Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Vol. 79, No. 485, March, 1856

By Various

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Title: Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Vol. 79, No. 485, March, 1856

Author: Various

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Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BLACKWOOD'S EDINBURGH MAGAZINE, VOL. 79, NO. 485, MARCH, 1856 ***





                              BLACKWOOD’S
                          EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.
           NO. CCCCLXXXV.      MARCH, 1856.      VOL. LXXIX.




                               CONTENTS.


                   LIDDELL’S HISTORY OF ROME,     247
                   MONTEIL,                       266
                   BIOGRAPHY GONE MAD,            285
                   THE GREEK CHURCH,              304
                   NICARAGUA AND THE FILIBUSTERS, 314
                   THE SCOTTISH FISHERIES,        328
                   SYDNEY SMITH,                  350
                   PEERAGES FOR LIFE,             362
                   THE WENSLEYDALE CREATION,      369

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                         This day is published,

                                 INDEX

                                   TO

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                         BLACKWOOD’S MAGAZINE.

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                              BLACKWOOD’S

                          EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.

           NO. CCCCLXXXV.      MARCH, 1856.      VOL. LXXIX.




                     LIDDELL’S HISTORY OF ROME.[1]


Engraved on certain Syrian or Assyrian rocks lie innumerable
inscriptions in an unknown character; the solid rock and an Asiatic
climate have preserved them for us: they lie there facing the world, in
the broad light of day, but none can read them. A whole mountain-side
seems covered with the records of departed greatness. What truths, what
historic facts might not these mysterious characters disclose! The
scholar cannot sleep for desire to interpret them. At length, by extreme
ingenuity and indomitable patience, and those happy sudden incidental
revelations which ever reward the persevering man, some clue is put into
his hand. He begins to read, he begins to translate. We gather round and
listen breathless. “I, Shalmanasser,” so runs the inscription, “I
assembled a great army—I engaged—I defeated—I slew their sovereigns,—I
cast in chains their captains and men of war—I, Shalmanasser, I——” Oh,
hold! hold! we exclaim, with thy Shalmanasser! There was no need to
decipher the mysterious characters for this. If the rock, with all its
inscriptions, can tell us nothing wiser or newer, it is a pity that
there were no rains in that climate to wash the surface smooth, and
obliterate these boastful records of barbarian cruelty and destruction.
Better that the simple weather-stained rock should face the eye of day,
oblivious of all but nature’s painless and progressive activities.

Some such feeling as this has passed across the minds of most of us,
when invited to peruse new histories of the ancient world. They were
terrible men, those warriors of olden time. They besieged towns—and so,
indeed, do we; but they did more; they put the children to the sword,
and carried away the mother into captivity, and those of the men whom
they did not chain and enslave, they slew as grateful sacrifices to
their gods! Strange and execrable insanity! and yet the religious rite
was the legitimate result, and the clear exponent of their own savage
nature. There was no spectacle to them so pleasant as blood that flowed
from an enemy. How deny the god who had helped them to win the victory
his share in the triumphant slaughter! There have been loathsome and
terrible things done upon the earth; let us forget them, as we forget
some horrible nightmare. At all events, having known that such men and
such times have been, and having gathered what lesson we can from them,
let us be spared from the infliction of new Shalmanassers, or from new
details of their atrocities. Such feeling of satiety in the old
narrative of war and conquest we must confess to participate in, when
the narrative relates to some Asiatic monarchy that has appeared and
disappeared, leaving no trace of any good result behind it, or which
merely lingers on the scene undergoing fruitless and bewildering
changes. It is otherwise, however, when we are invited again to peruse
the history of Rome, and her conquest of the world, as it has been
proudly called. We are reading here the history of European
civilisation. The slow, persistent, continuous progress of her consular
armies is one of those great indispensable facts, without which the
history of humanity could not be written, without which a civilised
Christendom could not have existed. It is the conquest of a people, not
of a monarch—a people who for many years have to struggle for
self-preservation (the secret this of their lasting union and exalted
patriotism)—of a people whose pride and ambition undergo the noble
discipline of adversity, who, being firmly knit together, proceed
steadily to the taming and subjection and settlement of the surrounding
nations. It is a conquest the very reverse of those great invasions of
Hun or Scythian, where population rolls like an enormous sea from one
part of the world to another; it was truly the _settlement_, first of
Italy, then of surrounding countries. Nomadic habits were checked.
Siculi and Oscans, Sabines, Samnites, and a host of shifting populations
too numerous to name, were brought under one government, and moulded
into one nation. What the Alps could not do for Italy, was done by the
republic of the seven hills. The peninsula was secured from the invasion
of the more northern barbarian. The Gaul was first arrested, then
subjugated, settled in his own home, civilised and protected. Carthage,
who would have conquered or colonised in the interest only of her own
commerce, was driven back. Greece, and her arts and her philosophy, were
embraced and absorbed in the new empire, which extended over the finest
races of men and the most propitious climates of the earth.

It has been well said that the Romans were not the only people who
entertained the glorious anticipation of the conquest of the world.
There was one other nation that had a still more magnificent conception
of its own future destiny, of its own exalted prominence and supremacy.
It was impossible for the monotheism of the Jews to attain the elevated
character it did, and yet sanction the belief, in any narrow sense, of a
national god. The only God of all the world must surely reign over all
the world. The universal Monarch must imply a universal monarchy. From
this centre of the world,—this holy temple at Jerusalem, and through His
chosen and peculiar people, would God govern all the nations of the
earth. Such extension of the faith of the Jew to the Gentile was
inevitable. All nations would come in, as suppliants and subjects, to
the throne of God’s elect. And the prophetic inspiration, though not
precisely in the sense in which the ancient Hebrew understood it, was
destined to be fulfilled. But it was not the sword of Israel, nor of the
angels, that Divine Providence employed to establish the supremacy of
the great Truth developed in Judea. It was the sword of the legions of
Rome. The armies of a Scipio and a Cæsar were gathering the nations
together under the one true worship. The spiritual dominion did issue
from Judea, but it governed the world from the throne of the Cæsars.

Egypt, Greece, Rome, and Judea,—these are the four great names which
occur to one who looks back on the history of European civilisation. To
these four powers or nations we owe that status or condition which has
enabled us to make such advances as we claim to be peculiarly our own.
Indirect contributions are doubtless due to India and to Persia. Babylon
is no more; but a people who once sojourned in Babylon may have learnt
something there from the Persian, and transmitted it to us in their
imperishable records; and Greek philosophy bears impress, in one phase
of it, of the teaching of Indian theosophists. But still the four whom
we have mentioned would furnish forth all the essential elements which
the past has given to our present European culture.

If we look at the map of the world, or turn under our hand a terrestrial
globe, we shall be struck with the peculiar adaptation of the banks of
the Nile to be an early seat of civilisation. It is not only that the
river, by periodically overflowing its banks, produces a spontaneous or
unlaboured fertility, but this fertile tract of land is made precious,
and the people are bound to it, by the enormous deserts that extend
around it. The desert and the sea imprison the people in their “happy
valley,” thus rendering it in all probability one of the earliest abodes
of a stationary population. However that may be, it is certain that,
whether we appeal to written history or to monumental inscriptions,
there is no spot on the earth where the records of the human race extend
so far back into antiquity. We must open our history of civilisation
with the growth of arts and knowledge in Egypt. From Egypt we proceed to
Greece—to Athens, the marvellous, who did so much in so short time, and
who accomplished even more for the world at large than for her
individual self. She learnt her arts from Egypt; her scientific spirit
was her own. What we owe to Judea (which at an early period was not
unconnected with Egypt, nor at a later with the mind of Greece) needs
not to be here particularised. It was the part of Rome to reduce into
order and combine under one sway large tracts of territory and great
varieties of people; so that whatever had been given to the Greek, or
revealed to the Hebrew, might blend and be diffused over vast portions
of the human race. Nor was this office less effectually performed
because the empire is seen to break up amidst much temporary confusion,
produced by internal corruption and rude invaders. Europe finally
assumes a form the most conducive imaginable to progress. It is divided
into separate kingdoms, speaking different languages, but possessing a
common religion, and many of the same sources of culture. Their
similarities, their contrasts, their emulations, form together a
condition the most favourable for the excitement and progress of the
human intellect.

We can therefore look with complacent admiration, and undecaying
interest, upon the wars and victories of ancient Rome. But indeed, such
has been the revolution lately brought about in our historical studies,
that the mention of a new History of Rome is more likely to call to mind
perplexed controversies upon myths and fables, than visions of battles
or triumphal processions winding up to the Capitol. Not many years ago,
the early periods of Roman history suggested to the imagination the most
vivid pictures of war and patriotism; we heard the march of the
legions—we followed Cincinnatus from the plough to the camp—we were
busied with the most stirring realities and the strongest passions of
life. Now these realities have grown dim and disputable, and we are
reminded of learned controversies upon poetic legends, or on early forms
of the constitution,—we think more of Niebuhr than of Camillus, more of
German critics than of the Conscript Fathers. It is not a pleasant
exchange, but it is one which must be submitted to. The first question
that every one will ask, who hears that Dr Liddell has told again the
history of Rome, is, How has he dealt with the mythical or legendary
portions? What degree of credibility has he attached to them? Has he
followed the example of Arnold, and reserved for them a peculiar style
savouring of antique simplicity; or has he followed the older, and, we
think, the wiser course, of Livy, and told them with genuine unaffected
eloquence, without either disguising their legendary character, or
making the very vain attempt to distinguish the germ or nucleus of real
fact from the accretions and embellishments of oral tradition?

Before we answer this question, let us say generally of Dr Liddell’s
History, that we think the public is indebted to him for a pre-eminently
_useful_ book. To the youthful student, to the man who cannot read many
volumes, we should commend it as the one History which will convey the
latest views and most extensive information. The style is simple, clear,
explanatory. There are, indeed, certain high qualities of the writer and
the thinker which are requisite to complete our ideal of the perfect
historian. We are accustomed to require in him something of the
imagination of the poet, combined with and subdued by the wide
generalising spirit of the philosopher. We do not wish to have it
understood that there is a signal deficiency in these qualities, but,
whilst acknowledging the utility of Dr Liddell’s laborious and learned
work, we cannot say that he has given to the literature of England a
History of Rome.

Indeed, the author in his preface claims for his work no such high
distinction. He describes the origin it had in the desire to supply the
more advanced students at public schools with a fit work of instruction,
conveying to them “some knowledge of the altered aspect which Roman
history has assumed.” The work grew upon his hands, “and the character
of the book,” he continues, “is considerably changed from that which it
was originally intended to bear. A History of Rome suited to the wants
of general readers of the present day does not in fact exist, and
certainly is much wanted. Whether this work will in any way supply the
want is for others to say.”

We have already intimated our opinion that there is no other work at
present existing which so ably supplies this want; and our immediate
object in placing it at the head of this paper was to assist in giving
notice to all whom it might concern where such a work of instruction was
to be found. The preface then proceeds to touch upon the thorny and
perplexing controversies in the early history:—

  “The difficulty inseparable from a work of this kind lies in the
  treatment of the Early History. Since what may be called ‘The
  Revolution of Niebuhr,’ it has been customary to give an abstract of
  his conclusions, with little attention to the evidence upon which they
  rest. But the acute and laborious criticisms of many scholars, chiefly
  German, have greatly modified the faith which the present generation
  is disposed to place in Niebuhr’s authoritative dicta; and in some
  cases there may be observed a disposition to speak lightly of his
  services. If I may say anything of myself, I still feel that reverence
  for the great master which I gained in youth, when we, at Oxford,
  first applied his lamp to illuminate the pages of Livy. No doubt, many
  of the results which he assumes as positive are little better than
  arbitrary assertions. But I conceive that his main positions are still
  unshaken, or rather have been confirmed by examination and attack. If,
  however, they were all abandoned, it will remain true for ever, that
  to him is due the new spirit in which Roman history has been studied;
  that to him must be referred the origin of that new light which has
  been thrown upon the whole subject by the labours of his successors.
  In a work like this, dissertation is impossible; and I have
  endeavoured to state only such results of the new criticism as seem to
  be established. If the young reader has less of positive set before
  him to learn, he will at all events find less that he will have to
  unlearn.

  “Far the greater part of this work was printed off before the
  appearance of Sir George Cornewall Lewis’s _Inquiry into the
  Credibility of Early Roman History_. Much labour might be saved by
  adopting his conclusions, that Roman history deserves little or no
  attention till the age at which we can securely refer to
  contemporaneous writers, and that this age cannot be carried back
  further than the times of Pyrrhus. It is impossible to speak too
  highly of the fulness, the clearness, the patience, the judicial
  calmness of his elaborate argument. _But while his conclusions may be
  conceded in full for almost all the wars and foreign transactions of
  early times_, we must yet claim attention for the civil history of
  Rome in the first ages of the republic. There is about it a
  consistency of progress, and a clearness of intelligence, that would
  make its fabrication more wonderful than its transmission in a
  half-traditionary form. When tradition rests solely on memory, it is
  fleeting and uncertain; but when it is connected with customs, laws,
  and institutions such as those of which Rome was justly proud, and to
  which the ruling party clung with desperate tenacity, its evidence
  must doubtless be carefully sifted and duly estimated, but ought not
  altogether to be set aside.”

The large concession which the work of Sir G. C. Lewis seems to have
extorted from Dr Liddell after the writing of his own History, was not
present to his mind during its composition. He sometimes gives as
historical fact such-and-such a war, and then relates some legend as
connected with this war. “With the Volscian wars is inseparably
connected the noble legend of Coriolanus.” The story of Coriolanus is
marked as legend, the Volscian wars as fact. If we are justified in
making the concession marked in italics, the Volscian wars are no more
history than the story of Coriolanus.

As to the remark here made on the civil or constitutional history of
this period, it would have great weight if there were really presented
to us in that history a clear, intelligible, indisputable account of the
earlier constitutions or governments of Rome. It happens that it is
precisely on this subject there has been so much conjecture, and so much
debate. So far as Dr Liddell can really trace in the narrative preceding
the time of Pyrrhus, a manifest, indisputable, _constitutional history_,
so far as he can confidently point to that “consistency of progress and
clearness of intelligence” of which he speaks, so far he is entitled to
claim for the whole narrative our most respectful attention. But the
difficulty is notorious of forming a distinct conception of many points
in this constitutional history, and this difficulty has given rise to
much of our guess-work. We must take care, therefore, and not fall into
the logical error, of _first_ eliminating some consistent view of the
constitutional history by the aid of much ingenious conjecture, and
_then_ appealing to this consistency in the constitutional history as
ground of presumption in favour of the whole narrative.

For our own part, we suspect that there is a greater measure of truth in
the legend as it stands than is now generally conceded; and at the same
time we have an utter distrust of all the attempts which have been
made—laudable and ingenious as they may be—to separate the truth from
the fable. We can believe in Tarquin the Proud, in Lucretia, in
Coriolanus, much more readily than in any new historical views obtained
by a sifting of the narrative which contains these heroic stories. One
thing is plain, that no historian of Rome can omit these narratives; and
we should much prefer that he would relate them in a natural style—in
the style due at least to the noble sentiments they illustrate—than
reserve for them (a manner to which Dr Liddell on some occasions leans)
a certain bald and ballad simplicity, as if the writer were almost
ashamed of having to relate them at all.

It is now generally understood, by all who have paid any attention to
the subject, that although the name of Niebuhr is popularly associated
with a sceptical and destructive criticism, he is really distinguished
by the bold manner in which he has undertaken to construct and restore
certain portions of the history. Preceding writers, both ancient and
modern, had uttered the word “fable” or “legend;” it was the gathering
from the fable some truth indirectly revealed; it was the bold inventive
genius, which could recast the old materials into a new form, which
characterised his labours. Amongst other things, he fearlessly asserted
that a modern critic might obtain a more precise knowledge of the civil
history and early constitutions of Rome than Livy or Cicero possessed.
Now, these reconstructions of Niebuhr, though received at first with
great enthusiasm in many quarters, have not stood their ground against a
calm and severe examination; and in this country all such conjectural
methods of writing the early history of Rome have lately received a
decisive check from the work of Sir George Cornewall Lewis, _On the
Credibility of Early Roman History_. This is a work which combines the
ample and laborious scholarship of the German, with that sound sense
which the Englishman lays especial claim to. We can only here
incidentally mention it; but it is impossible, and it will be a long
time impossible, for any one to touch upon Roman history without
alluding to this work. It will be for many years the text-book for the
subject of which it treats.

