-trade; and that the Catholic Question was an open one.
Why, if ever lessons were written for your instruction, to guard you
against the recurrence to open questions, you will find them in these
melancholy examples. The first instance was the coalition of Mr Fox
and Lord North, which could not have taken place without open
questions. Does the right honourable gentleman know that that very
fact—the union in office of men who had differed, and continued to
differ on great constitutional and vital questions—produced such a
degree of discontent and disgust, as to lead to the disgraceful
expulsion of that Government? The second instance was that of the
Slave-trade; but has not that act of Mr Pitt (the permitting of the
Slave-trade to be an open question) been more condemned than any other
act of his public life? The next instance cited was that of the
Catholic Question. I have had some experience of the evils which arose
from making Catholic emancipation an open question. All parties in
this House were equally responsible for them. Fox made it an open
question; Pitt made it an open question; Lord Liverpool made it an
open question; Canning made it an open question. Each had to plead an
urgent necessity for tolerating disunion in the Cabinet on this great
question; but there cannot be a doubt that the practical result of
that disunion was to introduce discord amongst public men, and to
paralyse the vigour of the executive government. Every act of
administration was tainted by disunion in the Cabinet. Every party was
jealous of the predominance of the other. Each party must be
represented in the government of that very country which required,
above all things, a united and resolute Government. There must be a
lord-lieutenant of one class of opinions, a secretary of the opposite,
beginning their administration in harmony, but in spite of themselves
becoming each the nucleus of a party, gradually converting reciprocal
confidence into jealousy and distrust. It was my conviction of the
evils of such a state of things—of the long experience of distracted
councils, of the curse of an open question, as it affected the
practical government of Ireland—it was this conviction, and not the
fear of physical force, that convinced me that the policy must be
abandoned. I do not believe that the making the Catholic question an
open question facilitated the ultimate settlement of it. If the
decided friends of emancipation had refused to unite in government
with its opponents, the question would have been settled at an earlier
period, and (as it ought to have been) under better auspices. So much
for the encouraging examples of the right honourable gentleman. They
were fatal exceptions from the general policy of Government. If, as I
before observed, such exceptions are to constitute the future rule of
Government, there is an end to public confidence in the honour and
integrity of great political parties, a severance of all ties which
constitute party connections, a premium upon the shabby and shuffling
conduct of unprincipled politicians.”
Such were the sentiments of Sir Robert Peel with regard to open
questions in the Melbourne Cabinet: how much more completely those
remarks apply to the present Government it is needless to point out.
Again are the open questions in the Melbourne Cabinet vigorously
attacked; but this time in the House of Lords, and by a more energetic
and fiery orator:—
“My Lords,—‘_Idem sentire de republicâ_’ has been in all times, and
amongst the best of statesmen, a bond of union at once intelligible,
honourable, conducive to the common weal. But there is another kind of
union formed of baser materials—a tie that knits together far
different natures, the ‘_eadem velle atque nolle_,’ and of this it has
been known and been said, ‘_ea demum, inter malos, est prime
amicitia_.’ The abandonment of all opinions, the sacrifice of every
sentiment, the preference of sordid interest to honest principle, the
utter abdication of the power to act as conscience dictates and sense
of duty recommends—such is the vile dross of which the links are made
which bind profligate men together in a ‘covenant of shame;’ a
confederacy to seek their own advancement at the expense of every
duty;—and this, my Lords, is the literal meaning of ‘open questions.’
It is that each has his known recorded opinions, but that each is
willing to sacrifice them rather than break up the government to which
he belongs: the ‘_velle_’ is to keep in office, the ‘_nolle_’ to keep
out all antagonists; and none dare speak his mind in his official
capacity without losing the ‘_firmitas amicitiæ_,’ by shaking the
foundations of the Government.”
Here is a splendid outburst of vehement denunciation. If that could be
applied with justice to the Government of Lord Melbourne, if such an
invective as that is an index of the state of opinion in the country at
that time, with reference to the dissensions in the Whig Cabinet, how
much more applicable is it to the Coalition of the present day, with
regard to whose members, putting out of sight the question of Free
Trade, which is now the law of the land, there is hardly a question of
public importance to which we can point as an example that ‘_idem
sentire de republicâ_’ is their bond of union. Discontent and anxiety
may well prevail when we have, in times so important as these, a
Ministry in power so disunited, and composed of such discordant
elements, such base materials as the present, and backed by followers
who, true to their nature, are constantly quarrelling amongst
themselves. Look at the diversity of sentiment displayed in their
recorded speeches on that subject which, more than any other, is
uppermost in the minds of the people. There is Lord John Russell in the
House of Commons inveighing against the criminal ambition of the Czar of
Russia, declaring that “this enormous power has got to such a pitch,
that even in its moderation it resembles the ambition of other states;”
arguing that that power must be checked; telling the people of England
that they must be prepared to enter the contest with a stout heart and a
willing mind, and then solemnly invoking the God of justice to prosper
her Majesty’s arms, to defend the right! We have the Home Secretary and
the Earl of Clarendon completely subscribing to these sentiments; but we
have the Prime Minister, who more than any other man ought, now that war
is declared, to be imbued with hostile feelings against Russian
aggression, and determined to carry on the war with vigour, eternally
whining after peace, and throwing cold water on the ardour of the people
by constantly enlarging on the horrors of war and the blessings of
peace. They say that old age is second childhood. England seems likely
soon to become aware of this fact, through dire experience. Her Premier,
on the Continent, is described, and rightly so, as “the apologist of
Russia;” the Minister who is supposed to be, more than any other, in the
confidence of his Sovereign. Talk of explanation! The very fact of his
entertaining sentiments with regard to Russia so ambiguous, so
equivocal, and so lenient towards the enemy of his country, that
actually in giving expression to them he is mistaken for offering an
apology for the Czar, and exposed to the scorn of the country and the
distrust of Europe, seems to us to be amply sufficient to disqualify him
henceforth for ever being “the first Minister of the first Sovereign in
the world” during the eventful period of war; and the only charitable
construction which we can give to the passage is, that he—our helmsman
in the storm—has entered upon his dotage, and returned to the proverbial
folly of childhood. If his sentiments are the result of mere folly, then
he may properly be charged with credulity; if his friendship for the
Czar regulates his conduct, then it is connivance for which he is
answerable. In either sense he is unfit for his office. There may be,
for aught we know—indeed there probably are—others in the Cabinet of the
same frame of mind. The man who could denounce Turkey as a country full
of anomalies and inconsistencies, and endeavour with all the force of
his “sanctimonious rhetoric” to excite an antipathy to that State, and
despair at her fate, just at the moment when it was necessary to rouse
the people against Russian aggression, was merely supporting the
Emperor’s theory of the “sick man,” and cannot be said to have any
definite ideas with reference to the aggressive policy of Russia, to
check which we are at war; or any very great sympathy with that country
to defend which we are also at war. Here is discordancy in the Cabinet
on the most vital question; and there is probably as much on every other
question that is brought before the notice of the British Parliament.