The manner in which a legend, which is itself admitted to be false, may
yet convey to us indirectly some important historical truth, admits of
easy illustration. Suppose that some chronicler, living in the time of
our Henry V., chose to relate a quite fictitious history of Prince
Arthur. All his battles, all his victories, his whole kingdom, might be
a mere dream; but as the imagination of the writer would have no other
types to follow than those which his own times presented to him, he
would necessarily convey to us much historical truth touching the reign
of Henry V., whilst describing his imaginary Prince Arthur. His
inevitable anachronisms would betray him into a species of historical
truth. Prince Arthur would assuredly be a valorous knight, and whence
would come the ceremony of investiture, and all the moral code of
knighthood? Prince Arthur would undoubtedly be a good son of the Church,
and from what type would be drawn the picture of the orthodox and pious
Christian? If the Prince were to be crowned, whence would come the
sceptre and the ball, and the oaths he would take upon his coronation?
Prince Arthur would be a knight, a Christian, and a king, after the
order of the Plantagenets. It is plain that, in such a fabulous
narrative, there would be mingled up much historical matter; it is plain
that we, reading such a narrative by the light of knowledge gained from
other sources, can detect and discriminate the historic truth: whether,
if such a fabulous narrative _stood alone_ before us, we could then make
the same discrimination, whether we could then take advantage of its
involuntary anachronisms, is another question. Imagination must always
have its type or starting-place in some reality, but it may deal as
freely with one reality as another; it may take as much liberty with
religious ceremonies and coronation oaths as with anything else.

Is there not a slight oversight in the following criticism, which Sir G.
C. Lewis makes on the method of Niebuhr? At all events, our quotation of
the passage from his work, with a solitary remark of our own upon it,
will constitute as brief an exposition as any we can give of this branch
of the subject. The question is, what can be gathered of the
constitution of Rome under her kings? There is clearly no contemporary
history; but _if_ a tradition, though of a quite mythical character,
could be fairly pronounced to have originated in the regal period, that
tradition might indirectly convey to us some knowledge of the regal
constitution. Fragments have come down to us through the works of later
classical writers, which may convey this sort of traditional knowledge.
Let them by all means be rigidly examined, whatever their ultimate value
may be found to be.

  “One of the passages,” says Sir G. C. Lewis, “which Niebuhr cites from
  Cicero, relates to the constitutional proceedings upon the election of
  Numa. Yet Niebuhr holds, not merely that the entire regal period is
  unhistorical, but that Numa is an unreal and imaginary personage—a
  name and not a man. Now, what reliance, according to Niebuhr’s own
  view, is to be placed upon Cicero’s information respecting a man who
  never lived, and an event which never happened, even if it was derived
  from some pontifical book, which professed to record old customs?”

Continuing the discussion in a note, Sir G. C. Lewis adds:—

  “For Niebuhr’s account of the legend of Numa, see _Hist._, vol. i. pp.
  237–240. Afterwards he says—‘Hence it seems quite evident that the
  pontiffs themselves distinguished the first two kings from the rest,
  as belonging to another order of things, and that they separated the
  accounts of them from those which were to pass for history.... Romulus
  was the god, the son of a god; Numa a man, but connected with superior
  beings. If the tradition about them, however, is in all its parts a
  _poetical fiction_, the fixing the pretended term of their reigns can
  only be explained by ascribing it rather to mere caprice or to
  numerical speculations.’—‘With Tullius Hostilius we reach the
  beginning of a new secle, and of a narrative resting on historical
  ground of a kind _totally different_ from the story of the preceding
  period.’ Niebuhr considers the mythico-historical age of Roman History
  to begin with the reign of Tullius Hostilius, and the age of Romulus
  and Numa to be purely fabulous. Moreover, he commences the second
  volume of his History with the following sentence—‘It was one of the
  most important objects of the first volume to prove that the story of
  Rome under the kings was altogether _without historical foundation_.’
  He lays it down likewise that the names of the kings, their number,
  and the duration and dates of their reigns, are fictitious; yet he
  cites the proceedings at the election of Numa, and of the subsequent
  kings, as historical proof of the constitutional practice of that
  period.”—Vol. i. p. 123.

Niebuhr does not hold that there was no regal period, however fictitious
the history of the kings may be. It was to throw light on that regal
period in which the myth of Numa is supposed _to have originated_ that
the passage must have been cited, not certainly on the times of Numa.
Whatever, therefore, may be the infinitesimal value of the passage cited
which relates to the constitutional proceedings upon the election of
Numa, there was no logical inconsistency on the part of Niebuhr in
making a reference to it. If the myth of Numa really originated in a
regal period, what the pontiff declared about it might indirectly convey
some information as to the constitution of that regal period.

Dr Liddell may well speak of the “altered aspect which Roman history has
assumed.” We begin our annals with an account of the “religious myth,”
of which, however, the specimens are very few. Romulus is _Strength_ and
Numa is _Law_; they are godlike persons, or in communication with gods;
they together found the city of Rome. Strength and Law assuredly founded
the city: it is good philosophy, whatever history it makes; and the
pontiffs were fully justified in placing these kings where they did—the
first, and presiding, and eternal kings of every commonwealth. From the
religious myth we proceed to the “heroic legend.” In this species of
fable the veritable man and his real action is extolled—is
exaggerated—is multiplied. The hero himself is multiplied, or he is
transplanted from one region to another. The story is expanded and
enriched by each successive narrative, until a literary age makes its
appearance. It then assumes a fixed form, from which any wide deviation
is no longer permissible.

In all such heroic legends, when they have been fairly born on the soil
on which we find them, and have not been transplanted from a foreign
country, there is always some element of historic truth. For what we
call invention must start from, or be supplied with, given facts. There
is a vague but very prevalent error on the nature and power of _poetical
invention_. It is spoken of as something that will account at once for
the marvellous narrative. This is supposed to spring forth complete from
some poet’s brain. Poetical invention can only take place where there is
already some amount and variety of known incidents or traditional
stories; these the poet strings together in new combinations. The first
writers in metre (as we may see in the earliest ballads of Spain and of
other countries) content themselves with a bald narrative of some fact
or tradition. Their successors add to this narrative—add a sentiment or
a detail; and when the number of such narratives has increased, poetical
invention, in its highest form, becomes possible. It has been lately a
favourite hypothesis that the earliest literature of Rome consisted of a
number of poems or ballads, which supplied the first historians with
their materials. It appears to us highly probable that separate legends
were shaped into something like completeness of form before any
continuous history of the city of Rome was written; but whether such
legends were written first in prose or verse is matter of very little
moment, and of very great uncertainty.

After expressing the belief that there is a substratum of truth in these
heroic legends, it is not very satisfactory to be compelled to add that
we cannot distinguish it from the superstructure of fiction.
Unfortunately, it is not the marvellous and supernatural—which, indeed,
are but sparingly introduced—which have alone contributed to deprive
these legends of their credibility: they have been convicted, in some
cases, of historic falsehood. A species of pious fraud has been
committed to conceal the defeats of the Romans. Family pride has, in
other instances, led to the undue exaltation of individual heroes. We
must chiefly honour these legends, after all, as manifestations of the
mind and spirit of the Romans, rather than as positive materials of
history.

We always revert to this consolation—every literature must be the
history of the _thoughts_, if not of the _deeds_ of a people; and all
our various records are chiefly valuable as they enable us to write the
history of the human mind. How pre-eminently this is the case wherever
the subject of religion is introduced! Omens, auguries, oracles—what
matters whether in this or that case they were really seen or uttered?
the great fact is, that they were currently believed in, and acted on.
The _belief_ here is all that we can possibly be concerned with. Whether
Æneas really did see that white sow, with her litter of thirty pigs,
which he took for so good an omen of prosperity (it was no bad sign of
fertility), may be questioned; but even the invention of such an
incident proves that men, and wise men, were supposed to be under the
influence of such omens. That an eagle pounced down, and took from the
head of Tarquin his cap, and, after wheeling in the air, _put it on
again_, is what we do not believe; eagles, neither at Rome or elsewhere,
have this habit of restitution. But the frequency of legends of this
kind points to a time when men were in the constant expectation of
finding their own future destiny prefigured to them in the actions of
birds and beasts, or the operations of inanimate nature. What was the
precise _degree_ of influence which superstitions of this nature
exercised on the course of human conduct, must still be problematical.
Did any pious general, at the head of the legions at Rome, really
determine whether he should give battle or not by the appetite with
which the sacred chickens took their food? Did men ever colonise, or
build a city, according to the flight of vultures or the perching of an
eagle?

But superstition itself, and that in some of its most terrible forms, is
animated and dignified by the spirit of Roman patriotism. Read this old
story of the self-devotion of Decius, as Dr Liddell tells it to us. It
will be an excellent example in which to take our stand, if we would
estimate at their full value these old heroic legends. One of those
decisive battles is to be fought which is to determine the supremacy of
Rome in Italy.

  “The Latin army marched hastily southward to protect their Oscan
  allies, and it was in the plains of Campania that the fate of Rome and
  Latium was to be decided. (The two consuls, Manlius and Decius,
  commanded in the Roman camp.)

  “When the two armies met under Mount Vesuvius, they lay opposed to one
  another, neither party choosing to begin the fray. It was almost like
  a civil war: Romans and Latins spoke the same language; their armies
  had long fought side by side under common generals; their arms,
  discipline, and tactics were the same.

  “While the armies were thus lying over against each other, the Latin
  horsemen, conscious of superiority, used every endeavour to provoke
  the Romans to single combats. The latter, however, were checked by the
  orders of their generals, till young Manlius, son of the consul, stung
  to the quick by the taunts of Geminus Metius, a Latin champion,
  accepted his challenge. The young Roman conquered, and returned to the
  camp to lay the spoils of the enemy at his father’s feet. But the
  spirit of Brutus was not dead; and the stern consul, unmindful of his
  own feelings and the pleading voices of the whole army, condemned his
  son to death for disobedience to orders. Discipline was thus
  maintained, but at a sore expense, and the men’s hearts were heavy at
  this unnatural act.

  “In the night before the day on which the consuls resolved to fight,
  each of them was visited by an ominous dream, by which it was revealed
  that whichever army first lost its general should prevail; and they
  agreed that he whose division first gave ground should devote himself
  to the gods of the lower world.

  “In the morning, when the auspices were taken, the liver of the victim
  offered on the part of Decius was defective, while that of Manlius was
  perfect. And the event confirmed the omen; for Manlius, who commanded
  on the right, held his ground, while the legions of Decius on the left
  gave way.

  “Then Decius, mindful of his vow, sent for Valerius, the chief
  pontiff, to direct him how duly to devote himself. He put on his toga,
  the robe of peace, after the Gabine fashion, bringing the end or
  lappet under the right arm, and throwing it over his head; and then,
  standing on a javelin, he pronounced the solemn form of words
  prescribed, by which he devoted the army of the enemy along with
  himself to the gods of death and to the grave. Then, still shrouded in
  his toga, he leaped upon his horse, and dashing into the enemy’s
  ranks, was slain.

  “Both armies were well aware of the meaning of the act. It depressed
  the spirits of the Latins as much as it raised those of the Romans.
  The skill of Manlius finished the work of superstitious awe.... The
  enemy fled in irretrievable confusion.”

One consul sacrifices his son to the cause of military discipline; the
other consul sacrifices himself to the gods, to obtain the destruction
of the enemy. We believe in a Decius, in some Decius, at some time, in
some battle. Many of the details brought here together were probably
added by different narrators. But it may be laid down, we think, as a
sound canon of criticism, _that no act of moral greatness was ever
invented till the like of it had been really performed_. Imagination of
what the human heart is capable of cannot precede the genuine feelings,
the genuine heroism of man. The several acts of Manlius and of Decius
are Roman deeds, whether they occurred precisely here or not. Then note
the traces we have in this legend of the rite of human sacrifice, and
the terrible boon extorted by it. Indeed, the whole passage is fertile
of suggestions which we will not weaken by attempting to enumerate.

Rome had scarcely obtained the ascendancy over her neighbours when her
own destruction was threatened by the Gauls. Yet ultimately this
invasion of the Celt, by weakening her enemies more than herself, was
not unpropitious to the final predominance of Rome. “The Gauls,” writes
Dr Liddell, “burst upon Latium and the adjoining lands with the
suddenness of a thunderstorm; and as the storm, with all its fury and
destructiveness, yet clears the loaded air, and restores a balance
between the disturbed powers of nature, so it was with this Gallic
hurricane. It swept over the face of Italy, crushing and destroying. The
Etruscans were weakened by it; and if Rome herself was laid prostrate
for a season, the Latins also suffered greatly, the Volscians were
humbled, and the Æquians so shattered that they never recovered from the
blow.”

It was a disastrous day for Rome. A large portion of her army, under her
great general Camillus, was absent from the city. What forces she could
muster were routed and dispersed. There were not enough men to defend
the city; it was given up to the Gauls. The Capitol alone held out.
Finally, the Romans were fain to ransom themselves, and to obtain peace,
by the payment of one thousand pounds in weight of gold. The popular and
legendary history tells us, that whilst this gold was being weighed
out—and just as the insolent Gaul had thrown his sword into the scale,
bidding them weigh that too, with his “Woe to the conquered!”—the great
Camillus returned with his army, marched into the forum, ordered the
gold to be returned, declared that it was with _iron_ he meant to redeem
the city, and forthwith drove out the Gauls, so completely destroying
their host that not a man was left to carry home the news of their
calamity.

  “So ran the legend,” continues Dr Liddell, “embellished by the touch
  of Livy’s graceful pen. But, unfortunately for Roman pride, here also,
  as in the tale of Porsenna, traces of true history are preserved,
  which show how little the Roman annalists regarded truth. Strabo and
  Diodorus mention stories to the effect that the Gauls carried off the
  gold without let or hindrance from Camillus, but that they were
  attacked in Etruria, some said by the Romans themselves, others said
  by the friendly people of Cæré, and obliged to relinquish their
  precious booty. But Polybius has left clearer and more positive
  statements. That grave historian tells us, as if he knew no other
  story, that the departure of the Gauls was caused by the intelligence
  that the Venetians, an Illyrian tribe, had invaded their settlements
  in northern Italy; that, on receiving this intelligence, they proposed
  to make a treaty; that the treaty was made; that they actually
  received the gold, and marched off unmolested to their homes.”

Where did Polybius get _his_ story? The legend may be false, but where
were the materials from which Polybius could have obtained a more
historical account? But before again alluding to this subject, we cannot
but pause to take notice that here also is a striking example of the
value of the legend as a history of the mind and thoughts of a people,
even where it fails us as a history of events. Consider what must have
been the religious faith, what the ardent patriotism, that gave birth to
this magnificent fable (if fable it is) of the conduct of the Senate,
when the army of Rome had been utterly vanquished, and the Gaul, in
insolent confidence of victory, was rejoicing and revelling at the
gates. Here it is, in the version of Dr Liddell:—

  “Meantime the Senate at Rome did what was possible to retrieve their
  fallen fortunes. With all the men of military age they withdrew into
  the Capitol, for they had not numbers enough to man the walls of the
  city. These were mainly Patricians. Many of the Plebeians had fallen
  in the battle; many had escaped to Veii. The old men of this order,
  with the women, fled for safety to the same city. The priests and
  vestal virgins, carrying with them the sacred images and utensils,
  found refuge at the friendly Etruscan city of Cæré. _But the old
  Senators, who had been Consuls or Censors, and had won triumphs, and
  grown grey in their country’s service, feeling themselves to be now no
  longer a succour but a burthen, determined to sacrifice themselves for
  her; and M. Fabius, the Pontifex, recited the form of words by which
  they solemnly devoted themselves to the gods below, praying that on
  their heads only might fall the vengeance and the destruction._ Then
  as the Gauls approached, they ordered their ivory chairs to be set in
  the Comitium, before the temples of the gods, and there they took
  their seats, each man clad in his robes of state, to await the coming
  of the avenger.

  “At length the Gallic host approached the city, and came to the
  Colline gate. It stood wide open before their astonished gaze, and
  they advanced slowly, not without suspicion, through deserted streets,
  unresisted and unchecked. When they reached the Forum, there, within
  its sacred precincts, they beheld those venerable men sitting like so
  many gods descended from heaven to protect their own. They gazed with
  silent awe; till at length a Gaul, hardier than his brethren, ventured
  to stroke the long beard of M. Papirius. The old hero raised his ivory
  staff and smote the offender, whereupon the barbarian in wrath slew
  him; and this first sword-stroke gave the signal for a general
  slaughter. Then the Romans in the Capitol believed that the gods had
  accepted the offering which those old men had made, and that the rest
  would be saved.”

Grander fable never was invented—never grew up out of grander feelings
or wilder convictions. How little do we seem to know of the ancient
religion of Rome! We listen too exclusively to the poets of the Augustan
age. Elegant fictions and placid deities, from whom little was to be
hoped or feared, did not constitute the religion of early times. There
were terrible gods in those days—without whom, indeed, no religion has
existed which has really influenced the conduct of mankind.

The next great event in the history of Rome which arrests our attention
is the war with Pyrrhus. Here the Romans come in contact with a literary
people. The attention of the Greeks is drawn towards them. Greek
historians collect what accounts they can of these new barbarians, who
are pronounced to be “not barbarians at least in war.” The first Roman
historians wrote in the Greek language. We enter, it is said, into the
historic period.

This is a fit place to quote some judicious remarks which Dr Liddell
makes on the sources of early Roman history:—

  “When the Gaul departed and left Rome in ashes, it was not only the
  buildings of the city that perished. We are expressly told that all
  the public records shared in the general destruction—the Fasti, or
  list of yearly magistrates with their triumphs, the Annales
  Pontificum, and the Linen Rolls (_libri lintei_), which were annual
  registers or chronicles of events kept by the pontiffs and augurs.

  “This took place, we know, about the year 390 B.C.

  “Now the first Roman annalists, Fabius Pictor, Cincius Alimentus, Cato
  the Censor, with the poets Nævius and Ennius, flourished about a
  century and a half after this date. Whence, then, it is natural to
  ask, did these writers and their successors find materials for the
  history of Rome before the burning of the city? What is the authority
  for the events and actions which are stated to have taken place before
  the year 390 B.C.?

  “The answer to these questions may partly be found in our fifth
  chapter. The early history of Rome was preserved in old heroic lays or
  legends, which lived in the memories of men, and were transmitted by
  word of mouth from one generation to another. The early history of all
  nations is, as we have said, the same; and even if we had the Fasti
  and the Annals complete, we should still have to refer to those
  legendary tales for the substance and colour of the early history. The
  Fasti, indeed, if they were so utterly destroyed as Livy states, must
  have been preserved in memory with tolerable accuracy, for we have
  several lists of the early magistrates which only differ by a few
  omissions and transpositions. The Annals and Linen Rolls, if we had
  copies of them, would present little else than dry bones without
  flesh—mere names with a few naked incidents attached, much of the same
  character as the famous Anglo-Saxon Chronicle. For narrative we should
  still have been dependent upon the legends. We might know the exact
  time at which Coriolanus appeared at the head of the Volscian host,
  but the story would remain untouched....

  “The false statements of the Patrician period are quite different in
  kind from the greater part of the legendary fictions of Greece or
  Regal Rome. There we discern no dishonesty of purpose, no intentional
  fraud; here, much of the baser coin is current. In the legends of
  Porsenna and Camillus the dishonour of Rome and the triumphs of the
  invaders are studiously kept out of sight, and glorious deeds are
  attributed to heroes who are proved to have no claim to such honour.”

If the legends of the Regal period are mythical, and if those of the
Patrician period were falsified by bards and minstrels, who made it
their vocation to flatter the family pride of the nobles, it is plain
there is little of historic narrative relating to these early times
which can be depended on. There is no essential difference in the
account which Dr Liddell and Sir G. C. Lewis give of the materials of
the early history of Rome; but the first of these writers has a far
greater faith in that species of constructive or conjectural history, in
which Niebuhr was so great an artist, than the second can at all admit.
Sir G. C. Lewis contends with great force and clearness that historical
evidence does not differ in kind from judicial evidence. They are both
founded “on the testimony of credible witnesses.” Unless you can trace
your narrative to some contemporary writer who had a fair opportunity of
knowing the facts to which he testifies, you have nothing worthy of the
name of history. Nor can any ingenuity of reasoning avail if the
materials on which you reason are constantly open to suspicion. In the
time of the second Punic war there commences a series of Roman
historians or annalists who recorded the events of their own age; their
works are lost to us, but they furnished subsequent writers, whose
histories remain, with _their_ materials. If now, for the years
preceding this epoch, you have nothing but a series of meagre official
annals, kept by the chief pontiff, some ancient treaties, and a few laws
which you can bring into court as historical evidence—if you have
nothing but these “dry bones,” there is no help for it; you must be
contented with the skeleton. By no means can you, in any legitimate
manner, cover these bones. You have no narrative, both lifelike and
trustworthy, that extends beyond the age of Pyrrhus. Here the Greek
historian steps in. Moreover, the war with Pyrrhus was “not so long
prior to the time of Fabius and Cincius (the earliest Roman annalists)
as to render it improbable that they and other subsequent writers may
have collected some trustworthy notices of it from native tradition and
documents.” The speech, too, of Appius the Blind, delivered in the
Senate on the occasion of the embassy of Cineas, the minister of
Pyrrhus, was extant in the time of Cicero. But beyond this period of the
war of Pyrrhus, historic narrative based on acceptable evidence there is
none.

Sir G. C. Lewis states the matter, at the opening of his third chapter,
in the following lucid manner:—

  “In the previous chapter we have followed the stream of Roman
  contemporary history up to the war of Pyrrhus, but found that at that
  point the contemporary writers deserted us. There is no trace of any
  historical account of Roman affairs by a contemporary writer, native
  or foreign, before that time; nor can it be shown that any Roman
  literary work, either in verse or prose, was then in existence. But
  although there was no contemporary history, and no native literature
  at Rome before the war with Pyrrhus, yet we have a history of Rome for
  472 years before that period, handed down to us by ancient classical
  writers as a credible narrative of events.”

But we must not be seduced further into following the discussions of Sir
G. C. Lewis “on the credibility of the early Roman history.” We must not
forget that it is Dr Liddell’s History we have at present before us. The
wars of Pyrrhus are related by him in a very distinct and spirited
manner, and the chivalrous character of the Greek prince—the
_Cœur-de-Lion_ of his age—stands out before us in very clear relief. The
wars, too, of a greater than Pyrrhus—of the Carthaginian general,
Hannibal—are told with more perspicuity than will be found, we think, in
the pages of any of his predecessors. But for very manifest reasons we
must pass over voluminous details of this description.

No portion of the work will be read with more interest and profit than
those chapters which give an account of the civil constitution of Rome,
such as it existed in the palmy days of the republic. We confess
ourselves to be utterly incredulous of the ability of any writer to
describe to us what the constitution of Rome was under her kings, or
during the earlier periods of the commonwealth. So much the more
pleasure do we derive from a view of that constitution when the clouds
seem to break away, and it stands revealed to us in the light of
history. When he has driven Hannibal out of Italy, conquered Sicily, and
imposed those terms on Carthage which ended the second Punic war, Dr
Liddell takes the occasion to review the constitution of Rome such as it
displayed itself when the republic was in its full vigour. It was during
the time of the Punic wars, he tells us, that this most remarkable and
most complex system of government under which men ever lived, attained
to some completeness of form. Our own British constitution is often
cited as a marvel of complexity; incongruous powers and institutions
come into collision at this and that point, till a harmonious action is
at length produced; and the prerogative of the Crown is seen to be
opposed by the privilege of Parliament, in such a manner as rather to
represent a contest between rival institutions, than an understood
co-operation of great functionaries of state. But the British
constitution is a simple and consistent scheme when compared with the
constitution of the Roman republic; with its wild right of the Tribune,
which at once seems subversive of all law; with its annual elections,
and that even of the general at the head of its armies, which seems at
once subversive of all military discipline, and an insuperable obstacle
to all military success; with its coequal legislative assemblies, which
seems to strike at once at the unity of the laws, and to be a provision
for the dissolution of the society.

That which explains the mystery, that which accounts for the long
duration and signal success of so complicated a system, is to be found
in the predominating power of the Senate. And if again we are asked how
it happened that the Senate endured so long, and was not sooner
dissolved or reduced to subjection by some military chief, we can only
refer to the jealousy which the great men of Rome, patrician or
plebeian, entertained of each other. Many a patrician would have been
king, none would have endured to have a king over him. This
determination to bow to no superior, except the law, except the State,
is the feeling of every aristocracy which grows up within a city. It is
otherwise with a territorial aristocracy. Here some form of our feudal
system invariably presents itself; the common safety requires it. But in
a municipal aristocracy, like that of Rome or Venice, the prevailing
spirit, the _conservative feeling_, is precisely this determination,
that no one member of the body shall obtain predominance over the rest.
Looking at the history of Rome and the magnitude of her conquests, we
feel that it was inevitable that the Senate should succumb at length to
some victorious Cæsar, and we feel that it was equally inevitable that
it should deliver its last protest in the daggers of a Brutus and a
Cassius.

An extract from this portion of Dr Liddell’s work cannot fail to be
acceptable to our readers. What precisely was the august Senate of Rome
many of us may not distinctly remember, if indeed we have ever been so
distinctly told as we are in the pages of this writer. We have no space
to enter on the description of the two legislative assemblies, the
“Tribe Assembly,” and the “Centuriate Assembly,” as they are here
called, nor of the extraordinary power of the Tribune; we must limit our
quotation to that part which rather bears on the ordinary and executive
government of Rome.

  “To obtain each of these high offices (as those of Quæstor, Ædile,
  Prætor, Consul, Censor), the Roman was obliged to seek the suffrages
  of his fellow-citizens. They were all open to the ambition of every
  one whose name had been entered by the Censors in the Register of
  Citizens, provided he had reached the required age. No office, except
  the Censorship, was held for a longer period than twelve months. No
  officer received any pay or salary for his services. To defray
  expenses, certain allowances were made from the treasury by order of
  the Senate. To discharge routine duties and to conduct their
  correspondence, each magistrate had a certain number of clerks
  (Scribæ), who formed what we should call the civil service, and who
  had before this assumed an important position in the State.

  “But though the highest offices seemed thus absolutely open to every
  candidate, they were not so in practice. About the time of the first
  Punic war an alteration was made, which in effect confined the Curule
  officers to the wealthy families. The Ædiles were charged with the
  management of the public games, and for celebrating them with due
  splendour a liberal allowance had been made from the treasury. At the
  time just mentioned, this allowance was withdrawn. Yet the Curule
  Ædiles were still expected to maintain the honour of Rome by costly
  spectacles at the Great Roman Games, the Megalesian Festival, and
  others of less consequence. A great change was wrought by this law,
  which, under a popular aspect, limited the choice of the people to
  those who could buy their favour. None could become Ædile who had not
  the command of money, or at least of credit.

  “That which strikes the mind as most remarkable in the executive
  government of Rome, is the short period for which each magistrate held
  his office, and the seeming danger of leaving appointments so
  important to the suffrages of the people at large; and this is still
  more striking when we remember that the same system was extended to
  the army itself, as well as to its generals. The Romans had no
  standing army. Every Roman citizen between the complete ages of
  seventeen and forty-five, and possessing property worth at least 4000
  lb. of copper, was placed on the military roll. From this roll four
  legions, two for each Consul, were enlisted every year; and in cases
  of necessity additional legions were raised. But at the close of the
  year’s campaign these legionary soldiers had a right to return home
  and be relieved by others. Nor were there any fixed officers. Each
  legion had six tribunes and sixty centurions; but these were
  appointed, like the consuls and soldiers, fresh every year. The
  majority of the tribunes were now elected by the people at the Comitia
  of the tribes, and the remainder were nominated by the consuls of the
  year; the only limitation to such choice being, that those elected or
  nominated should have served in the legions at least five campaigns.
  The Centurions were then nominated by the Tribunes, subject to the
  approval of the Consuls. No doubt the Tribunes or Consuls, for their
  own sake, would nominate effective men; and therefore we should
  conclude, what we find to be the fact, that the Roman armies depended
  much on their Centurions, and on those Tribunes who were nominated by
  the Consuls.”

Everything hitherto seems to be in a state of perpetual change and
disorganisation. If a consul were pursuing his operations ever so
successfully, he was liable to be superseded at the close of the year by
his successor in the consulship; and this successor brought with him new
soldiers and new officers. This inconvenience was so great that the
constitutional usages were necessarily broken through: the same men were
re-elected to the consulship notwithstanding the law that no one should
hold the office a second time except after the lapse of a certain
interval. Impolitic laws, and these frequently suspended, present us
with a poor guarantee for the permanence of the republic.

  “But though the chief officers, both in state and army, were
  continually changing at the popular will, there was a mighty power
  behind them, on which they were all dependent, which did not change.
  This was the SENATE.

  “The importance of this body can hardly be overstated. All the acts of
  the Roman Republic ran in the name of the Senate and People, as if the
  Senate were half the State, though its number seems still to have been
  limited to three hundred members.

  “The Senate of Rome was perhaps the most remarkable assembly that the
  world has ever seen. Its members held their seats for life. Once
  senators, always senators, unless they were degraded for some
  dishonourable cause. But the Senatorical peerage was not hereditary;
  no father could transmit the honour to his son. Each man must win it
  for himself.

  “The manner in which seats in the Senate were obtained is tolerably
  well ascertained. Many persons will be surprised to learn that the
  members of this august body, all, or nearly all, owed their places to
  the votes of the people. In theory, indeed, the Censors still
  possessed the power really exercised by the kings and early Consuls,
  of choosing the Senators at their own will and pleasure. But official
  powers, however arbitrary, are always limited in practice—and the
  Censors followed rules established by ancient precedent. A notable
  example of the rule by which the list of the Senate was made occurs at
  a period when, if ever, there was wide room for the exercise of
  discretion. After the fatal days of Trasimene and Cannæ, it was found
  that, to complete the just number of Senators, no less than one
  hundred and seventy were wanting. Two years were yet to pass before
  new Censors would be in office; and to provide an extraordinary remedy
  for an extraordinary case, M. Fabius Buteo, an old Senator of high
  character, was named Dictator, for the sole purpose of recruiting the
  vacant ranks of his order. He thus discharged his duty: after reciting
  the names of all surviving Senators, he chose as new members, first,
  those who had held Curule offices since the last censorship, according
  to the order of their election; then those who had served as Ædiles,
  Tribunes, or Quæstors; then of those who had not held office, such as
  had decorated their houses with spoils taken from the enemy, or with
  crowns bestowed for saving the lives of fellow-citizens!

  “The first qualification for a seat in the Senate then was that of
  office. It is probable that to the qualification of office there was
  added a second, property; a third limitation, that of age, followed
  from the rule that the Senate was recruited from the lists of official
  persons. No one could be a Senator till he was about thirty years of
  age.

  “The power of the Senate was equal to its dignity. It absorbed into
  its ranks a large proportion of the practical ability of the
  community. It was a standing council, where all official functions
  were annual. And thus, it is but natural that it should engross the
  chief business of the State.”

This body of ex-consuls, ex-prætors, and the like (we need hardly say
that the distinction between Patrician and Plebeian had been early
erased) might well justify the figure of speech which the minister of
Pyrrhus used when he called the Roman Senate an assembly of kings. “Many
of its members had exercised sovereign power; many were preparing to
exercise it.”

The Senate had the absolute control of foreign affairs, except that, in
declaring war and concluding treaties of peace, the people were
consulted. The conduct of the war, and all diplomatic negotiations, were
in their hands. The Consul was the servant of the Senate; the sacred
pontiffs took their orders from the Senate. And, what was of no less
importance, “all the financial arrangements of the State were left to
their discretion.” In times of difficulty, as is well known, they had
the power of suspending all rules of law by the appointment of a
dictator.

  “They prolonged the command of a general or suspended him at pleasure.
  They estimated the sums necessary for the military chest; nor could a
  sesterce be paid to the general without their order. If a Consul
  proved refractory, they could transfer his power for a time to a
  dictator. All disputes in Italy or beyond seas were referred to their
  sovereign arbitrement.... They might also resolve themselves into a
  High Court of Justice for the trial of extraordinary offences.”

Nor was this great Executive Council without participation in, or
control over, the function of the legislative assemblies; for, as a
general rule, no law could be proposed which had not already received
the sanction of the Senate. This body may be well described as having
been for many years “the main-spring of the Roman constitution.”

Next to the wars with Hannibal follow those with Philip, and Antiochus,
and Perseus, all of which Dr Liddell relates with singular perspicuity.
It is sad to notice how soon after the report of victories and extended
empire is heard the complaint of corrupted manners, of a Senate greedy
of gold, of a people following the war for plunder, making of arms a
trade and profession. It was at the end of the second Punic war that we
were called upon to take a survey of republican institutions, and
republican simplicity of manners—of a people rude and warlike indeed,
but agricultural, domestic, where divorce was unknown, faithful and
pious,—and the third and last Punic war does not break out before we
hear of the city being startled and alarmed at the report of wives
poisoning their husbands, and at the discovery of secret associations of
men and women where some new and licentious worship of Bacchus was
introduced. The disease first manifests itself in the rude efforts to
check it, and one of the earliest symptoms of corruption is the
appearance on the stage of Cato the Censor.

Of Cato the Censor Dr Liddell gives us the outlines of a very vigorous
portrait. “More familiar to us,” he says, “than almost any of the great
men of Rome, we see him, with his keen grey eyes and red hair, his harsh
features and spare athletic frame, strong by natural constitution and
hardened by exercise, clad even at Rome in the coarsest rustic garb,
attacking with plain but nervous eloquence the luxury and corruption of
the nobles.” This type of a whole class of men, more honest than
enlightened, stands out to us in still more distinct relief from his
opposition to his great contemporary Scipio, the proud and the
reflective, whom he chose to fasten upon as his antagonist. Cato had
rushed to the conclusion that the wickedness of Rome was traceable to
the arts and philosophy of Greece. He ought to have directed his
scrutiny to the cupidity and ambition of Rome. It was wealth and power,
not art and philosophy, that were corrupting his fellow-citizens. He
should have done his utmost to check their spirit of pillage and of
conquest. Instead of which, he joins in the war-cry of the people, and
directs his hostility against Scipio, the introducer of Greek
literature. Another motive also is assigned for this hostility, which is
of a still more commonplace character: there were political parties in
Rome as elsewhere, and Cato had attached himself to the party of Fabius,
which was opposed to the Scipios.