Here is food for discontent and anxiety to the people of England. Thus
may their ardour be damped and their spirits quenched long ere the
struggle has concluded. And if we look at the supporters of the
Government—the Ministerial party, as they are termed—there, too, we
behold the same intestine strife. What has been the attitude of the
Manchester party with regard to the Government?—what the attitude of the
Whig statesmen who have been “banished to invisible corners of the
senate?”—what of the Whig peers—such men, for example, as Lords Grey,
Clanricarde, and others? Mr Bright and the Whig peers are openly, though
on different grounds, hostile to the Ministerial policy, the others
scarcely less so. The Manchester party rank amongst the regular
supporters of the Government, yet they appeal to the Opposition to know
“whether they don’t occupy a very absurd position” in following men who
will not lead them, and are derisively answered in the affirmative. If
they criticise the course of the Government, their opinion is regarded
with the “greatest indifference and contempt.” Thus do matters stand,
and yet Ministers have the audacity to affirm that they possess the
confidence of Parliament, and that it is the war which prevents the
success of their measures. But is this the front which we are to present
to our foes? Are we to exhibit to Russia, as our leaders in the strife,
a Government on sufferance notoriously incompetent, whether at home
legislation or foreign negotiation? Is not Conservative reascendancy the
only salvation of the country? Does not the nation at large pant for
something like a Government—one which is followed by a united party—one
which is at unison in itself—one of principle and not of expediency?
When we see a Government openly hostile amongst themselves, scorned and
contemned by the country, beaten on every point by their opponents,
obliged to withdraw measure after measure, and retaining one only after
it, as has been observed before, has undergone as many metamorphoses as
ever Ovid described—when we see all this, which we can hardly do without
being roused to feelings of indignation, it appears to us necessary to
consider how may this be remedied, how may Russia be firmly opposed, how
may England be rescued from the pernicious effects of an incapable
Government, and how may unanimity be restored to the councils of her
Majesty?
It is very evident, that only by the reascendancy of the Conservative
party can these blessings be secured to the country. The tradition of
that party is, as its name implies, the preservation of our institutions
in Church and State. This is a definite object. That it is a desirable
one, is a conclusion which is arrived at by one course of reasoning, the
same premises, the same logical inferences. Hence the Conservative party
is a united band. A Conservative Minister cannot be a Minister on
sufferance; a Whig Minister must. The Whigs are ever desirous of change,
and the so-called amelioration of our institutions; but few of them
agree together in the paramount importance which attaches to the reform
of any particular abuse, or in the amount of innovation which it is
desirable to introduce. Hence they are always at variance with each
other when the time for action arrives; and this incapacitates them for
carrying on the Queen’s government. If popular enthusiasm comes to their
aid, and force them on in spite of themselves, then the case is
different. The Reform Bill of 1832 was carried triumphantly, but by the
people. Popular enthusiasm supplied vigour to the executive. Contrast
this with another Reform Bill, of no very distant date, as regards its
introduction at least, though few of the present generation are likely
to see that bill become the law of the land. The time was unfortunate
for Whig administrators, though backed by those who claim to themselves
the name of Conservatives. A Russian war carried that enthusiasm, so
necessary to the Whigs, through another channel, and exposed in a
ludicrous manner the true value of a Liberal Administration, and their
dependence upon the popular will. True, there was a large party in the
Senate clamorous for reform—perhaps a majority. There was no hesitation
amongst members to conclude that reform was necessary, for these are
liberal times. How, then, do we account for their ill-success? By
adopting a happy description of their worth as statesmen, given long
ago: “Their head is at fever heat, but their hand is paralysed.” They
are not slow to adopt as their own any principle, though calculated to
throw the country in a flame, so long as it is traditionally the
property of their party. But when the time for action arrives, when that
principle is to be embodied in a bill, and that theory is to be reduced
to a practical test, then comes division and discontent. One portion
objects to this part as too sweeping, while another declares it to be
too confined. This wants one remedy, the other declares the wished-for
remedy will only prove an aggravation of the malady. There is no
hesitation in adopting any principle, however dangerous. Give them the
opportunity—the advantageous opportunity, in the eyes of politicians—of
putting their plans into execution, and immediately we behold
irresolution, consequent upon dissension, and inactivity, the offspring
of indecision. Only divert the populace from them, who, when roused,
carry all before them, as it were, and force their leaders to bury their
dissensions—only deprive them of that support, and then you see the
intrinsic worth of your Whig statesman. He may carry, perhaps, one bold
measure; but his title to succeeding years of administration rests upon
the gratitude of his supporters. He is unable to carry those minor
measures—those measures of equal public importance, though of a less
conspicuous character—more solid though less showy—which contribute so
much to the moral happiness and physical enjoyment of a great nation,
and which are the pillars of a statesman’s fame. There is no firmness in
a Whig ruler—there cannot be, if he would reconcile and command the
confidence of all the various sects of his followers. Who was it that
held with a firm and steady hand the helm of England, when all other
Continental nations were submerged in ruin? A Conservative statesman. No
Whig Minister could have succeeded then. The utmost firmness and
steadiness in conducting the public business of this country were then
required. No Whig Cabinet could have guided the fortunes of England
then. Obliged to truckle first to this man’s fancies, then to another’s
follies, they are but a faithful index of the dissension amongst their
followers, and uncertainty and irresolution are sure to follow. Yet to
such as these are our fortunes, in times so perilous as our own,
committed; and already are the baneful effects visible. If the
Conservative party were to pursue the course which the Opposition of
former days is known to have taken, what would be the position of the
Government? If their opponents were not to support them in the war, the
conduct of it would be in the same position as all the other measures
which they have brought forward this session, and for the success of
which they are dependent upon their followers. Such a state of affairs
may continue for a time, but it must eventually call down the
indignation of the country. No wonder that the conduct of our Government
constantly gives rise to the suspicion that they are too desirous for
the cessation of hostilities. It is manifestly their interest so to
appear, if it be not also so to act. A peace, even though it were merely
an armed truce, would satisfy the cravings of many of their followers;
and probably the belief that such may be obtained, renders them less
disagreeable to the Government than they would otherwise have proved
themselves.