Born at the provincial town of Tusculum, and inheriting some patrimony,
lands and slaves, in the Sabine territory, near the spot once occupied
by the great Curius Dentatus, the future Censor of Rome had early
adopted a quite rustic mode of life. The young Cato, we are told, looked
with reverence on the hearth at which Curius had been roasting his
radishes when he rejected the Samnite gold, and resolved to make a model
of that rude and simple patriot. He used to work with his slaves,
wearing the same coarse dress, and partaking of the same fare. But
conscious, nevertheless, of superior powers, and fond, we may be sure,
of seeing justice done amongst his neighbours, he would resort
occasionally to the nearer courts of law, to plead the cause of some
client. His shrewd sayings and caustic eloquence attracted the attention
especially of one Valerius Flaccus, “a young nobleman of the
neighbourhood, himself a determined friend of the ancient Roman
manners.” Flaccus persuaded him to leave his farm, and enter public life
at Rome. There he rose, step by step, through the several offices of
state, till he reached the highest honour, that of the Censorship.

  “Cato was now in full possession of the immense arbitrary powers
  wielded by the Censor, and determined not to act, as most Censors had
  acted, merely as the minister of the Senate, but to put down luxury
  with a strong hand. He had thundered against the repeal of the Oppian
  law,[2] during his consulship, but in vain,—the ladies were too strong
  for him. But now it was his turn. Hitherto no property had been
  included in the Censor’s register, except land and houses. Cato
  ordered all valuable slaves to be rated at three times the amount of
  other property, and laid a heavy tax on the dress and equipages of the
  women, if they exceeded a certain sum. He struck seven Senators off
  the list, some for paltry causes. Manilius was degraded for kissing
  his wife in public; another for an unseasonable jest; but all honest
  men must have applauded when L. Flaminius was at length punished for
  his atrocious barbarity.[3] It savoured of personal bitterness when,
  at the grand review of the knights, he deprived L. Scipio Asiaticus of
  his horse.

  “In the management of public works Cato showed judgment equal to his
  vigour. He provided for the repair of the aqueducts and reservoirs,
  and took great pains to amend the drainage of the city. He encouraged
  a fair and open competition for the contracts of tax-collection, and
  so much offended the powerful companies of Publicani, that, after he
  had laid down his office, he was prosecuted, and compelled to pay a
  fine of 12,000 ases.”

That fine of 12,000 ases we are disposed to reckon amongst his highest
titles to honour. Restricted in his notions, the Censor still claims our
esteem for the genuine sturdy independence which accompanies him
throughout his life, and in the presence alike of the Senate and the
people. He is no craven demagogue. “You are like a parcel of sheep,” he
tells the people on one occasion, “which follow their leader, they care
not whither.” He interferes to prevent a gratuitous distribution of
corn, which he foresaw would encourage the growth of a lazy mob in the
metropolis; and on this occasion he begins his oration thus, “It is a
hard thing, Romans, to speak to the belly, for it has no ears.” He was a
hard-headed, self-sufficient man, not too humane, since he could
recommend, in his book on agriculture, the selling off of old slaves as
a useless lumber, and by no means disposed to act with clemency or
justice towards foreign nations. In his old age, when he numbered
eighty-four years, he led the party which clamoured for the destruction
of Carthage. The old Sabine farmer appeared in the Senate, and unfolding
his gown, produced some giant figs, which he held up and said, “These
figs grow but three days’ sail from Rome.” He then repeated the
oft-reiterated and fatal sentence, “Carthage must be destroyed!—_delenda
est Carthago!_”

The morality between nation and nation always has been, and still is,
execrable. Indeed, there can be no international morality until men have
learned that the interest of one people is bound up with the interest of
others; till, just as individuals learn that their welfare is
inseparable from the welfare of some community of individuals, so
nations shall learn that their own wellbeing and prosperity is
inseparable from the wellbeing of some community of nations. The early
policy of Rome in the treatment of the Italian cities which were
compelled to acknowledge her supremacy, has often been praised; it could
not have been very censurable, since at the period of Hannibal’s
greatest success there were so few defections. Probably the value of
some large Italian confederacy had begun to be generally appreciated;
and as there was little to pillage from each other, there was the less
room for injustice. When the government extended beyond Italy, over rich
and conquered provinces, the historian has no longer any commendation to
bestow.

  “It was a general rule that all Italian land was tax-free, and that
  all provincial land, except such as was specified in treaties or
  decrees of the Senate, was subject to tax. This rule was so absolute
  that the exemption of land from taxation was known by the technical
  name of _Jus Italicum_, or the Right of Italy.

  “This last distinction implies that the imperial revenues were raised
  chiefly from the provinces. In the course of little more than thirty
  years from the close of the Hannibalic war, this was the case, not
  chiefly, but absolutely. The world was taxed for the benefit of Rome
  and her citizens....

  “It was as if England were to defray the expenses of her own
  administration from the proceeds of a tax levied on her Indian empire.
  The evil was aggravated by the way in which the taxes were collected.
  This was done by contract. From time to time the taxes of each
  province were put up to public auction by the Prætor or Proconsul; and
  the company of contractors which outbade the rest received the
  contract and farmed the taxes of the province. The members of these
  companies were called _Publicani_. It is manifest that this system
  offered a premium on extortion.

  “The Proconsuls and Prætors exercised an authority virtually despotic.
  They were Senators, and responsible to the Senate alone. It may too
  surely be anticipated what degree of severity a corporation like the
  Senate would exercise towards its own members in times when
  communication with the provinces was uncertain and difficult, when no
  one cared for the fate of foreigners, when there was no press to give
  tongue to public opinion, and indeed no force of public opinion at
  all. Very soon the Senatorial Proconsuls found it their interest to
  support the tax-gatherers in their extortions, on condition of sharing
  in the plunder. The provincial government of the republic became in
  practice an organised system of oppression, calculated to enrich
  fortunate Senators, and to provide them with the means of buying the
  suffrages of the people, or of discharging the debts incurred in
  buying them. The name of Proconsul became identified with tyranny and
  greed.”

We would gladly accompany Dr Liddell farther down the stream of history,
but the stream widens as we proceed. The events increase in magnitude,
and the territory over which they extend expands before us; we have not
“ample room or verge enough” for such themes as the names of Sylla,
Pompey, Cæsar, suggest.

One subject we cannot help glancing at. The battles and conquests of
Rome led to the making of innumerable slaves; and nowhere is more
plainly illustrated the great truth, that injustice works evil—that
wrong, or the recklessness of other men’s wellbeing, will bring with it
a penalty of some kind, on some head,—for her slave-system was the curse
of Rome, and the chief cause of her ruin and downfall.

Unfortunately for any distinctness of view on this subject, the same
name slavery is applied to very different institutions, to very
different relations between man and man, to very different rights and
conduct of him who calls himself master or owner. All systems of
slave-labour are no more alike than all systems of monarchy. In some
cases the institution we call slavery is the only possible system that
could have been adopted. But amongst the Romans slavery exhibited itself
in its harshest features; here, it in part superseded and thrust aside
the labour of the free peasant: in Italy it drove the native
agriculturist from the soil, and converted cornfields which had been
cultivated by hardy yeomen, into wild pastures, where the cattle were
watched by slaves. In the city, it retarded or prevented the growth of a
free industrious middle class; even what we call liberal professions
suffered a certain social degradation from being thrown into the hands
of slaves or freedmen. The Romans were always a harsh people, and a
system which put unlimited power of life and limb into their hands, and
supplied the circus with gladiatorial combats, was not likely to improve
their humanity.

They were always a harsh and severe people; it is suspected that some
unrecorded conquest and subjugation was the origin of the distinction
between patrician and client, and that the history of the city ought
really to commence with the invasion and domination of a conquering
_caste_ or race. Be that as it may, one of the first laws we hear of is
of so severe and cruel a character—a law of debtor and creditor of so
atrocious a description—that it is almost as incredible as any of the
wildest legends of that early time. We can scarcely believe that a
people who had advanced to the making any laws at all, could have made
one in which it was provided that “the creditor might arrest the person
of his debtor, load him with chains, and feed him on bread and water for
thirty days, and then, if the money still remained unpaid, he might put
him to death, or sell him as a slave to the highest bidder; or, if there
were several creditors, they might hew his body in pieces and divide
it”—with a saving clause that, “if a man cut more or less than his due,
he should incur no penalty.”—Vol. i. p. 100. Possibly this last
provision was a mere threat, and to be sold as a beast of burden was the
heaviest penalty that a patrician creditor ever inflicted on his debtor.
It is plain, however, that when a multitude of slaves fell into the
hands of the Romans, they fell into the hands of men who were not
disposed to use their power leniently. They were men of blunt
sensibilities. One who visited a Roman senator in the time of the
Scipios might have had his ears assailed by the sharp cry of pain from a
beaten slave, and certainly the first object that would have greeted his
vision would have been a slave chained like a dog to the door—the
“hall-porter” of those days. In subsequent times the more refined Roman
could not have endured such sounds and sights in his own presence or
neighbourhood; but what went on in the “ergastula” upon his estate, he
probably never cared to inquire.

Our readers will perhaps prefer here a brief extract from Dr Liddell to
any general statements of our own. He says:—

  “A few examples will show the prodigious number of slaves that must
  have been thrown into the market in the career of conquest on which
  the republic entered after the Hannibalic war. To punish the Bruttians
  for the fidelity with which they adhered to the cause of the great
  Carthaginian, the whole nation were made slaves; no less than 150,000
  Epirotes were sold by Æmilius Paulus; 50,000 were sent home by Scipio
  from Carthage. These numbers are accidentally preserved; and if,
  according to this scale, we calculate the hosts of unhappy men sold in
  slavery during the Syrian, Macedonian, Illyrian, Grecian, and Spanish
  wars, we shall be prepared to hear that slaves fit only for unskilled
  labour were plentiful and cheap.

  “It is evident that hosts of slaves lately free men, and many of them
  soldiers, must become dangerous to the owners. Nor was their treatment
  such as to conciliate. They were turned out upon the hills, made
  responsible for the safety of the cattle put under their charge, and
  compelled to provide themselves with the common necessaries of life. A
  body of these wretched men asked their master for clothing: ‘What!’ he
  asked, ‘are there no travellers with clothes on?’ The atrocious hint
  was soon taken: the shepherd-slaves of lower Italy became banditti,
  and to travel through Apulia without an armed retinue was a perilous
  adventure. From assailing travellers the marauders began to plunder
  the smaller country-houses; and all but the rich were obliged to
  desert the country, and flock into the towns. When they were not
  employed upon the hills, they were shut up in large prison-like
  buildings (_ergastula_), where they talked over their wrongs, and
  formed schemes of vengeance.”

No wonder we hear of Sicilian slave-wars. Nor can we wonder, after this,
at the statement sometimes made, that Roman civilisation never extended
beyond the cities—that the _country_ of such provinces of Gaul and Spain
was still barbarian—that there was no civilisation or humanity _here_
for Goth or German to destroy. We cannot wonder, at all events, that
there was no patriotism to withstand their invasion. Their invasion was
a restoration of the _country_, if it was a temporary destruction of the
_town_. And even in the large towns, while the system of slavery
endured, the industrial arts, and even studious and liberal professions,
never received their due honour and due encouragement. Wealth and
military and civil appointments were the only valid or generally
recognised claims to social distinction.

We must take our leave of Dr Liddell’s book, again commending it to the
student. In a passage we quoted from the preface, the author says that
if less of positive history is laid before the reader than in some older
books, “he will, at all events, find less that he will have to unlearn.”
We venture to think that there is still a good deal set down here as
history which the student will have to unlearn. But we make no objection
to the work on this account; for every student must be solicitous to
know what is the last hypothesis of eminently learned men. There has
been an overflow, in our own times, of conjectural history. As it
chiefly concerned the dry details of civil government, and the
development of constitutional laws, the free employment of a conjectural
method was disguised: this flood, we may venture confidently to say, is
now receding.

Additions of this kind, made by one able man, will be destroyed by
another; but it does not follow on this account that there has not been
a real progress made in the study of Roman history. This progress
chiefly consists in the discrimination made in the comparative value of
the materials which have come down to us. “In the first two centuries
after the invention of printing,” says Sir G. C. Lewis, “the entire
history of Rome was in general treated as entitled to implicit belief;
all ancient authors were put upon the same footing, and regarded as
equally credible; all parts of an author’s work were, moreover, supposed
to rest upon the same basis. Not only was Livy’s authority as high as
that of Thucydides or Tacitus, but his account of the kings was
considered as credible as that of the wars with Hannibal, Philip,
Antiochus, or Perseus; and again, the lives of Romulus, Numa, or
Coriolanus by Plutarch, were deemed as veracious as those of Fabius
Maximus, Sylla, or Cicero. Machiavel, in his _Discourses on the First
Decade of Livy_, takes this view of the early history. The seven kings
of Rome are to him not less real than the twelve Cæsars; and the
examples which he derives from the early period of the Republic are not
less certain and authentic than if they had been selected from the civil
wars of Marius and Sylla, or of Cæsar and Pompey.” An instance so
striking as this of Machiavel ought to give us a double lesson, one of
modesty and one of confidence;—of modesty, because we too may be
involved in some general and prevailing error; of confidence, because
where the reason of the case is clear, no name or authority, however
great, ought to influence our convictions.




                              MONTEIL.[4]


To struggle for literary fame—to devote forty years to the composition
of an imperishable work—to toil amid pain and sickness, and the growing
infirmities of age—never to be appreciated during all the period of that
laborious existence except by the chosen few—and finally to die in
poverty, perhaps in want—and then, when you have long been buried, and
your name is nearly forgotten, your work to get slowly but surely into
circulation, and to be pronounced a master-piece—this is the fate of
few; but it was the fate of Amans Alexis Monteil, author of the _History
of the French of Various Conditions_—a book of amazing research, great
skill in composition, picturesque, humorous, and characteristic, and now
received as the sovereign authority upon all the subjects on which it
treats. The author was worthy of the work. Its object is to give a clear
description of the French people, as they presented themselves to their
contemporaries during the five last centuries. Old cartularies are
ransacked, baptismal registers consulted, manners and habits inquired
into; the private life of the tradesman, of the merchant, of the
labourer, earnestly investigated, and brought before us with the
distinctness of a picture. And Alexis himself—he was more undecipherable
than a charter of the time of Clovis, more dusty, begrimed, and
antiquated than the records of a Benedictine monastery: nobody knew him;
he breakfasted, dined (when he dined at all), and supped alone. Yet that
man of parchment had a heart, loved passionately, mourned deeply, hoped
ardently, and had such wit, such observation, such combination! Half of
his qualities remind us of Dominie Sampson, and the other half of Sydney
Smith. Let us dip into the contents of his volumes and the history of
his life; and first of the man.

Poor old Alexis, amid the desolation of his later years, fled for
consolation to the past. He revived the scenes of his youth, flew back
to his native town, and gave daguerreotypes, in an autobiography which
he never finished, of his father, his mother, his brothers, the people
he had known, and the very stones he remembered in the walls. These
reminiscences are very minute. Of course they are, for it was the habit
of the man’s mind to record the smallest particulars. He preferred them
indeed to great ones. He would rather know the number of buttons on a
general’s coat than the battles he had won. So his father is brought
before us in his habit as he lived. This worthy man had had losses, like
Dogberry, and, like that great functionary, had also held authority in
his native town. The town was a very small town, and the authority not
great; but it was enough: it gave rank; it gave dignity; and the son
records it as evidence that he came of gentle kin.

It was in the small city of Rhodez, partly situated in Auvergne and
partly in Rouergue, that Monsieur Jean Monteil, before the French
Revolution, held the office of receiver of fines and forfeits. This does
not seem a lofty post, but the worthy holder managed, by a little
ingenuity, and a lawsuit which lasted six years, to get it recognised as
one of the offices of the crown, inasmuch as the fines were those levied
by a royal court; and he was therefore as much a king’s servant as the
procureur himself. On the strength of this connection with the
administration, of justice, Monsieur Monteil wore a hat with a gold
band, a gown also with a similar ornament; and on Sundays and fête days
he had a right to march to the church, looking the embodiment of a
beadle, and of sitting on a raised place near the altar, and being
“incensed” by the officiating priests. His son dwells with filial pride
on the noble figure his progenitor presented to the eyes of his
fellow-townsmen, as he walked along the street with his gold-headed
cane, and lifted his three-cornered hat in answer to the salutations of
all who saw him. How long this went on we are not told; but one day the
alarm-bell frightened the town of Rhodez from its propriety. The
Revolution had found its way to the deepest recesses of Auvergne, and
the Reign of Terror began. The guillotine showed its hideous shape in
the main street; war was declared against aristocrats; and who could be
more clearly proved to belong to that doomed body than the portly
gentleman with the gold-laced hat and the gold-handled ivory staff? John
Monteil and the Dukes of Montmorency were equally worthy of death. There
was no place left for De Grammonts or Monteils, and the servant of the
king was no more saluted with respectful bows as he paraded his official
costume on the first sound of the bell which called the faithful to
church, and was no longer received with humble obeisances by the priests
before the service began. In a short time there were no bells to ring;
they were melted down to make sou-pieces by order of the Convention.
Then there were no priests; they were all executed or banished, or had
enlisted in the armies of the Republic: and finally there was no church;
it was turned into a prison for the refractory; and John Monteil laid
aside his gilded toga, and his cocked-hat, and his cane, and hid himself
as well as he was able in the dark parlour of his house. There he gave
himself up to despair. And no wonder; the blow had fallen so
unexpectedly, and death was on every side. He only waited till his turn
should come; and at last it came. In the days of his grandeur he had
taken into his service two of the boys of Rhodez—one Jerome Delpech, who
seems to have had no family tree at all, and Jules Bauleze, the son of a
poor sempstress. They had acted as his clerks, and were grateful to
their old employer. They were now engaged in the public offices, and saw
the whole tragedy as it went on. From time to time they slipt into the
darkened parlour, and said, “Be on your guard”—“Fly”—“Save yourself.”
But John Monteil did not know whither to fly. All France was nothing but
a scaffold, so he staid at home.