Never, perhaps, was the inability of the Whig party to govern exhibited
in such a marked manner as at the period immediately succeeding the
passing of the Reform Bill. With a majority of three hundred, they yet
disagreed amongst themselves concerning the desirability of introducing
innovations into the Irish Church, and they fell. Some have declared
that an excess of power—a majority too large to manage—was fatal to the
endurance of their power. We rather think that it was but a conclusive
proof that a Whig Minister _must_ be a Minister on sufferance—in other
words, is unable to govern. Unhappily for themselves, at the period to
which we are alluding, a rather more important question than usual
occasioned the schism. Those who disagreed did not merely, as generally
happens in these cases, hold aloof for a time, embarrass the Government,
and then return to their allegiance, but they went at once into open
hostility. They retired to swell the Conservative ranks. This is a
specimen, on an exaggerated scale perhaps, of what is constantly
occurring when a Whig Ministry is in power. For what do we see now? We
behold the Conservative party united in their opinions with regard to
Russian aggression upon Turkey. In the Ministerial host there is
nothing, as usual, but dissension and endless disagreement. The
Manchester party condemns the war and everything belonging to it. The
Peelites evidently look with a cold eye upon it; they believe not in the
vitality of Turkey, or in the danger of Russian aggrandisement. So far
there is agreement between these sects. They cannot, however, form one
party, for there is disagreement between them on vital points connected
with Home administration. Then, again, there are the philosophical
Radicals demanding the Ballot, while the aristocratic Whigs most
properly declare that secret voting shall never become one of the
institutions of the country. In short, the Ministerial camp is split up
into various and opposing sects, which are continually warring with each
other, while the Cabinet itself is but another scene of this general
medley and confusion, this discontent and convulsion; and its executive
power is paralysed by internal discord. The introduction of the Peelites
amongst the Whigs has but increased the differences in the camp. Never
was there a time when the internal dissensions of a Ministerial host
were so marked, so wide-spreading, or so notorious. And this, too, at
this critical time, when England ought especially to be calm and
tranquil within, in order to be able to consider well what are her
interests without. Is this to continue? Are the interests of England and
Europe to be jeopardied by the continuance in power of a Ministry so
divided and so weak? It is, we think, a truly logical inference that the
fall of the Coalition, and the reascendancy of the Conservative party,
is the only method by which an end can be put to that constant strife,
and unanimity restored to the councils of our Sovereign. In a time of
war, it is of the last importance that a Ministry should be united and
firm, and possessed of the confidence of the country. Every one will
probably admit this; but, then, does the Coalition answer to this
description?
It is idle to pursue this subject further. No one who really wishes well
to his country in this emergency, can say that it is to the present
Government that we ought to confide the direction of our affairs, unless
he be dazzled by the undoubted splendour of their names. There are,
doubtless, great talents amongst them; but there is such a thing as the
utmost danger in a superfluity of talent, particularly when applied to
pursuits to which they are not especially adapted. Too much collective
talent begets an overweening self-confidence, and lessens the sense of
responsibility; moreover, if this too great self-confidence be brought
to bear its influence in the direction of affairs of which one is
ignorant, no beneficial result is to be expected. Again, if all these
misdirected and misapplied talents be controlled by an incapable chief,
can it be said that their administrative abilities are placed at service
of the country? No! personal pique and private considerations prevent
it. We need not dwell upon the incapability of the First Lord of the
Treasury, which is now generally admitted. We now look to the other
prominent members of the Government. The office assigned to Lord
Palmerston is the most notoriously incongruous. With a world-wide
reputation for his administration of our foreign affairs, gained in an
experience of them for sixteen years, his lordship is placed in an
office where he may exercise his negotiative powers with county
magistrates, town constables, and the like. There he is—the most popular
Foreign Secretary of the day, the man in whom the country has perhaps as
great a confidence as in any one, engaged in squabbles over town police,
graveyards, sewers, and the rest. Lord Palmerston cannot be said to be
at home in his office. The country is disposed to look with favour upon
him on account of his great name and services; but does he really make a
better Home Secretary than Mr Walpole? Why was he not transferred to the
War Office on its creation, with his extensive knowledge of European
affairs? If the interests of the country had been consulted, undoubtedly
he would; but again private considerations were opposed to the national
will and the public weal; and the Duke of Newcastle, who has as yet no
claims to public confidence, is placed in an office to which, on the
formation of the Government, it cannot be said that he was assigned.
Again, there is Sir George Grey, who is adapted more especially to the
Home Office, if to any; but, “being more remarkable for his private
virtues than his administrative abilities,” is certainly not the man to
be unceremoniously pitchforked into an office with which he has no
acquaintance, other than the little he is supposed to have learnt during
the “disastrous administration of Lord Glenelg.” If there are talents
here—if there is experience here—as in Lord Palmerston’s case, so in
this; the experience is rendered nothing worth, and the talents
misapplied. It is unnecessary to dilate further upon this subject; let
us look at the blessings derived to the country from the administrative
abilities of those whose talents have not been misdirected. There is our
gifted Chancellor of the Exchequer, who has made more mistakes within a
given time than any of his predecessors in the past century; and when we
remember that financial blunders are national misfortunes, it is no
matter of wonder that people refuse to regard him with an eye of favour,
even though we overlook the probable pernicious effects of his
Tractarian tendencies over the Church of England, felt through his
influence over the disposal of the Church patronage. How long will
England, dazzled by names, overlook facts and their consequences? Divest
the members of the Government of their previous reputation, of their
great names—give them names unknown to the country, and what language
sufficiently strong would be found to apply to such an incapable
Administration, with all their blunders, their dissensions, and their
disastrous speculations? Had Lord Derby and his colleagues committed
half the blunders of this Cabinet—had they attempted to tamper
recklessly with our finances—had they involved us in a war which might
have been avoided by sufficient plain-speaking in negotiation, what
would their opponents have said? Would we have witnessed the patriotic
course which we have seen the Opposition of the present day adopt? Few
would suppose it, when they recall to mind the undignified hurry which
the Opposition manifested for office during the brief period which
elapsed between the assembling of Parliament in November 1852 and the
Christmas vacation—a restlessness which induced them all to combine
together, Whig, Radical, and Peelite, High Church and Dissent, in order
to overthrow the Administration of the day; while their unredeemed
compact with the Roman Catholics will not easily be forgotten. Few would
suppose it, when they recall to mind the course adopted by the Whig
Opposition during the last war, when, for factious purposes, victories
were represented as defeats, the movements of the British general
rendered the battlefield of party strife at home, and the motions of the
Government clogged by the hands of unprincipled and factious opponents.
Few would suppose it, when they recollect that Whig alacrity to accept
office is only equalled by Conservative disdain to hold it on
sufferance. But what was the conduct of the Government of Lord Derby? Is
not that Government now admitted to have been the instrument of more
good to the country, in its short tenure of office, than was ever
effected by any of its predecessors within so short a time? And if we
remember the immense amount of opposition which was brought to bear
against it; that, in the first few months of its existence, the
completion of the business of Parliament, previous to its dissolution,
was all that was expected or required at its hands; that, after the
dissolution, a majority of nineteen effected, though with the greatest
difficulty, the overthrow of the Administration, without allowing the
smallest time for the trial of their legislative powers, it must be
admitted that the members of that Conservative Government, in the face
of the greatest difficulties, exhibited administrative abilities of a
high order. They were unable, from circumstances, to take advantage,
like their successors, of the tide of popular favour which in these days
is sure to run in the direction of a new Administration, because they
were only expected to wind up, as quickly as they could, the
Parliamentary business of the session. Yet to them may be traced the
advantages we possessed in preparation for the present war. They were
the first Government who dared to come down to the British House of
Commons, and tell it the national defences were insecure, and demand the
means of placing England in a position to resist any threatened
invasion. Do we not owe to them the establishment of our militia? Was
not that a bill than which none has been more perfect in its details, or
more universally satisfactory to the country? Do we not owe to them the
establishment of our Channel Fleet on such a footing that it secured
England from all aggression? Then was laid the basis of that splendid
fleet which a few months back left our shores for the Baltic Sea. Again,
it is to their prescience that we can trace the advantages which are
derived to ourselves, and to the cause of civilisation and independence,
from our present amicable relations with France. Did they not, in
opposition to the popular will, unequivocally expressed, and in the face
of the utmost censure of the press, persist in cultivating the
friendship of France? To that firmness and political sagacity we trace
the advantages we derive from having so powerful a friend by whose side
to fight in the cause of Europe. Contrast this with the conduct of that
brilliant Administration which was to rescue England from the evil
position into which it was brought by the reckless Derby Government, and
what do we find? Two members of that Government, immediately on taking
office, commence their abuse of the French Emperor in no measured terms.
Nor is this all: Their brilliant opponent, who was naturally desirous to
bring such a glaring indiscretion before the notice of the Commons of
England, was charged by the triumphant Coalition with having a mind
deeply imbued with faction. The like absence of political sagacity is
observable throughout the whole course of the Government. With a war
staring us in the face, which ought to have appeared almost inevitable
to the Government, with their superior information and knowledge of
facts, the Chancellor of the Exchequer brings forward a Peace Budget,
parting with an important item in our revenue. This was another blow
levelled against the agricultural interest through the indiscretion of
the Government, for it resulted in soap being relieved at the expense of
malt. Our discreet Chancellor parts with a quantity of revenue derived
from indirect taxation one year, and redeems his blunder the next by
levying an increased tax on malt. But what are we to expect from a
Chancellor of the Exchequer whose administration of the finances has
been one continued system of blunders? The secret lies in this: All his
various failings arise from his having entered upon schemes in which, as
he proceeded, he soon found himself out of his depth. Another minister
would have been deterred from entering upon them, from a sense of the
responsibility he would incur. But when a Ministry fancies it contains
within itself all the available administrative talent in the Empire, the
sense of responsibility is lightened, because opponents are undervalued,
and self-confidence augmented. Here, again, do all the other
misdemeanours of the Cabinet take their origin. Confident in themselves,
and in their fancied influence over Parliament, they bring forward, in
the face of war, a larger number of important measures than ever before
were introduced to Parliament in the same session. They only exhibited
their own weakness. They proved that their plans of legislation differ
materially from those of the House of Commons. They discovered that even
all the talents cannot blunder with impunity, and they have rapidly sunk
in public estimation. Their conduct has disgusted their followers, and
provoked a powerful opposition. Their numerous indiscretions would
certainly not have been tolerated in any men but our talented rulers in
the Coalition; and even they are suffering from the effects of their
rashness, but nevertheless seem determined to “survive in office the
honour of their administration.” Referring, again, to the Derby
Government of 1852, we ask if the Earl of Malmesbury, or any two
important members of that Administration, had been afflicted with a like
absence of political sagacity to that displayed by Sir James Graham and
Sir Charles Wood, where would have been our relations with France? If
that Government had, for the sake of the popularity which Sir James
Graham values so much, but which no Minister has been so unfortunate in
his attempt to gain, joined in the temporary popular resentment against
the French Emperor, when would the breach have been healed? But _they_
showed that they understood the interests of the country, and contrast
in a favourable light with the members of the Coalition and their
misdeeds. They evidently were aware of the deep responsibility under
which they lay, and thus their actions were marked with a caution which
is not observed by their successors. If Mr Disraeli had not handed over
a large balance to his rival, what would have been the effect of the
failure of his schemes? It comes to this, then: The forethought and
prudence of the Derby Government have only had the effect of shielding
the Coalition from the worst consequences of their indiscretions and
total failures, and enabling the country to withstand the
mal-administration of its present rulers, instead of being improved and
brought to be of permanent advantage to the nation. It may, however, be
thought to be a great drawback to Conservative reascendancy, that the
leaders of that great party are, for the most part, comparatively
inexperienced in office. However that may be, the administration of ten
months’ duration stands out in broad relief between its predecessor and
the Coalition; at all events, it would be difficult for them to commit
more blunders than the present talented and _experienced_
Administration. But can a charge of inability be fairly urged against a
party which contains within its ranks men of such talent, parliamentary
experience, and sagacity as the Earl of Derby, Lord St Leonards, Lord
Eglinton, Disraeli, Walpole, Thesiger, Kelly, Pakington, Malmesbury,
Bulwer Lytton, Stanley, Manners, and the other Conservative statesmen?