The two clerks came near him no more. They were suspected. Jerome
Delpech died of the jail fever, waited on in his illness by his old
master; and Jules Bauleze, the son of the sempstress, he was accused of
being an aristocrat: the fact could not be denied, and he was executed
in front of the town-hall. Then the Committee of Public Safety began to
tremble for the liberty and equality of the nation if such a very
exalted personage as Monsieur Monteil were suffered to live. So the
ci-devant beadle is dragged to prison—to the very church, the scene of
his weekly glories—where he sat on the front bench, and white-robed
choristers swung censers under his nose till he was nearly suffocated
with perfume (and smoke); and here, at the eastern end of the melancholy
ruin (for the windows were taken out, and the ornamental work all
carried away) he saw the sempstress Bauleze kneeling in an agony of
silent grief at the remains of the broken altar. She had been thrown
into confinement as the mother of an aristocrat, and would probably on
the following day be his companion on the scaffold. But before the
following day, Robespierre’s reign was over, and the two representatives
of the aristocracy of Rhodez were saved. What now is Monsieur Jean
Monteil to do? He is nothing if not magisterial. Rob him of his robes,
and what is he? A poor man indeed, more sinned against than sinning,
reduced to leave the splendours of his native city, and, like
Diocletian, plant cabbages in retirement. He occupied a cottage, and
cultivated a few fields. But there was still left to him, companion and
soother of his griefs, the gentle Marie Mazet, whom he had married when
they were both in the sunshine of prosperity—both distinguished for
birth and station; for she was the daughter of a mercer who sold the
finest cloths in the town, and claimed some sort of unknown kindred with
the Bandinellis of Italy and the Maffettes of France. But this lofty
genealogy was due to the antiquarian zeal of her husband. She herself
only knew that Italy was a long way off, and that the Bandinellis and
the Maffettes were probably no better than they should be. So she did
not keep her head an inch higher on account of her noble origin, but was
the most sedate, quiet, economical, pains-taking manager of a household
that Rhodez had ever seen. She sang, but only at church, or over the
cradles of her children; she walked, but only to mass or vespers; she
lived, as was the custom of good housewives then, in the kitchen,
presided at table, helping the young ones, cleaning up the dishes,
ironing the clothes, arranging, settling, ordering all—a charming
picture of a good mother of a family; and no wonder her son dwells with
affecting tenderness over the details of his early home. And the
vintage! The labours of the whole house were suspended on that blessed
occasion. The dry and dusty streets were left behind; old and young took
their way rejoicing to the vineyard which Monsieur Monteil possessed a
few miles from the town; and even Madame Monteil forgot her cares—forgot
her economics, and renewed her youth in the midst of the universal joy.
A harvest-home is a delightful sound in English or Scottish ears; it
recalls the merry dance, the rustic feast, the games in the barn, the
ballad, the smoking bowl,—but what are all these to the vintage? The
harvest itself consists in wine. The children of the south kindle with
enthusiasm at the very sound of the word; and Bacchus and the ancient
gods seem once more to revisit the earth in a visible shape. All
Rouergue was in a ferment of enjoyment the moment the grapes were ripe;
but even then the mother of the future historian had hours of serious
reflection. With her hand clasped in the hand of her silent thoughtful
little boy, she looked often, long, and in silence, out of the window of
the summer-house, her eyes lifted to the sky, her mouth mantling with a
smile, sunk in an ecstasy of holy contemplation, such as we see in Ary
Scheffer’s noble picture of St Augustin and his Mother. “What are you
thinking of, dear wife?” said Monsieur Jean Monteil. “On eternity,” she
replied in a soft voice, and gave her little boy’s hand a warmer clasp.
It must be from the maternal side Alexis derived his quiet strength, and
the exquisite feeling of romance which enables him to realise the states
of society, the sentiments and family connections so long past away. A
mother like this would have been a fatal loss at any time; but happening
when it did, the blow was irrecoverable. So good a manager might have
restored the family fortunes; so loved a parent might have kept the sons
united and respectable; “but she fell into the dust,” says Alexis,
seventy years after her death, “and our household was ruined for ever.”
These are strange revelations of the interior economy of an obscure
family, in one of the most obscure of the provinces of France, before
and during the Revolution: and the curtain rises and falls upon all the
sons; for Alexis survived his brothers, and traces them with a light and
graceful hand from the cradle to the grave. The eldest was old enough to
know the distinction of his position as heir of the family name, when
the Revolution broke out, and buried Jean Baptiste Jacques under the
ruins of the feudal system. He had studied for the law—he had, in fact,
had the honour of being called to the bar, and, by his great eloquence
and knowledge, of getting his client—the only one he had—condemned to
the galleys for life. But he, like his father, was forced to put off the
gown, and, unlike his father, who stayed to brave the tempest at home,
he fled. Meanly, ignominiously he fled, and hid himself amid the retired
valleys of the Gevaudan, where he thought nobody would find him out, and
where he might boast of his loyalty and sufferings without danger. But
his boastings brought dangers from which greatness could not be exempt.
A certain loyalist of the name of Charrie—a peasant who thought that a
few of his fellow-labourers could restore the _fleur-de-lis_ on the
points of their pitchforks and other agricultural implements with which
they armed themselves—heard of the exiled magnate who made the echoes of
the Gevaudan vocal with his lamentations and cries for vengeance, and
came to the gownless advocate and made him colonel of the ragged
regiment on the spot! Here was a choice of evils. If he refused the
colonelcy, he would in a few minutes be cut into many hundred pieces by
the scythes of the furious Legitimists; if he accepted, he was certain
in a few weeks to be guillotined for rebellion against the Republic. But
as weeks are better than minutes, he accepted the honourable rank, and
Colonel Jean Baptiste showed himself at the head of his troops, and
armed himself with a reaping-hook, which looked like a Turkish scimitar
with the bend the wrong way. He armed himself also with a white cockade,
which had the remarkable property of presenting the tricolor when turned
inside out; and, prepared for either fortune, retained, as it were, on
both sides, the colonel-advocate considered himself secure whatever
might happen. But Charrie was not so blind as was thought. The trick was
found out, and the colonel fled: he ran, he climbed, he struggled over
walls, he staggered across gardens,—the scythemen, the pitchforkmen, the
reaping-hookmen, the flailmen after him; and by dint of quick running,
and artful turnings, and scientific doubles he might have been safe; but
a dreadful outcry in an outhouse, the infuriate babblings of
turkey-cocks, the hissing of geese, the quacking of ducks, betrayed him.
He had concealed himself in a hen-roost, and the denizens of the
poultry-yard had regarded neither the tricolor nor the white cockade. In
spite of his duplicity and cowardice, he got off. Happier than Charrie,
who paid for his brief authority with his head, the eldest hope of the
Monteils lived in peaceful obscurity, cultivating potatoes, both red and
white, and brewing the best wine of the district, till having planted
and brewed all through the first wars of the Empire, he died at sixty,
forgetful alike of his legal studies and military adventures, and only
doubtful as to the superiority of the long kidney or the pink-eyed
rounds.

The next was a wit—a _roué_ to the extent of a few rows on the street,
and a poet to the extent of a few lampoons on the respectable
dignitaries of Rhodez. He tore off the knockers of the street-doors,
changed the sign-boards of different tradesmen, and went through the
usual stages of a fast young gent’s career. He proceeded to Paris,
determining to be chancellor; he moderated his desires in a few years,
and would have been satisfied to be a peer of France; he sank lower
still, and would have accepted anything he could get, but he could get
nothing, so he became a land-measurer of the humblest kind, retained his
gaiety to the last, sang his own little songs and repeated his own
little epigrams, and died of corpulence and laziness at the age of
eighty-two, as happy, perhaps, as if his dreams of ambition had been
fulfilled. The third and last brother was the black sheep of the flock.
He enlisted in the hopeful time for any one who had courage and a sword,
in 1793, and might have been a Soult, or a Ney, or a Murat. Instead of
that, he was an idle, dissipated dog, who sank from vice to vice, till,
having some musical talent and great strength of wrist, which obtained
him the situation of drummer in the regiment, he behaved so ill that
some brother of the trade was employed to drum him out of the army, and
he returned to his home, living at his impoverished father’s
expense—getting a dinner where he could—drinking when he could obtain
wine—gambling when he could borrow a button to toss with—useless,
shameless, heartless; and when the old man died, and the cottage passed
to strangers, and his contemporaries had perished, and the new
generation knew him no more, he found his way to Paris, wandered through
the streets in search of an hospital, was so thin and worn and broken
down that he was admitted without certificate, and lay down on a crib in
the charitable ward and died: and this the result of the education and
the example given by Monsieur Jean Monteil of Rhodez, and the gentle
Marie Mazet! Was it for this they were so strict in honour, so pure in
heart, so tender in affection, only to produce a coward, an idler, and a
beggar? The fate of families well and carefully brought up, circled
round “by father’s blessing, mother’s prayer,” during all their youth,
and giving way at once to the excesses of vice, and sinking into the
abysses of shame, is one of the most curious of our everyday
experiences. Are we to blame the parents? They have done the best they
could; but Tom gets a commission, and is cashiered; Billy gets into a
bank, and forges a draft; Harry goes to the bar, and drinks himself to
death at the cider-cellar; and the proud and chivalrous old father, the
soft and affectionate mother, after mourning for a few years in the
small lodging to which the extravagance of their family has reduced
them, die of broken hearts. But in the case of the Monteils there was
one redeeming point: one son was all they could wish in the way of
affection, of uprightness, of quietness, and devotion to his books.
There was Amans Alexis studying from morn to night—very shy—very
awkward—very queer—caring nothing for society—knowing little of anything
that had occurred since the battle of Pavia—insatiate in his hunger
after old scraps of manuscript—starting off, stick in hand, bread in
pocket, if he heard that in some miserable valley among the hills there
had been a demolition going on of a monastery, or rotten old chest
discovered among the rat-holes of some tatterdemalion town-hall. The
odd-looking youth, tired and travel-stained, saw at a glance if the
muniment-chest was old and useless enough to be of any value; he opened
the moth-eaten lid, and saw a file of moth-eaten papers. In a moment he
ran over the hieroglyphics they contained. The language they were
written in, though Latin in name, would have puzzled Cicero and the
College of Augurs to interpret a syllable. Alexis read them off like
round-hand, and bought them—sixpence—ninepence—a franc—and the treasure
was his. He turned his heels on the monastery or the town-hall, and
pursued his way to Paris. He goes to the Depository of the Archives of
France. “Do you want an original charter granted by Louis le Hutin to
the Abbey of St Bernard de Romans in Dauphiny?” “Certainly. It is worth
its weight in gold;” and it is now a valued article in the Bibliothèque
Impériale.