The year 1852 must, in the eyes of thinking men, for ever dispel such an
imputation. The same party which, shorn of its leaders in 1846, yet sent
forward to maintain its cause in that “sad fierce session” its champions
in debate, so many and so powerful as to astonish its foes and restore
spirit amongst its ranks, produced also, in time of need, statesmen
whose official career, short though it was, does no discredit to their
followers—the gentlemen of England. The chiefs in either House, in
particular, are men of brilliant talent and tried sagacity. Trained in
the Liberal ranks, it may be presumed that they are deeply convinced of
the danger of continually seeking after that phantom, which, the nearer
we approach, the farther it recedes—viz., a system of representation
which shall do justice to all parties in the State; while, at the same
time, that very training has divested them of that spirit of exclusion,
and that horror of anything approaching to innovation, which were the
chief imputations against the Toryism of bygone times, but which do not
accord with the intelligence of the present age. The Earl of Derby, as
every one knows, was a member of that Cabinet which secured the reform
of Parliament. He has since been engaged in endeavouring, and not
unsuccessfully, to stem the tide of democracy which then set in. For
that end he joined Sir Robert Peel—for that end he left him. Mr
Disraeli, too, awakening to a full sense of the danger which “the
youthful energies of Radicalism” are too well calculated to produce,
became a decided Conservative, though not a bigoted exclusionist. To
these principles he has steadily adhered in the whole course of his
parliamentary career, which has now spread over a term of seventeen
years. No man needs to stand higher in the estimation of his party than
does the member for Buckinghamshire. Gifted with talents which fall to
the lot of but few, possessed of keen sagacity, indomitable resolution,
and extensive knowledge, he has never shrunk from placing at the service
of his country, and of the great party of which he is the recognised
chieftain, the utmost efforts of his admired and envied genius. Where is
the man who has more unflinchingly stood by his party at all seasons,
both of adversity and prosperity? His rapid elevation has, no doubt,
been viewed by many with feelings of dissatisfaction; for
“Envy does merit, as its shade, pursue.”
It is evident that he has also many personal enemies. The man who
overthrew a Government which many supposed would have continued during
the lifetime of its leader, and even have survived him, is not likely to
be regarded with any especial favour by the members of that Cabinet. The
uncompromising hostility which he bore to them has roused their utmost
indignation, and his character has been unsparingly attacked. Some have
had the sagacity to detect the cloven hoof in every step which he has
made in public life; nor has he been allowed by them to possess the
smallest particle of political virtue, and “one of the humblest
individuals of this vast empire” has thought fit to embody his views of
the political career of Mr Disraeli in a somewhat bulky volume, where he
has given vent to his holy indignation. Such a production would have
been a disgrace to the age, even if the author had had the courage to
place his name at the head of it, for it is introducing into party
warfare a weapon which is most unfair, unjust, and dishonourable. No
statesman can condescend to notice such an attack; and when the author
withholds his name and sends forth his anonymous slander into the world,
then it must be confessed that the cowardly spirit in which it has been
undertaken has only aggravated its revolting character.
Mr Disraeli is an original genius. His great fault in early life was,
that he formed his conclusions without deep study, and trusting chiefly
to the power of his own intellect. With all the conceit and precipitancy
of youth, he immediately gave forth to the world the conclusions at
which he had arrived. Many of these were wild and improbable, and his
maturer years discovered their true nature. His father was, as is well
known, a Jew, while his ancestors were, down to a recent period, the
natives of a foreign soil. The son, then, inherited no hereditary
political principles, which are in England, generally, handed down from
one generation to another, unchanging and unchanged. Mr Disraeli had
therefore to choose for himself, from the wide field of English
politics, those principles which appeared to his unbiassed mind most in
accordance with the true spirit of the British constitution. The choice
which he adopted, and the subsequent changes through which he passed,
appear to us to be nothing but the natural workings of an unfettered
mind, and which any man may, and probably often does, undergo, as he
ponders over the English constitution and the science of government in
the recesses of his own study. It is natural that, as an Englishman
contemplates our form of government, as he becomes acquainted with its
operations, and as he compares its results with reference to the mind,
the habits, and the temper of the people with the influence of
Continental governments over their subjects, he should be filled with
admiration at the wonderful manner in which the united harmonious action
of the Three Estates of the realm is secured; and his first thought is,
that it must be preserved unimpaired and inviolate. As he proceeds, he
finds blemishes, anomalies, and imperfections; these he concludes should
be eradicated, and with all the ardour of youth he thinks that, once
these disappear, a form of government remains complete in its splendour,
and splendid in its completeness. A wider intercourse with the world, a
more extensive knowledge of mankind, must dissipate in many minds this
perhaps fondly-cherished sentiment. Perfection cannot be
attained—contentment is never the lot of humanity; and perhaps it is
better that each should endeavour to forget his particular object of
antipathy, and unite in consolidating and preserving those institutions,
with their many imperfections, than hazard their extinction by endless
struggles after their purification. Are not these legitimate changes of
opinion? A man who has thus formed his political opinions, remains a
staunch Conservative, but eschews all those more repulsive features of
Toryism, which do but defeat their own end, and raise up against itself,
in power too strong to be resisted, the very influences it wishes to
control and counteract. But what shall we say of a young man who thinks
fit, in the impetuous ardour of his ambition, to publish to the world
his opinions as they are forming? We may smile at the vanity displayed,
and at the folly of such a course; but we may shrink from casting
imputations and urging motives, from which a virtuous mind recoils, for
the mere purpose of blackening and traducing the character of a
political opponent. Such, however, is the course pursued by Mr
Disraeli’s enemies; but we should think that the strong malevolence
displayed in those satires and slanders must insure their being
discarded by “all in whom political partisanship has not extinguished
the common feelings of humanity.” It is said that Mr Disraeli’s changes
of opinion were with a view to self-aggrandisement. The charge, we
presume, rests upon the pretence that he was the better for each change.
This may be; but we think an ardent, clever, and ambitious man like Mr
Disraeli, would have risen to eminence whatever line of politics he
adopted. It was not more difficult for him to get into Parliament as a
Radical than as a Tory; indeed, this seems to be unwittingly allowed by
his biographer when he states that his election for High Wycombe was
lost because Mr Hume withdrew his support in consequence of Mr
Disraeli’s refusing to compromise his opinions with regard to the Whigs.
It is, however, a decidedly unfair course to rake together all that has
fallen from an aspiring and even giddy youth, no matter whether in the
heat of political contest or in the turmoil of an election strife, and
then call him in his maturity to a severe account. No charitable
construction is ever allowed to Mr Disraeli’s public acts. It is always
easy to get up a colourable case against an English statesman, all whose
acts lay bare before the eager gaze of the public. It requires the
exercising of very little ingenuity to hang together a consistent string
of facts with which to stigmatise with baseness the career of any
politician, however brilliant in talent or in character. Mr Disraeli has
risen from the people; he has excited the envy of some and the hatred of
others, who indulge their vengeful feelings in spreading their malicious
slanders; nor is the most stainless character proof against such
assaults, since they can quickly acquire a consistency of character, and
gain a hold on men’s minds when they are dinned into one’s ears on all
sides. How easy it might be to make up a case of political profligacy
against Sir James Graham, who has been through more political changes,
and that, too, since he was a representative of the people, than any
other statesman of the day! How easy it might be to discern in this the
workings of a restless ambition! A colourable case is soon made, and
then let a certain number of newspapers indulge in comments upon it, and
spread the calumnies, each in his own strain, and all spiced with a
little outpouring of virtuous indignation, and the best character is
sure to be injured by it. There are some in these charitable times who
can defend a Cromwell; we apprehend that with far less exercise of
ingenuity can the character of the Conservative leader be maintained.
But if it be true that Cromwell is not the remorseless villain which his
history had depicted him, then it only shows how easily characters can
be fatally blackened by constantly harping on the evil points, and
quietly omitting all mention of the good.
Throughout the whole parliamentary career of Mr Disraeli, a consistent
course of conduct with reference to State policy has been pursued;
though it is observable that, in the first few years, he had not yet
thrown away some of his extraordinary theories. We see that, as he
advances in manhood, and becomes practically acquainted with
legislation, the vain conceptions and egotistic vanity of his youth pass
away, and he settles down into a steady, through-going, parliamentary
chief. The different opinions which he has at times expressed of various
statesmen are easily to be accounted for, though some who, as the poet
says, judge of others by themselves, may discern in this discreditable
motives. Public opinion is always varying with regard to public men, and
a young man is likely to be influenced by it. But, at all events, he
ought, through motives of modesty, to keep his opinion to himself; and
it is of the greatest importance that one who aspires to be a statesman
in this country, where parties are always changing, should not be
constantly giving expression to the feelings of the moment. It is not
safe for a politician; for while he is giving vent to what is generally
a mere fancied animosity to the mere party-feeling of the moment, he may
perhaps be throwing down the gauntlet at the feet of a future colleague;
and all for no purpose, for oftentimes there is no foundation for
aversion to a public man. Nor is it right that the House of Commons, our
country, and Continental nations, should be constantly hearing statesmen
mutually complimenting and abusing each other. It is a maxim in State
policy that you should deal with your enemy as though one day he may be
your friend, and _vice versâ_. In private life, it happens that one who
is a friend may first be viewed with coolness, and then treated as an
enemy; and this change in conduct may be legitimate, though not
creditable. Still more frequently may this happen in public life. Mr
Disraeli has, we should think, learnt from bitter experience the folly
of giving expression to mere transient feelings either of anger or
respect. He is a man of extremes; he knows no mediocrity of feeling;
witness the inflated style of the soliloquies in his novels, which have
drawn down upon him the unmitigated ire of his zealous biographer. With
him a statesman’s career is either “a system of petty larceny on a great
scale,” or it is “a precious possession of the House of Commons.” This
is a pity; but Mr Disraeli, unlike other statesmen, had not in early
life the friendship of those who had trodden the thorny paths of English
politics before him, to inculcate upon him the necessity of being
habitually reserved and moderate in his expressions; and neither reserve
nor moderation forms a part of his natural character. Too warm a nature,
or too ardent a temperament are not discreditable, though they often
bring pain and trouble along with them.
We now come to the most hackneyed, and, we admit, the most painful
portion of Mr Disraeli’s life—his treatment of Sir Robert Peel.
But these things belong to the past. Great blame, in the eyes of an
impartial observer, may be attached to Peel for the course he then took,
and great blame may also attach to Disraeli; much, on the other hand,
may be said in palliation of the conduct of both. The one has long ago
been forgiven by the great party which he irreparably injured; the other
will, we firmly believe, prove himself, at no distant period, as firm
and enlightened a Minister as he is now one of the most talented and
accomplished statesmen that ever adorned with his eloquence, or
controlled by his wisdom, the legislation of the British Parliament.