But old charters are not to be found every day, even if
monasteries—which is greatly to be wished—were every day demolished; and
yet the daily bread is to be procured. Buonaparte is in the first dash
of youthful power. Nothing escapes him; no amount of bushels can hide
any candles which can light his way to empire. The laborious student,
the groper among old documents, the retiring antiquary is discovered,
and is installed Professor of History at the Military School. No man in
France knew more of history than Amans Alexis Monteil; but it was the
history of the citizen, not of the soldier. He knew what was the
position of the grocer, of the shoe-black, of the petty tradesman, since
grocers and shoe-blacks and petty tradesmen were created. He dwelt on
the family circle gathered round the cottage-fire in the year 1450. He
could tell of every article of furniture in the castle of the noble, and
also all the circumstances of the carpenters who made them. He knew the
habits of the scholars of Amboise or of Paris in the days of Joan of
Arc; but the wars of Frederick of Prussia, the wars of Charles the
Twelfth of Sweden! he hated wars; he was the biographer of the people,
and did not concern himself much about the great ones of the earth. So
his pupils were rather inattentive; they did not care much for the
simple annals of workmen and labourers who had been dead four hundred
years; and, besides, they were listening for the guns which were
thundering all over the world. How could they hear a dissertation on the
quarrels of the Benedictines and the Cordeliers, when they were in
momentary expectation of a bulletin from the Army of Italy? How could
they listen to a description of the agricultural labourers of Provence
on the day after the news of Marengo? They went off and were killed, or
rose to be generals, governors, marshals. And Alexis plodded on. He
gathered materials in all directions for the great work that was never
absent from his thoughts—pondered—inquired—compared, and finally
completed the most marvellous reproduction of the past which any country
possesses. It is, in fact, a minute detail of the humble ranks in
France, the inhabitants of obscure towns and farms and hamlets. What
Monfaucon is to the nobility, with his fourteen folio volumes of
emblazoned arms, and vivid representation of the life in hall and
palace, the glitter of the tilt-yard, the mustering of knights and
squires for battle, the gentle Alexis is for the peasant, for the
roturier, the bourgeois, and the serf. He erects his tent in the market,
in front of the monastery, at the great gate of the chateau, or in the
fair, where he is surrounded by mountebanks and ballad-singers and
jugglers, and writes down exactly what he sees. He sees a leper sitting
at the gate, veiled and guarded. He meets a funeral—he meets a wedding;
he accompanies the corpse to the church, and the bride to her chamber.
He omits nothing; and he supports every statement by the most amazing
array of documents. There are writings and inscriptions, and medals of
brass, and carved pieces of stone, and fragments of chests of drawers,
all giving confirmation strong to whatever fact he states. And this
minute supervision he extends over four centuries. The tradesman is
followed from the time of the domination of the English to the time of
the domination of Louis the Fourteenth. The noble is seen, over all that
lapse of time, governing, quarrelling, trampling, oppressing; and you
soon see that the Revolution of 1789 was a great revenge for centuries
of wrong; that the guillotine of 1793 was built out of timber planted by
feudal barons, when Francis the First was king; and you wonder no longer
at the inhuman ferocity of a peasantry and a middle class, equally
despised and equally hated by the spurred and feathered oligarchy who
ground them to the dust, and insulted them in their dearest relations.
Happily for us, feudalism died a natural death, or was put an end to
like a gentleman in fair fight at Naseby and elsewhere, or
scientifically bled into its grave by acts of Parliament, or John Bull
would have torn it in pieces like a tiger; for the _History of the
French of Various Conditions_ would apply equally well during the first
century of the record (the fourteenth) to our English trades. But in the
sixteenth the divergence is complete. Nobles in England are tyrants no
more, nor the lower classes slaves. When Leicester was entertaining
Elizabeth at Kenilworth, an Englishman’s house was his castle. When
Sully was raising adherents for Henry the Fourth, the French peasant had
no property and no rights. Leicester would have been tried for robbery
if he had taken forcible possession of John Smith’s ox or cow. Sully
would have passed scot-free if he had burned Jacques Bonhomme’s cottage
about his ears, and tossed that starveling individual into the flames on
the point of his lance. There is such an impression of truth and reality
about these revelations of Monteil, that we never have a doubt on the
smallest incident of his details. If for a moment we pause in our
perusal, and say, “Can this possibly be correct? Can such things be?”
What is the use of farther hesitation? You turn to the note at the end
of the volume. You find voucher after voucher, from all manner of
people—priests, lawyers, and judges. You might as well doubt your own
marriage, with the certificate of that stupendous fact before your eyes,
signed by parson and clerk, two bridesmaids, and the Best Man. It is
better to read on with unhesitating belief. You will only get into a
cloud of witnesses which will throw you positively into the dark ages,
as if you had been a spectator of the scene. And the author all this
time—is he a mere machine—a mill for the grinding of old facts into new
and contemporary pieces of knowledge, as an old bronze statue may be
coined into current money? Alexis is married; Alexis has a child—such a
wife and such a child no man was ever blessed with before. His father,
our deceased acquaintance, the former aristocrat of Rhodez, Monsieur
Jean Monteil, married his student son, shortly after the tempest burst
out upon the throne and nobility of France, to a charming creature,
young, innocent, and an heiress, daughter of a gentleman who, long
before this, had retired to enjoy his fortune with dignity—a Monsieur
Rivié, a little man, but strong—strong as a blacksmith. And this was
lucky, for he was a blacksmith by trade. Not a common blacksmith, be it
understood, but so clever, so sharp, so knowing, and withal such a
dreadfully hard hitter, that he was a very uncommon blacksmith indeed.
Little Rivié was the name he was known by all over the part of the
country where his anvil rung. But little Rivié rose to be great Rivié
before long. He shod horses for great men; he shod a war-horse for the
Prince of Conti; he shod a charger for Marshal Saxe; he shod a lame
horse so skilfully for a certain colonel that the colonel got him the
contract for supplying the regiment with its remounts. He bought lame
horses, of course, cured them, and sent them capering and caracolling to
the barracks. It was the best-horsed regiment at Dettingen, and ran away
at the first fire. So the smith grew rich, and married, and retired, as
was said above, to show his well-earned wealth and his delightful family
to his admiring townsfolk. As he rattled through the street, he became
so inflated with pride and happiness that the axle of his carriage
broke, and he was forced to alight. Luckily the accident happened just
opposite a smithy. The mulciber was an old fellow-apprentice, but could
not recognise his ancient comrade in the person of the great seignor who
had crushed his axle-tree by the mere weight of his importance. He also
could not mend the fracture. In a moment the noble stranger pulled off
his embroidered coat, tucked up his fine-linen sleeves, seized the
sledge, and, O heavens! wasn’t there a din?—a hail of blows?—a storm of
sparkles?—a rat-a-tat on the end, on the side, on the middle, and still
the twelve-pound hammer went on. “By St Eloi!” said the owner of the
instrument, “you are either the d—l himself or little Rivié.” And little
Rivié it was. And little Rivié he continued to the end, for all his
grandeur disappeared. That dreadful Revolution meets us at every turn.
It broke the axle-tree of Monsieur Rivié’s carriage, beyond the power of
Vulcan himself to mend—it took off his embroidered coat, which nobody
could ever restore—it tucked up his fine-linen shirt-sleeves, and
nothing could ever bring them down again. In the days of his prosperity
he had given his eldest daughter (and a dowry) to the Marquis de
Lusignan—a nobleman who advanced claims to the island of Cyprus and the
kingdom of Jerusalem, but was delighted to accept a few thousand francs
as “tocher” with the daughter of a contractor. He borrowed a few
thousands more on the income of the baronial estates of the Lusignans,
besides a collateral security on the revenues of the Holy City when it
was restored to its legitimate king. This mortgage was settled as the
marriage fortune of the younger daughter, the sweet and excellent
Annette. But the barony of Lusignan followed the example of Cyprus and
Jerusalem, and vanished into thin air at a twist of the necromantic wand
of Danton and Robespierre. Little Rivié was too old to resume the
hammer. He retired, with his sons and daughters, to a small farm in the
neighbourhood of Rhodez; and the ex-beadle and the ex-blacksmith
arranged a marriage between the historian of the trades and the sister
of the Queen of Cyprus. Her majesty had died, and her royal lord was
flourishing a pair of scissors, and occasionally a razor, in the
Burlington Arcade. Did the gentle Annette repine at her change of
fortune? Did she mourn over the days of her father’s grandeur, and
despise the queer, learned, modest, loving being she had enriched with
her first affection? Ah! never for an hour. They sometimes had a dinner,
sometimes not; but always mutual trust, always perfect love.
Occasionally, when fortune smiled more than usual, Alexis would address
a letter to her as “Her Royal Highness the Princess of Lusignan, in her
patrimonial Realm of Cyprus;” but this was only when a manuscript had
put them in funds. At other times they were sad enough. With the amount
of their united fortunes they had bought a small cottage and garden near
Fontainebleau. Here he resided, walking every day six miles to his class
and six miles back. Annette regularly met him, on his return, a mile or
two from home, and arm-inarm they re-entered their own domain. But the
class disappeared, the chair of history was suppressed, and the house
was offered for sale. A purchaser appeared, and Alexis, in the interest
of some future antiquarian of two thousand three hundred and nine,
preserved the “Agreement to buy.” It was between “Dame Monteil and his
majesty Napoleon the Great, Emperor of the French, King of Italy, and
Protector of the Confederation of the Rhine.” It is a pity that the sum
agreed on was not so magnificent as the titles of the buyer. It was only
two hundred pounds—“a small price,” says Alexis, with a sigh, “out of
the contributions of all Europe.” They now removed into a garret in a
suburb of Paris, and day by day the husband put on his hat and traversed
the great dark streets in search of something to do, but got no comfort
from the interminable lines of narrow-windowed houses; for not a door
was opened, not an offer was made, and, weary and disheartened, he found
his way back to his attic, to the suffering smile of Annette, and the
playful caresses of his boy. His Alexis was now two years old, and with
these two the heart of the simple student was completely filled. There
never had been such a child before, except among the cherubs of Murillo.
He would make him such a scholar! such a Christian! such a man!—but in
the mean time their two hundred pounds (diminished by the expenses of
the sale) were rapidly disappearing. The time of the green leaves was
coming on. They heard birds whistling in the dusty trees on the road
before their windows—they thought of the chestnuts, and limes, and
hedgerows of Rouergue. “Come,” said Alexis, “Paris has no need of such a
useless fellow as I am. Let us go home.” Annette packed up her small
possessions, took the young Alexis in her arms, and away they go in the
first sunny days of the month of May. Away they go on foot, Alexis
generally bestriding his father’s shoulders as if he felt Bucephalus
beneath him, and through the smiling plains: through Nemours, Montargis,
Cosne, Pouilly, lies their course, and Paris gradually is forgotten.
They walked at a good pace, for they liked to have an hour or two to
spare when they came to a shady place and a spring. Then they undid the
knapsack, and bread soaked in the fountain became ambrosia, and they did
not envy the gods. Through Moulins, Clermont, Issoire, on they go,
talking, arranging, hoping. And at last they see the chestnut trees, the
limes, the hedgerows—they are in the paradise of their youth: they know
the names of every field—they are beloved by all that see them—and they
live on sixty francs (two pounds eight and fourpence) a-month. The
vegetables are delightful, the milk plentiful, the loaf abundant, and
they never think of meat. Amans Alexis writes—writes—writes. Annette
sits beside him, and listens with entranced ears as he reads to her,
chapter by chapter, the history of her countrymen who lived, and worked,
and hungered so long ago. His great book is now begun, and his life is
happy. Scraps of paper with perfectly illegible lines furnish him with a
hint, which he works up into a statement. The statement grows a story,
the story grows a picture, and we become as familiarly acquainted with
Friar John, Cordelier of Tours, and Friar Andrew, Cordelier of
Thoulouse, as with any of our friends. And such a correspondent as Friar
John of Tours has seldom been met with since he started on his memorable
journey to Paris in the year 1340. Then all the personages introduced
are as real as a lord mayor. Where Alexis got his knowledge of
character, his sly observation, his exquisite touches of humour, is a
puzzle to those who know his story. But it was not in Stratford that
Shakespeare got his knowledge of the tortures of a successful usurper
like Macbeth; nor in London that he repeated at second hand the wit of
Benedict or Mercutio. Alexis found the grave dignity of the Sire de
Montbason, the ill-repressed ardour of the soldier-monk Friar William,
and the noble lessons in chivalry given by the Commander of Rhodes, in
the same wonderful reservoir of unacted experience in which Shakespeare
found the jealousy of the Moor and the philosophic wanderings of Hamlet.
The family group in the Castle of Montbason is worthy of Sterne, and the
warrior-colouring of Scott.

The book grows—it takes shape—visions of wealth and honour look out in
every page; and again to Paris must they go. They go—and the same
wretched life comes upon them again. They are again in a garret. Again
Alexis walks through desolate streets; again his misery is cheered by
his wife and the prattle of his son: but he does not see a hectic colour
on Annette’s cheek, or hear a cough which shakes her frame. She never
mentions how weak she is growing—till at last concealment is impossible.
She languishes in the town air, and pants once more for the fields and
gardens. She sees, when lying on her sleepless bed, the whole district
rise before her as if she were there. She sees the church—the farm—the
cottage where they were so happy. Nothing will keep her in Paris; she
must die in her native village. Alexis is broken-hearted. It is
impossible for them all to travel so far; the journey by coach is too
expensive, on foot too far; but Annette must be gratified in all. It
seems a small favour to give to so good a wife—the choice of a place to
die in.

“There are three spots,” says Alexis, “which I never pass without
thinking of Annette—the Rue de Seine, at the corner of the Rue de
Tournon. It was there that she all of a sudden began to limp, attacked
by rheumatism. ‘Ah!’ she cried, ‘’tis the last of my happy walks.’
Another time, on the Pont Royal, a band of music passed, followed by the
Imperial Guards. Annette said to me, ‘I scarcely see them; there is a
cloud before my eyes.’ Alas, alas! my last recollection of her is at the
coach-office, where I saw her take her departure. ‘Adieu, adieu!’ she
said to me over and over with her sweet voice—and I was never to see her
again!” Alexis took no warning from the limping in the Rue de Seine, or
the blindness on the Pont Royal. She stayed with him, cheering him,
soothing him, sustaining him to the last; and then, when she could only
be a burden and a care to him, she unfolded her wings like a dove, and
flew away and was at rest.

Alexis was very desolate now, but he laboured on; he lavished on his son
all the affection that formerly was spread over two. He educated him
himself—made him the sharer of his studies, the partner of his pursuits.
Brought up in such poverty, and accustomed only to his parents, he never
was a child. At thirteen he was grave, thoughtful, laborious, and had
the feelings of a man of middle age. The government did not altogether
pass over the claims to compensation for the suppression of the Historic
Chair which Alexis now advanced. He was made a sub-librarian at the
school of St Cyr, and ate his bread in faith; and he published his
volume, but got nothing for all his toil. It was in a style so new, and
on a subject so generally neglected, that it had a small circulation,
though highly esteemed by all who had the power to appreciate the skill
of the workman and the value of the work. Still he toiled on, for he had
his son to provide for; and the boy was now grown up—a fine stately
young man, reminding Alexis of his mother by the sweetness of his temper
and the beauty of his features. There were other points of resemblance
which he did not perceive. The youth was his father’s only companion,
the father was the youth’s only friend; and great was the pride of
Alexis when he was told that his comrade was in love, was loved, and was
soon about to marry. A bright prospect for poor old Monteil! who saw a
renewal of his own youth, and the tenderness of Annette, in the
happiness of his son and the attentions of his daughter-in-law. The son
was admitted as clerk of the historical archives of France, and his
salary was enough for his wants. The audience, fit, though few, which
approved of the father’s volumes, encouraged him to proceed. There was
at last a prospect of a brilliant fame and a comfortable income. They
could buy a small house at Fontainebleau; they would all live together:
when children came, there would be new editions of the Fourteenth
Century, to be a portion for the girl; the Fifteenth Century should
educate the boy; the Sixteenth should go into a fund for saving; and the
other centuries could surely be a provision for the author’s old age.
Could anything be more delightful or more true? But young Monteil grew
weak, no one knew why. He walked home in the rain one evening, and dried
himself at the stove: he shivered as he stood before it, and then went
to bed—and then was in a fever—and in three days he died!

“I lost him,” says Alexis, “on the 21st September 1833, at eleven
o’clock at night. I closed his eyes. Oh, misery! Oh, my child!—my second
self! Hearest thou the cries and sobs of the wretched being who was once
thy father? Dost thou recognise the voice of the poor old man whom thou
so lovedst—who loved thee so? Thou leavest him alone upon the earth, and
his hair is now white, and his arms empty!”

And his house was empty, and his purse, but not his cup of suffering.
Away went all his dreams of buying the little villa at Fontainebleau,
with its garden and paddock, its cow-shed and hen-roost. A vault was now
to be purchased, and Monteil had not the necessary sum. But was his son,
the hope of his old age, the tenderest and most affectionate of
children, to be committed to the common grave, tossed in without a name,
without a headstone, without a flower above his head? No! he would beg,
he would pray—he would implore as a favour that a little spot of earth
should be given him to be the resting-place of his boy till he joined
him in the tomb—together the loving two, in death as in life. He wrote
to the prefecture of the Seine with his simple request; but not a clerk
in all that establishment had heard of his book. He got no answer. Still
he did not despair. He left the corpse for an hour—he walked to the
prefect—he saw him, he said to him, bare-headed, broken-voiced,
“Monsieur, I am Monteil;” but a look at the dignitary’s face showed him
that there was no response to the announcement. “Perhaps,” he said, “you
never heard my name?” And it was too true. He turned away, staggered
blindly down the stair, with his hand before his eyes. And he saw his
son cast carelessly, disdainfully, into the vast ditch—into which the
penniless are thrown.

Amans Alexis Monteil wrote at his great work no more. Fortune so far
smiled on him that he succeeded to a sum of £300. With this he bought a
cottage at Cely, a pretty village near Fontainebleau, and lived on
hermit’s fare. He wandered and mused in the Bois de Boulogne; he sat on
the stone seats of the gardens of the Luxembourg; but he saw no one at
home, visited no one abroad. He had ventured all the happiness of his
life on two frail barks, and both had foundered. Annette and Alexis,
both had gone, and why should he labour more? The villagers saluted him
as he passed, out of respect to age and sorrow, and he repaid them after
his kind. He traced up their genealogies—discovered for them where their
ancestors had come from, and finished by composing a veritable History
of the hamlet where he lived. The historian of the commons of France
became also historian of Cely, and more—he became its benefactor and
friend. Just before his death, he founded recompenses for good conduct.
He consented to the sale of a certain portion of his domain, and with
the interest of the money so raised he ordered medals of honour—silver,
with an inscription—to be given annually to the man who should drain a
marshy piece of ground—to him who should plant the finest vine round his
cottage—to the best labourer—to the village crone or washerwoman who
should amuse her circle of listeners with the most entertaining (and
innocent) stories—and to the shepherd who should show the kindest
treatment of his flock, _remembering that all have the same Creator_.
And thus mindful of his poorer neighbours, and just and benevolent to
the end, Amans Alexis Monteil closed his honourable life. His work has
been twice crowned by the Institute of France; it is in its fourth
edition; it has been eulogised by Guizot—it will be the delight of many
generations. But what cares Amans Alexis for favour that comes so late?
Sufficient for him is the neglected turf grave in the churchyard of
Cely, with the short inscription of his name and the record of his
seventy-five years of pain. “Requiescat in pace.”


The _History of the French of Various Conditions_ extends over the five
last centuries, and the plan of each century differs. The Fourteenth is
painted in a series of letters, as we have said, from a certain Friar
John, a Cordelier of Tours, to a brother of his rule residing at
Toulouse. The character of the worthy letter-writer is charmingly
sustained. Keen, cautious, observant, and yet with the simplicity
natural to the inmate of a cloister, he gives a clear description to his
friend of everything he sees, every conversation he hears, every place
he visits. He enters the huts where poor men lie, and we learn the state
of the labourer; he enters the dungeon, and reveals the secrets of the
prison-house; he goes to the Fair of Montrichard, and we walk about
among the booths. He gives the minutest details of the royal court—and,
in short, manages to lift the reader completely back into the days of
rich monasteries and private wars, and tournaments and duels. He has no
antiquarian disquisitions or tiresome catalogues of furniture or dress;
we rely on the faithfulness of the loquacious and gentlemanly Friar, and
feel certain they are real letters written at the dates assigned. The
fifteenth century is presented with the same marvellous freshness of
detail, but without the individuality of the inimitable Friar John. It
is a pity that excellent special correspondent did not turn out to be
the Wandering Jew, and traverse all the centuries from first to last. We
must suppose he died full of years and honours—let us hope, as head of
some noble abbey—before the fifteenth century began. His place, however,
is admirably supplied. We perceive a change taking place in the
relations of the different classes of society, and the change is
traceable in still stronger colours when, in the sixteenth century, we
come to the impression produced by his visit to France on a clear-headed
unprejudiced Spaniard. His glance is as penetrating, and his inquiries
as minute, as those of Friar John and the other; but the same may be
said of all the supposed observers. They are all mere secretaries of
Monteil, and write the same pure idiomatic and characteristic style. The
laughing eyes and scornful lips of the Cordelier of Tours, the Hermit of
Cely, come out through all disguise; and the Spaniard of the sixteenth
century, and “Memoirist” of the seventeenth, are only admirable
continuers of the correspondence commenced between the priests. It will,
therefore, be like mounting to the fountain-head if we go back to the
fourteenth century, and read the account of Friar John’s visit to the
great Castle of Montbason—a perfect representative of a feudal residence
just before feudalism began to fall into decay. A dreadful event has
happened in the chateau. While the Sire de Montbason is absent at the
head of his vassals assisting the king, he left everything in charge of
the grand huntsman. The grand huntsman, in pursuing a peasant who had
offended him, knocks out his brains on the arch of a gateway, and is
found dead on the road. The peasant, as if he had been guilty of murder,
is immediately tied up to a gallows and hanged. During the preparations
the wife and children of the wretched man stood at the foot of the wall
crying “Mercy, mercy!” but the representatives of the grand huntsman are
inexorable. The peasant swings off, and the cries of the widow and
orphan ascend to Heaven for vengeance. The Curé of the parish hears of
the transaction, and excommunicates the revengeful sons of the grand
huntsman. The Sire de Montbason returns and compensates the peasant’s
family, and founds a perpetual mass for the poor man’s soul. But nothing
will do; noises are heard in the castle, furniture moves about, chains
rattle; the house is haunted, and the spirits resist the exorcisms of
the Curé, and kick up wilder confusion than ever. The Sire sends to the
monastery of the Cordeliers at Tours, and Friar John is fixed upon by
the prior. There could not have been a better choice. He goes and prays,
and burns incense, and lights candles, and the supernatural noises are
heard no more. He remains at the chateau an honoured guest, and the
almoner even resigns to him the privilege of saying grace before and
after meat. John is overwhelmed with the honour, but accepts the duty;
and, we doubt not, was the pleasantest ghost-layer the Sire de Montbason
had ever seen. His nineteenth letter to Friar Andrew is all about the
house he is in:—

“Montbason is one of the finest chateaus in France. Fancy to yourself a
superb position—a steep hill rugged with rocks, and indented with deep
ravines and precipices. On the ascent is the castle. The little houses
at its feet increase its apparent size. The Indre seems to retire
respectfully from the walls, and forms a semicircle round its front. You
should see it at sunrise, when its outside galleries glitter with the
arms and accoutrements of the guard, and its towers are shining in the
light. The gate, flanked with little towers, and surmounted by a lofty
guard-house, is covered all over with heads of wolves and wild boars.
Enter, and you have three enclosures, three ditches, three drawbridges
to cross. You find yourself in the great quadrangle where the cisterns
are placed, and on right and left the stables, the hen-roosts, the
dovecots, the coach-houses. Underground are the cellars, the vaults, the
prisons. Above are the living-rooms, and above them the magazines, the
larders, the armoury. The roofs are surrounded with parapets and
watch-towers. In the middle of the yard is the donjon, which contains
the archives and the treasure. It has a deep ditch all round it, and
cannot be approached except by a bridge, which is almost always raised.
Though the walls, like those of the castle, are six feet thick, it has
an external covering of solid hewn stone up to the half of its height.

“The castle has been lately repaired. There is something light and
elegant about it which was wanting in the chateaus of old. You may well
believe it is finished in the most modern style: great vaulted rooms
with arched windows filled with painted glass; large halls paved in
squares of different colours; handsome furniture of all kinds; solid
stands with bas-reliefs, representing hell or purgatory; presses carved
like church-windows; great caskets; immense leather trunks, mounted in
iron; great red boxes; mirrors of glass, at least a foot in width, and
some of metal of the same size; great sofas with arms, covered with
tapestry and ornamented with fringes; benches with trellis-work backs;
others, twenty feet long, with hanging covers, or stuffed cushions,
embroidered with coats-of-arms. I must tell you, however, that the beds
do not seem at all proportioned to the rank of the owner. They are not
above ten or eleven feet wide; I have seen much larger in houses of less
pretence. But as to the decoration of the apartments, nothing can be
more sumptuous. There are show-rooms and chambers of state, which are
named from the colour or subjects of the hangings with which they are
covered. There are some where the great pillars that support the beams
of the ceiling are ornamented with ribbons and flowers in tin. There are
some where figures of life-size, painted on the walls, carry in their
hands, or projecting from their mouths, scrolls on which texts are
written, pleasant to read, and most excellent for the morals of the
beholders.

“As to the mode of life, it is pleasant enough, except that we do not
dine till nearly twelve o’clock, and never sup till after sunset—which
appears to me a little too late. The day, in other respects, is
agreeably varied. In the morning the courtyard is filled with squires,
huntsmen, and pages, who make their horses go through their evolutions.
Then they divide into parties, and defend and attack some staked-off
piece of ground with amazing strength and activity, amid the applause of
all the spectators. After dinner there is leaping at the bar,
quoit-throwing, ninepins, and other games. In addition to all this we
have the parrots and monkeys. We have also the old female jester of the
late Sire de Montbason and the young fool of the present lord. He is so
gay, and so full of tricks and nonsense, that in rainy days he is the
life of the whole house.

“The almoner has charge of the evening’s entertainments. He has seen the
world, and recounts agreeably; but, as he has never gone on pilgrimage,
and has not lived either in convents or monasteries, he cannot give us
above three stories in a night, for fear of repeating himself. But,
fortunately, we have an ancient Commander of Rhodes, who has visited the
Holy Land, and has travelled in the three parts of the world. He is an
uncle of the Sire de Montbason. He relates his adventures delightfully.
It is only a pity his bad health makes him go to bed so soon.
Frequently, also, we have jugglers and vaulters; wandering musicians
sometimes come, and we have concerts on the trumpet and flute and
tambourine; harps and lutes, cymbals and rebecs. This very day we had a
visit from a man who played on the viol, and never could get the strings
in harmony. And no wonder; for it was found out that some of the chords
were of the gut of a sheep, and others of the gut of a wolf. How could
they agree? But he was paid as liberally as the rest.

“Life in these castles would be almost too happy if it were not mixed,
like every other, with anxieties and alarms. Sometimes when we least
expect it—in the middle of dinner or when we are sound asleep—the
alarm-bell is rung. In a moment everything is astir—the bridges are
raised—the portcullis falls, the gates are closed—everybody starts up
from table or bed, and runs to the turrets, to the machicoulis, to the
loopholes, to the barbicans. A few days ago I was witness to one of
these “alertes,” and during the space of forty-eight hours nobody was
allowed to close an eye but the almoner and me. Every one was kept to
his post—but nothing came of it. It was a Vidame of the neighbourhood,
who had thought that the Sire de Montbason was levying his retainers,
and preparing to attack his chateau; and so, without sending letters of
defiance, he had taken the field against us with three hundred men.
There were parleyings and explanations on both sides, and everything was
arranged. On this subject the Dowager-Lady of Montbason tells us that
these private wars are not so frequent as they used to be. She remembers
that, in the week of her marriage, there was such a fierce and
long-continued attack upon the castle, that not a soul went to bed for
eight days.”

This letter is dated the fifteenth day of February; and other
experiences are recorded during almost every week of his five months’
residence in the chateau of Montbason. He describes the kitchens, the
grates, the cooking apparatus, and all the feeding appliances required
for the army which garrisons the castle. In a day or two he is summoned
to visit a prisoner in the _souterrain_ or cave, to which he descends,
like a pitcher into a well, suspended by a rope; and, by the light of
the lantern he carries, he recognises the wretched captive on his
handful of straw, with the pan of water near him in which the untasted
crust is soaked. He has been condemned to this wretched dungeon for
neglect of certain duties; and what they are we learn from the eloquent
pleading of Friar John, who intercedes for the unhappy man with the Sire
de Montbason. “My lord,” he says, “I come to implore your pardon and
compassion for one of your men. It is not true that he has refused to
have his wheat ground at your mill, or his meat baked at your ovens;
that he cut his hay or his crops, or gathered his grapes, before the
publication of your ‘ban;’ that he had his ploughshare sharpened without
obtaining your permission and paying you the fee. He can prove all this
by a hundred witnesses. He can prove, also, that he has regularly
laboured and reaped your lands, and always paid the rates and rent of
his holding; that he has carried the wood and water and provisions up to
the chateau; that he has never chased upon your grounds, and has always
fed your dogs.” These, and many other denials urged by the good-hearted
Friar, are nearly losing their effect by the opposition offered to his
entreaties by the Commander of Rhodes. That sturdy old knight
pertinaciously stands up for the rights of his order, and on all
occasions is for the exercise of power. “To the gallows! to the
gallows!” he cries; and points to that instrument of paternal
government, which consists of two tall uprights before the window. But
eloquence has its reward. “The Sire de Montbason,” says Friar John, “has
pardoned his unfortunate retainer, and he is now in the midst of his
children. That old Commander,” he adds, “his long exercise of authority
sometimes makes him harsh, and turns his heart as hard as the steel that
covers it.”

But a field-day is at hand, in the description of which there is
condensed a whole history of a feudal baron’s relations with his
tenants. It is the day when the Sire de Montbason holds his court baron,
and a tremendous time it must have been for the holders of his fiefs.

“To-day the Sire de Montbason left the chateau, attended by all his
suite. He was mounted on a white horse, with a hawk on his wrist, in
robe of state, with armorial bearings on his coat, which was one-half
red and the other blue. On arriving at the place called the ‘Stone
Table,’ he took his seat. All his household, dressed in cloth liveries,
ranged themselves behind his chair. A gentleman whose lands are held
under Montbason presented himself bare-headed, without spur or sword,
and knelt at the Sire de Montbason’s feet, who, having taken his hands
in his, said to him, ‘You avow yourself my liegeman in right of your
castle, and swear to me, on the faith of your body, that you will serve
me as such against all who may live or die, except our lord the king.’
The gentleman having replied, ‘I swear,’ the Sire de Montbason kissed
him on the mouth, and ordered the act of homage to be registered.

“There next came forward a gentleman of the neighbourhood and his son,
who demanded the right of lower justice over the western half of their
great hall, because on the eastern side their manorial rights extended a
full league. The Sire de Montbason consented with a good grace to this
abridgment of his fief. Scarcely had this gentleman and his son
concluded their thanks for this favour, when another gentleman advanced,
and said a few words in the Sire de Montbason’s ear, touching the ground
with his knee several times while he spoke. ‘I consent,’ said the Sire
de Montbason. ‘Since you find your residence too small, I permit you to
build a stronghold, with curtains, turrets, and ditch; but no
weathercock, no towers, and, above all, no donjon.’

“Meanwhile the Sire de Montbason beckoned a crowd of villagers to
approach, who had stood respectfully at a distance, all loaded with
provisions and goods of different kinds. Immediately the ground at his
feet was covered with wheat, with birds, hams, butter, eggs, wax, honey,
vegetables, fruits, cakes, bouquets of flowers, and chaplets of roses.
They were instantly carried away by the people of the chateau, and
several tenants came forward into the empty space, some making grimaces,
and some going through strange contortions of body. Others came, some to
kiss the bolt of the principal gate of the dominant fief, some to sing a
ludicrous song, and some to have their ears and noses slightly pulled by
the _maître d’hôtel_, who also bestowed a few smacks on the right and
left cheeks. The Sire de Montbason ordered legal quittance to be given
to all. The assembly then formed a circle round him, and the Sire de
Montbason spoke. ‘My friends,’ he said, ‘I have received too much money
of you this year, to my great regret; the forfeitures for thefts,
quarrels, wounds, blows, and bad language, have never come to so much
before. I have hitherto remitted the fines for improper conduct and
indecency, but I will remit them no more. Ask Friar John if I can
conscientiously do so.’ Everybody’s eyes were turned upon me at once; I
made a sign of strong negation with a shake of my head. The Sire de
Montbason went on. ‘I am very well satisfied with the way in which the
statute-labour has been done, but there are still some suits of page’s
livery not delivered; a good many boots are required for my people, and
a still greater quantity, I hear, need to be mended.’ ‘My lord,’ replied
a poor man named Simon, ‘the artisans of your lands, the tailors,
shoemakers, and cobblers, have all worked the full week they owe you,
and you cannot call upon us for more.’ ‘Ah! very well,’ said the Sire,
and cried to a labourer he recognised far off in the crowd, ‘Come on,
Jacques, I see you there; advance! I found the south door of my castle
of Veigné in a very bad state. You know very well that, according to
your tenure, your family is bound to keep it in repair; and besides it
is as much your affair as mine, for if the enemy takes the field, as may
very likely happen, what will be the use of your right to refuge in a
stronghold, if its gates are bad?’ He next addressed a woman who stood
near him. ‘Widow Martin, you keep poor guard in my castle of Sorigni. I
am told you often sleep instead of watching. You don’t sleep when you
have to come for the corn you receive, according to old agreements, for
this very duty.’ He then spoke to the whole assembly again. ‘I have
further to complain of you, that you are not active in taking arms when
my trumpets make proclamation of war; and, moreover, that your weapons
are not good. When I make an attack with fire and sword, you enter into
arrangements with your friends and relations who occupy the lands of the
lords I am at feud with. They are not so complaisant on my grounds, and
that is the reason I have so often to build you new houses, or pay you
compensation. I have to complain, also, that those who have heritages in
other manors go and live on them. Methinks you are well enough treated
here, to be content to keep the fire alive. You also let your lands lie
fallow for more than three years. I have the right to cultivate them for
my own use, and I will exercise it. I blame you further for refusing my
purveyors credit for fifty days, as you are bound to do. My good
friends, I am bound, indeed, to give you my favour and protection, but
you are bound no less to show your affection for me.’

“The tenants now made way for the serfs, and I remarked more familiarity
and kindness between them and the Sire de Montbason than I had seen with
the others. To all their requests, he answered, ‘With pleasure—with
great pleasure: what you lack in the house, you shall find in the
castle.’ The Sire de Montbason retired. Scarcely had he gone, when there
rushed in a man—fat, breathless, red-faced, with perspiration oozing at
every pore. This was the courier of the manor, an office he inherited
from his great-grandfather, who had been an active, strong-limbed man,
and one of the swiftest runners of his time.” The plethoric Mercury came
to render homage for his fief, and would not have had breath to utter
his oath even if he had not been too late. The day concludes with the
extraordinary performances of the villagers in clearing the moat of
Montbason of frogs—a service they are bound to render when the voice of
the animals hindered the inhabitants of the castle from repose.

How superior this method of giving a view of some of the peculiarities
of feudalism is to the common dissertations we meet with, will be
acknowledged by any one who prefers a chapter of _Ivanhoe_ to an
explanation by Ducange. We are tempted to make quotation from the
conversations between the worthy Friar John and the Commander of Rhodes,
in one of which the veteran soldier fights nobly in defence of the right
of private war; and there are other incidents in which the two men are
brought out with a freshness and individuality not at all to be expected
in the lucubrations of the chief of the French Dryasdusts; but we must
content ourselves with the last glimpse of knight-errantry. Ill fares it
with a period when it can be truly said its days of chivalry are past.
But chivalry was a thing and a principle, and knight-errantry a
pretence. There is the same difference between them as between the quiet
benevolent practice of a physician, and the noisy operations of a quack
doctor at a fair. How, in the midst of all that ignorance, and that
rough handling of sword and spear, arose the poetic idealisation of
personal honour and respect for woman, it is impossible to say. The fact
is all we can answer for, and the result. At first the ennobling
pictures of unselfishness and courtesy and generosity were viewed by the
portly baron, the rough, gruff old head-breaker on the dais, as they
were meant to be viewed; namely, as altogether fictitious and imaginary
representations of a state of manners which never had real existence.
But the young squire his son, the long-haired maiden his daughter, who
sat on the tabouret at his feet; the pages who stood open-mouthed behind
his chair—were of a very different opinion. They believed in King
Arthur, and in Amadis, and in Gualior, and in the peerless damosel who
cheered him with such loving caress and such purity of heart; and, in
the next generation, they resolved to form themselves on the model set
before them in the achievements of these heroes and princesses. And if
the state of their quarrels did not allow them to carry out all the
refinements practised in those romances—if they were still forced to
carry battle into their neighbour’s manor, and carry off their
neighbour’s daughter, they did so “with a difference;” they doffed their
plumed helmet when they received their vanquished enemy’s sword; they
bent knee to ground when they locked the captive maiden into her bower.
Chivalry was a recognised fact, and was at all events a standard by
which to measure their actions, if not always a barrier against the
actions themselves. But its truest merit is the effect it undoubtedly
produced on the civilisation of Europe. It supplied the place of
religion itself, when religion was either locked up entirely in an
unknown tongue, or enveloped in manifold additions which concealed it
like the cerements of an Egyptian mummy. The code of honour gradually
exerted its sway where civil laws were ineffectual. There were virtues
inculcated, and vices condemned by it, which criminal courts could
neither reward nor punish. Truth, generosity, temperance, purity,
defence of innocent weakness, resistance to strong injustice—these
formed the true knights’ system of laws. The opposite evils were
forbidden on pain of general censure. And the final effect has been
this—that no nation which has not gone through the period of chivalry
can give its true and full meaning to the great word “Gentleman.” India,
China, Russia, never felt its force; they have, therefore, no civil
freedom, no personal self-respect. A system which has given rise to all
the gentlemen of Europe should never lightly be talked of; and Amans
Alexis in his garret had as high an appreciation of gallant knight and
fair ladie as if he had been present, when

            “High in the breathless hall the minstrel sate,”

and charmed young and old with the music of harp and song. But
knight-errantry—a running to and fro in search of adventures!—a
travelling attorney in pursuit of practice in the courts of Honour!—it
scarcely needed the genius of Cervantes to bring this extravagance into
ridicule; for even the commander of the fourteenth century, himself
vowed to the protection of injured innocence, laughs at the pre-Quixotic
absurdity as if he had had the knight of La Mancha before his eyes. A
specimen of the genus even then was looked on as our naturalists would
now look upon a dodo. “I must tell you a curious thing that lately
occurred here. A knight-errant is not often seen nowadays, though the
genus is not extinct. One came here and wound the horn which hangs
before the great gate of the chateau. No trumpet having sounded in
reply, as is the rule on these occasions, he turned his horse and rode
away. The pages ran after him, and after many excuses for their want of
skill on the trumpet, they persuaded him to come back. Meanwhile the
ladies had dressed to receive him, and taken their places in state,
holding embroidery-frames in their hands. The Lady of Montbason was
attired in a robe stiffened with gold, which had been in the house for
more than a century. The dowager covered her head with a fur cap
according to the fashion of her youth, and loaded herself with ermine.
The knight comes in along with his squire, both covered all over with
dangling plates of brass, making as much noise as a mule when loaded
with copper pots and pans ill packed. The knight having ordered his
squire to take off his helmet, revealed a head nearly bald, and fringed
with long white hair. His left eye was tied up with a piece of green
cloth, of the same colour as his coat. He had made a vow, he said, not
to see with his left eye, nor eat with the right side of his mouth, till
he had accomplished his enterprise. The ladies offered him refreshment.
He replied by throwing himself at their feet, and swearing eternal love
to old and young, saying, that though his armour was of truest steel, it
could not defend him against their arrows; that he should die of the
wounds they inflicted—that he felt himself expiring—and a hundred other
follies of the same kind. As he persisted in this style, particularly in
his address to the lady of Montbason, whose hand he frequently kissed, I
became impatient; the Commander perceived my annoyance. ‘Good!’ he said:
‘these old fools have their set words and phrases like a village lawyer.
But keep your temper; perhaps he won’t stay the day.’ And in fact in a
few hours he departed. Such are the ridiculous remains of that ancient
chivalry which at one time ennobled humanity with so many virtues and so
much glory.”