We now conclude by urging the necessity there is for the reascendancy of
the Conservative party. We are evidently on the verge of a momentous
period. Are we to commit the guidance of our affairs to a Government
whose conduct, as yet, has been one course of bungling—the result of
dissension, of abortive speculations—the result of a misplaced
self-confidence, and of unsuccessful negotiation—the result of an
infatuated love of peace? We make, then, our appeal to the Protestants
of England; are we any longer to truckle to the Pope of Rome—are we
still to devote the public money to the support of Roman Catholic
priests, and then call it “religious bigotry?” We make our appeal to the
friends of Turkey amongst us: are we to have a Ministry in power who are
divided in their opinions concerning the vitality of the country which
we are desirous of protecting, and amongst whose supporters are men who
deny our right to go to war at all? We make our appeal to the foes of
Russia; shall we have a Premier who declares that “what is called the
security of Europe” has nothing to fear from Russian aggression, and
then says that he has nothing to retract or explain? Let us have a
Ministry of able men, united amongst themselves, prepared to uphold our
Protestant religion, agreed upon the vitality of Turkey, resolved to
resist Russia, determined to secure a durable peace; and, above all, one
that is strong in the confidence of the country, and supported by a
united majority. Let us tear down the emblems of the most incapable and
mischief-making Coalition that ever any country was cursed with, and
proclaim over its fall the reascendancy of Conservative principles.
_Printed by William Blackwood & Sons, Edinburgh._
-----
Footnote 1:
Σπυριδῶνος Τρικουπη ἱστορία τῆς Ἕλληνικῆς ἐπαναστάσεως. Τόμος Α.
London, 1853. (History of the Greek Revolution. By Spiridion Tricoupi,
Greek Minister, London. Vol. i.)
Footnote 2:
_History of Europe from the Fall of Napoleon in 1815, to the Accession
of Louis Napoleon in 1852._ By Sir ARCHIBALD ALISON, Bart. Vol. iii.
Footnote 3:
The work, when completed, will, we understand, consist of four volumes
octavo; the second volume is expected to appear in a few weeks.
Footnote 4:
Sir A. Alison, perhaps, as we shall see afterwards, confines his
sympathy to the assertion that, _after the infamous butchery of the
Greeks at Chios_, the intervention of the Christian States in behalf
of the oppressed Christian people became a duty.
Footnote 5:
That this “_bloody_ and _brutal_” policy is still exercised by the
Turks, when they have their free swing, is evident from the letter of
Mr Saunders, the British Consul at Prevesa, which appeared about two
months ago in the _Times_, and of which a Greek translation now lies
before us in the Αθηνᾶ—an Athenian newspaper—of the 9th June.
Footnote 6:
It may be interesting to observe here, as a proof of the permanency of
the Greek language, that the phrase used by our modern Greek
ambassador in this place, ατενίσας είς τον ουρανον, is exactly the
same as that used by St Luke in the account of the martyrdom of St
Stephen, Acts, vii. 55. Indeed, the vocabulary of the living Greeks,
as well as their syntax, is strongly tinged by the language of the
Septuagint and the New Testament; a fact, of which our students of
theology, if they have any sense, will take note.
Footnote 7:
Δεν συστελλομαι νὰ ὁμολογήσω ὅτι ἤμῆν εναντιος τοῦ τοιούτου κινήματυς
κατὰ του Σουλτανου· ὄχι διότι θὲν επεθύμουν τῆν ελευθερίαν τοῦ ἔθνους
μου ἀλλὰ διότι μ’ εφαινετο ἄωρον το κίνημα, μὲ το νὰ ἦσαν
ἀπειροπολεμοι οἱ Ἕλληνες καὶ οἱ πλεῖστοι ἄοπλοι, ὁ δὲ κίνδυνος
μεγας.—PERRHAEBUS, _Military Memoirs_. Athens, 1836.
Footnote 8:
τοῦ Κερατιου κὁλπου—that is, we have no doubt, the large expansion of
the Golden Horn west of Galata, and north of the Fanar.
Footnote 9:
The modern Greek has lost not a whit of the fine rich flexibility
which has made the ancient dialect such a convenient organ for our
scientific terminology. The word for Lazaretto used here is
λοιμοκαθαρτήριον; and scores of such words are seen on the signboards
of the streets of Athens at the present hour.
Footnote 10:
_Appendix to Spottiswood_, p. 29.
Footnote 11:
Dr J. H. Todd, who first published this letter, (_English Churchman_,
Jan. 11, 1849), supposed Bishop Taylor to be speaking of Dr Peter
Barron of Cambridge, but afterwards, on the evidence being
communicated to him, was entirely satisfied, and corrected his
mistake. “The author referred to (writes Dr Todd) is certainly Dr
Robert Barron of Aberdeen, a divine of whom the Church of Scotland may
be justly proud.”—_Irish Ecclesiastical Journal_, March 1849.
Footnote 12:
Upon an allegation of unsoundness of doctrine in some of his works,
the General Assembly of 1640 dragged his widow, in custody of a “rote
of musketiers,” from her retreat in Strathislay, to enable them to
search his house for his manuscripts and letters, a year after his
death. The proceedings add some circumstances of inhumanity to the old
revolting cases not unknown in Scotland, where a dead man was dug out
of his grave to be placed at the bar, tried and sentenced.
Footnote 13:
P. 288.
Footnote 14:
Vol. iii. p. 331.
Footnote 15:
_History of Scots Affairs_, vol. iii. p. 231.
Footnote 16:
Aberdeen, 1635.
Footnote 17:
Vol. iii. p. 227.
Footnote 18:
In the Presbytery of Aberdeen, 26th May 1642. He died in 1659, in the
ninety-fifth year of his age.
Footnote 19:
_Life of Bishop Bedell_—Preface. Of most of these theological authors
I am obliged to speak in the language of others. I have not even, in
all cases, read the works which have formed their character.
Footnote 20:
_Dr M‘Crie’s Life of Melville_, vol. ii. p. 445. It is with hesitation
that any one who has benefited by this work will express a difference
of opinion from its author. But it seems to me that Dr M‘Crie has been
led by his admiration for Andrew Melville to rate too highly an
exercise in which he excelled. The writing of modern Latin poetry,
however valuable as a part of grammatical education, has, in truth,
never been an effort of imagination or fancy; and its products, when
most successful, have never produced the effect of genuine poetry on
the mind of the reader.
Footnote 21:
_History of the Rebellion_. Oxford, 1826. Vol. i. p. 145.
Footnote 22:
_Life of Bishop Bedell_—Preface.
Footnote 23:
_Delitiæ poetarum Scotorum hujus ævi illustrium_, and fifth volume of
the Great Atlas—both published by John Blaeu at Amsterdam, the former
in 1637, the latter in 1654.
Footnote 24:
_Joannis Leochaei Scoti musæ._ _Londini_, 1620. Leech was Rector of
the University in 1619.
Footnote 25:
“Ad Senatum Aberdonensem;” “Tumulus Joannis Colissonii;” “De
Abrenethæa;” “De aulæis acu-pictis D. Isabellæ Setonæ Comitissæ
Laderdeliæ.” _Epigrammata Arturi Jonstoni, Scoti, Medici Regii,
Abredoniæ: excudebat Edvardus Rabanus_, 1632.
Footnote 26:
STRACHAN’S _Panegyricus_. Among the strangers he distinguishes
Parkins, an Englishman who had, the year before (1630), obtained a
degree of M.D. in our University. The earliest diploma of M.D. I have
seen is that which I have noted (somewhat out of place) among the
academic prints, and which was granted in 1697.
Footnote 27:
“Patricius ... supremas dignitates scholasticas in viros onini laude
majores (_quorum vos hic vultus videtis_) qui vel ipsas dignitates
honorarunt, conferri curavit. Quid memorem Sandilandios, Rhætos,
Baronios, Scrogios, Sibbaldos, Leslæos, maxima illa nomina.... Deus
mi! quanta dici celebritas, quo tot pileati patres, theologiæ, juris
et medicinæ doctores et baccalaurei de gymnasio nostro velut agmine
facto prodierunt!” He alludes to the strangers attracted by the fame
of the society—to the divines, Forbes, Barron, &c.—to the physicians.
“Quantus medicorum grex! quanta claritas!... Quantum uterque
Jonstonus, ejusdem uteri, ejusdem artis fratres.... Mathesi profunda,
quantum poesi et impangendis carminibus valeant, novistis. Arthurus
medicus Regis et divinus poeta elegiæ et epigrammatis, quibus non
solum suæ ætatis homines superat verum antiquissimos quosque æquat.
Gulielmus rei herbariæ et mathematum, quorum professor meritissimus
est, gloria cluit. De Gulielmo certe idem usurpare possumus....
‘Deliciæ est humani generis,’ tanta est ejus comitas, tanta
urbanitas.”
Footnote 28:
These notices are taken from the _History of the University of
Edinburgh, from 1580 to 1646_, by Thomas Crawford, printed in 1808
from a MS. of the seventeenth century.
Footnote 29:
_Caballeros_ is the word used. It is hardly to be translated in an
English word.
Footnote 30:
As a single sample of these excavations, we may mention one made at
Portelette, on the Somme. At a depth of nine feet, a large quantity of
bones was met with; and one foot lower, a piece of deer’s horn,
bearing marks of human workmanship. At twenty feet from the surface,
and _five feet below the level of the present bed of the river_, three
axes, highly finished, and in perfect preservation, were turned up in
a bed of turf. Some axe-cases of stag’s horn were also discovered in
the same bed. Near these was a coarse vase of black pottery, very much
broken, and surrounded with a black mass of decomposed pottery; and
also large quantities of wrought bones, both human and animal.
Footnote 31:
Some very curious speculations and researches on this subject will be
found in a pamphlet entitled _A Vindication of the Bardic Accounts of
the Early Invasions of Ireland; with a Verification of the River-Ocean
of the Greeks_. M‘Glashan, Dublin, 1851.
Footnote 32:
It is not improbable that the old feudal law, which placed the person
of a female vassal at the disposal of the seigneur on her
wedding-night, originated in political motives as well as in a
tyrannous sensuality.
Footnote 33:
_Aperçus Genealogiques sur les Descendants de Guillaume._ _Rev.
Archéol._ 1845, p. 794.
Footnote 34:
_Types of Mankind._ By T. C. WATT and G. R. GLIDDON. London: 1854.
Footnote 35:
_What Good may come of the India Bill; or Notes of what has been, is,
and may be, the Government of India._ By FRANCIS HORSLEY ROBINSON.
_Modern India. A Sketch of the System of Civil Government; to which is
prefixed some Account of the Natives and Native Institutions._ By
GEORGE CAMPBELL, Esq., Bengal Civil Service.
_The Administration of the East India Company. A History of Indian
Progress._ By JOHN WILLIAM KAYE, Author of the “History of the War in
Afghanistan.”
_Life in the Mission, the Camp, and the Zenana; or Six Years in
India._ By Mrs H. COLIN MACKENZIE.
_Defects Civil and Military of the Indian Government._ By
Lieutenant-General Sir CHARLES JAMES NAPIER, G.C.B. Edited by
Lieutenant-General Sir W. F. P. NAPIER, K.C.B.
_How Wars arise in India. Observations on Mr Cobden’s Pamphlet
entitled “The Origin of the Burmese War._” By JOHN CLARK MARSHMAN.
_An Address to Parliament on the Duties of Great Britain to India in
respect of the Education of the Natives and their Official
Employment._ By CHARLES HAY CAMERON, late Fourth Member of the Council
of India, President of the Indian Law Commission, and President of the
Council of Education for Bengal.
Footnote 36:
_Modern India and its Government_, by G. CAMPBELL, Esq.; pp. 316, 317.
Footnote 37:
Pages 229, 230, 388.
Footnote 38:
We do not pretend to precise numerical accuracy; it is enough for our
argument that what we have gathered from the _Indian Register_ be
nearly correct.
Footnote 39:
Page 241.
Footnote 40:
Page 238.
Footnote 41:
Page 248.
Footnote 42:
Page 254.
Footnote 43:
Page 89.
Footnote 44:
Compare the fifth paragraph of the memorandum inserted at page 107
with the first nine lines of 114.
Footnote 45:
Court-house or Office.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
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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