Poor old frivolous knight-errant! away he goes for ever out of human
ken, with both eyes bandaged now, and all his enterprises accomplished;
and, at the same time with him, dies off also another form of resistance
to oppression, where the performer was of far humbler rank, and came in
aid of justice in a much more legitimate way. There seems to have been
no town in France of sufficient importance to have a court of civil or
criminal process, which did not maintain a champion as one of the chief
officers of its administration. The duty of this distinguished
functionary was to supply any lack of evidence which might occur in the
course of a trial; and as it was generally necessary to obtain the
assistance of two witnesses in the conviction of a culprit, the champion
watched over the cause, and when only one witness was producible, threw
his sword into the scale which he believed to be just, and did battle
with any one who would take up arms on behalf of the other side. All
through the early centuries, the office of town or precinct champion was
as well recognised, and considered as indispensable, as that of notary
or judge. But some terrible things happened in the fifteenth century,
which put the arbitrement of the sword into disrepute. Printing and
gunpowder, when they came to maturity, were fatal to many a stout-armed
gentleman, who had been installed in his honourable post of champion of
the town, and had brought up his children with the honourable ambition
of handling his sword and stepping into his shoes. How many Oxford
coachmen and Cheltenham “whips,” in the same way, had to descend from
the box, and turn their energies into other channels, on the first
whistle of the railway engine!

It happened one day, says Alexis, in the first page of the second volume
(which is equivalent to the middle or latter end of the fifteenth
century), that a good many people were collected in the great chamber of
the town-hall of Troyes, along with the mayor and bailiffs, when a
curious question arose, as to which of all the trades and conditions
were the worst. Everybody, as might be expected, laid claim to that bad
eminence on behalf of his own. But at last it was arranged, that on that
evening, and at their succeeding meetings, the question should be
thoroughly gone into, and every man give some account of the evils he
complained of, so that the company might decide after a full hearing of
the evidence. On this hint the different personages speak. There is a
beggar who paints a wretched picture of the state of his fraternity,
even in those days of meritorious alms and food at the monastery gates.

“Who denies,” he cries, “that the beggar’s state is the most miserable
of all?—who? Why, the bad Christians, the hard-hearted rich; and they
are so plentiful now! How often have I heard it said in the days of my
prosperity, that the poor were in the happiest state; that their
revenues were secured on the charity of the public; and that they lived
without care, with nothing to do but say their paternosters, and hold
out their hands! Alas, alas! nobody thought of adding how often their
hands remained empty—how often they had to submit in patience to the
hunger of many days, to the cold of many months.”

Then come the farmer, the messenger, the comedian, and many more; but
after the noble (for even he has discomforts to complain of), the tale
is taken up by a person who is minutely described and introduced by the
name of Vieuxbois.

Vieuxbois, who remembers the time when he was champion of the city, and
believes that he is so still, though there is now neither champion nor
lists, generally sits near the chimney. He is always dressed in an old
suit of clothes, very tidy and clean, and always carries a long iron
sword suspended by a sash of red silk. His face is so haggard and thin
that it is nothing but bone. People call him more than a hundred years
old, but he has the vanity of being thought young, and only confesses to
ninety. This evening he rose from his chair, and having saluted the
company several times with his sword, he resumed his chair, and thus
began:—

“Gentlemen, you are all complaining of your callings, which proves, at
least, that callings are still left you; but for us miserable
champions—for us, the most miserable of you all—there is no calling left
except in name. Oh! the long past, happy, blessed days of France! days,
above all, of the fourteenth, thirteenth, twelfth centuries!—why can’t I
prolong them into the present time! Then the sword of the champion was
honoured—it decided where the judge was puzzled. Then the champion, the
lists, the trumpet, the charge in every doubtful case: but now there is
so much knowledge! there is so much learning! no more doubts—no more
puzzled judges—and the champion’s occupation’s gone! But oh! little did
my grandfather, the Champion of Chalons—he was hanged in that
office—foresee this wretched time. Just before he was turned off, he
summoned my father, who had fled from the scene in tears, and said,
‘Champion, my son, weep not: it does not become a champion to weep: the
cause I supported was just. I die because I did not parry in carte.
Study the carte, my son; it is the best of the thrusts: you must deliver
it free—you must have your wrist well placed. My adversary made a
movement—it was against all the rules—but it deceived me. Champion, my
son, attend to your trade—it is a good one; and above all, I beseech
you, do not neglect the carte.’ But the people became impatient, and
cried out for his execution; they were enraged because he had undertaken
the defence of a wretch whom they considered guilty; and disdaining to
reason with his inferiors, my grandfather shrugged his shoulders two or
three times in sign of contempt, and died like a true and noble
champion.

“My father also was hanged. You are astonished, gentlemen; that is
because you did not know the good old times, when, the moment a champion
was vanquished, he was dragged from the lists, and hoisted on the
gallows. After having been victorious a great number of times, he died
at last, not from want of courage or address, but because he slipt. He
died, recommending me always to wear sharp-headed nails in my shoes. I
can declare that his fate was much regretted by the people, while the
person for whom he fought, and who was going to be hanged along with
him, had the bad taste to find fault with him in coarse insulting
language. He was an advocate, and always an uncivil sort of man. My
father was a man of fine manners and excellent temper. ‘Master Martean,’
he said, ‘neither you nor any of your craft are able to give me lessons
in the management of my sword. I shall speak to you no more.’ He kept
his word; the next moment they were run up. My mother brought me my
father’s sword: and though it was at that time a little taller than
myself, I managed to draw it from the sheath and swing it at
arm’s-length. This was thought a good augury, and great expectations
were entertained of me when I should be old enough to be champion. When
I was twenty, my active life began. Two men of distinction, each above
sixty years of age, had accused each other without sufficient proofs.
The judicial duel was ordered, of course. A beautiful closed ring raised
on the banks of the Marne was crowded on the following day with all the
rank and fashion of Champagne—for such sights were already become rare.
The combat was on the point of beginning. I was at the summit of
felicity. My eyes flashed brighter than my arms. The party for whom the
opposite champion was engaged, perhaps perceived this, for offers of
accommodation were made, and the duel was at an end. The disappointment
of the spectators was immense. The authorities feared an uproar, and to
quiet the populace, it was proposed by the mayor and magistrates that I
should marry the daughter of my adversary, and that a fête should be
given in honour of the event. Her name was Championnette: she was
beautiful as the day—she was just sixteen; and you may imagine I offered
no opposition to the match. The wedding rejoicings commenced at once,
and the enclosure where the combat was to have taken place, could
scarcely contain the dancers. Next day there were joustings with sword
and lance. The trumpets of the town-hall had never ceased their music,
and at night there were bonfires and illuminations.”

After his marriage with Championnette, it was impossible for him to be
the hostile champion to his father-in-law; and his travels in search of
occupation take him through several districts in France. In all he finds
the dignity of the office decaying, its privileges denied, and its
income annihilated. He goes from place to place, but the scales of
justice were now getting so evenly balanced that he seldom required the
sword to adjust the weight. He comes, among other places, to Lyons.
“What do you take us for?” says the bailiff. “Perhaps you think Lyons a
Gothic town of the fourteenth century. Lyons is a polished city,
enlightened and civilised, where everybody knows how to write. Nobody,
therefore, can now deny his signature. Go rather to some out-of-the-way
valley in the Jura or the Vosges. It is possible a champion may still be
useful among the savages there.” It is impossible to describe the
indignation of the gallant Vieuxbois on this insulting speech. However,
he restrains his wrath, and passes on, but no better reception awaits
him wherever he goes. At last there is a glimpse of prosperity and a
chance of work when he gets to the valley of the Aspe, among the
Pyrenees. The magistracy of that small republic receive him courteously,
but even here he finds he comes too late. “‘We might have sent you,’
said the rulers of the republic, ‘into the valley of Lavedan, but it has
no intention now of seeking a champion to resist our claims.’ ‘And why
did the valley wish to fight you?’ I inquired. ‘It was because their
little abbé, St Sevin, irritated against the valley of the Aspe, uttered
his curse upon it. Whereupon every year we were visited with great
storms and tempests, and sometimes for months the hail fell upon our
republic, but we were miraculously avenged. The earth, and all the
inhabitants, and all the cattle, great and small, were struck with
sterility throughout the Lavedan. To get remission of this dreadful
plague, they came and begged for mercy on the valley of the Aspe. Peace
was made between the two valleys, and Lavedan was absolved from the sin
of its old abbé. During the eighty years of this treaty, the conditions
have several times been broken. Our republic demanded satisfaction. The
valley of Lavedan wished to defend itself by a champion, but has not
been able to find one. We therefore have no occasion for your services,
but if a few acres of ground, a few sheep and oxen, a cottage such as
you see——’

“Thanks, gentlemen of the republic of the Aspe,” says Vieuxbois, “my
fathers were gentlemen, and lived by the sword. I am not yet so fallen
as to maintain myself by flocks and herds.” But years pass on, and no
doubt he looked back on the offers he had rejected with useless regret.
Meanwhile his family becomes numerous, but they are victims of the
advancing arts and sciences. One is a transcriber of manuscripts, and
the press throws his pen out of work. Another illuminates old books, and
engraving upsets his colours. Another is a maker of bows and arrows, and
arbalists and other engines of war, but gunpowder and cannon unstring
all his bows, and knock his ballistas in pieces. A grandson is
sedulously educated for the profession of a fool; but as a profession it
falls into disrepute, and the jester unlearns his quiddities, keeps his
features at rest like other people, and starves as becomes a reasonable
man. The only happy one of the family is another grandson, who is
blessed with such a tremendous eruption on his face that he has got
admission to a leprosy-house, where he is wonderfully fed and kindly
treated. The eruption is not leprosy; but, in the alarming scarcity of
real sufferers by that malady, the office-bearers of the houses of
retreat, who derive great salaries for their posts (which they execute
by deputy), are glad to accept a pensioner with so near a resemblance to
the true disease; for what would they do if leprosy disappeared
altogether? The story of the old champion comes to an end, and it is
difficult to imagine that any of the other complainants can give a more
wretched account of their position. But misery is, in fact, in that
century, the characteristic of all conditions of life. As the ages move
on, men get better; their places become more defined.—The remaining
volumes of the work are occupied with the progress of the people, and
their gradual elevation into civil consideration and political power. We
may return to the same portrait-gallery for pictures of the innkeepers,
the fishermen, the town-criers, the merchants, the nurses, the lawyers,
and the artists of the different periods. They are all drawn from the
life, and are warranted likenesses. But at present we have said enough.




                          BIOGRAPHY GONE MAD.


At certain intervals, ever since the days of Solomon, it has been found
necessary, as a matter of sheer duty, to lift the voice of warning
against that much study which wearies the flesh, and the making many
books of which there is no end. It is now several years since a strong
protest was raised in this Magazine against the too common and most
reprehensible practice of raking among dead men’s ashes, and violating
the confidences of the living, for no higher purpose than the
gratification of biographic weakness and vulgar curiosity. Man is
indeed, as Goethe has said, ever interesting to man, and no species of
bookmaking finds readier excuses than biography. But man ought also to
be sacred to man; and of all the injuries that can be inflicted on a
dead man’s memory, none is more cruel than the act of the friendly ghoul
who unnecessarily recalls him from the silence of the grave. _Corruptio
optimi est pessissima._ Biography, well done, is one of the most
instructive and interesting kinds of composition; ill done, it is about
the worst. We call it ill done, either when a good subject is marred in
the handling, or when the choice is an unworthy one. The number of men
whose lives are worthy to be recorded for an ensample to mankind is
really small. In saying so we are far from meaning to express a
contemptuous opinion of human nature. Some of the best men that ever
lived were those whose lives had fewest incidents, and offered the
scantiest materials for the ingenuity of the bookmaker. Happy, it is
said, is the nation whose annals are dull—happy also the man whose life
escapes the chronicler, who passes at the end of his day’s work into the
silent land, to enjoy “No biography, and the privilege of all the
weary.”

A stupid biography of an interesting person is indeed a very lamentable
thing; and not only so, but a grave injustice alike to the dead and to
the living. Since the protest alluded to was uttered, there has been no
lack of this sad work. The most conspicuous recent examples that occur
to us are the Lives of Thomas Moore and of Lady Blessington. But though
the life of a man of genius, served up in the form of hodge-podge, is
rather a melancholy repast, there are biographic nuisances less
tolerable still. The features of a Jupiter or an Apollo may be hard to
recognise in the plaster of an incompetent dabbler; but if the model
were really a noble one, something of the god will break through to
edify the spectator. It is different, however, with the rude idol of the
savage. The biography of a respectable mediocrity is, it may be safely
said, among the least interesting or useful of literary performances.
Minerva Press novels are bad enough (those who think the species is
extinct are greatly mistaken); spasmodic poems are anything but
enlivening; and numismatic treatises are not ambrosial fare; but against
any of these we would back for true invincible unreadableness the Memoir
and Remains, we will suppose, of the Rev. Jabez Jones, D.D., late pastor
of Ramoth-Gilead Chapel, Battersea. We select our instance from the
class of religious biographies, because it is by far the most numerous,
and the most distinctly chargeable with the sin of bookmaking. Jabez, we
have no doubt, was in his day and generation an excellent man, though
given, as his Memoirs of course will amply testify, to unnecessary
groaning. But why his life should have been written, is a mystery to be
solved only by the astute publisher, who calculates on a sale of several
hundred copies among the bereaved congregation of Ramoth-Gilead. The
sorrowful biographer, whose name on the title-page plainly marks him as
an eligible candidate for the degree of D.D., will inform us in a
“sweet” preface that the materials of the present work were put into his
hands, &c.; that, painfully conscious of his own inability, he had long,
&c.; but that a perusal of the documents had so deeply impressed him
with the importance of giving the world, &c.; that such as it is, in
short, he commits it—and then is pretty certain to follow a piece of
nauseous blasphemy as to the nature of the patronage to which the pious
speculation is held entitled.[5] The number is perfectly sickening of
bereaved husbands, sons, and fathers, who practise this strange alchemy
on the penitential tears and devout breathings, the sick-bed utterances
and dying ejaculations of sainted wives, mothers, and babes.

But bad as it is causelessly to exhume the poor victim of mortality in
order to make him sit for his likeness, the posthumous method of
biography is the natural and becoming one. Only when a man has finished
his work, and escaped beyond the reach of human passions and cares, is
it fitting to delineate his character and trace the story of his devious
path through life. The practice of biographising living men, however,
has now become very common. The publication of éloges used formerly to
be reserved as a posthumous honour, but this generation is wiser, and
writes the éloge while the subject of it can himself enjoy its perusal
in the land of the living and the place of hope. One would think it a
curious evidence of regard, independently of the question of delicacy,
to adopt so suggestive a method of reminding a man that he is due to
posterity. But tastes differ, and some men are not averse to the Charles
V. method of trying on their shrouds, to see, as the old woman said,
what “a bonnie corpse” they will make. With us in Britain this practice
of spiritual vivisection, or _ante-mortem_ inquests, has been confined
for the most part to short sketches, pretentiously critical in general,
and very seldom of any value. Fundamentally gossiping in its character,
this school of literary sketchers (what may be called the Biographical
Life Academy) has appealed mainly to the weak curiosity that hungers
after any small scraps of information regarding the private life and
habits of living notorieties. Such curiosity is no doubt extremely
natural, but the men who have undertaken the function of gratifying it,
have, as might be supposed, been distinguished by no qualities less than
by discernment and good taste, correctness of outline being with them a
small consideration compared to abundance and strength of colour. This
vulgar species of authorship, the servants’-hall gossip of the literary
family, has, we hope, seen its palmy days.

On the other side of the Atlantic, however, the business seems to
flourish, like all other business, with great briskness. Our American
friends, excellent people as they are in so many respects, have long
been known to us as pre-eminent in the gossiping line; one of the chief
characteristics of the Anglo-American race being intense curiosity—an
admirable principle, as every one knows, when subordinate to a high end,
a decided weakness when not. To say that the American people universally
are influenced by the spirit of vulgar curiosity, would be as unjust as
it would be to charge the whole British nation with foulness of taste
because the _Mysteries of London_ has found myriads of readers. But that
the fashion has been exemplified very extensively by Americans of making
the public familiar with the insides of private drawing-rooms, and
telling the world how popular poets and historians handle a tea-pot or
blow their noses, is a fact not to be denied. Among a people
recognising, or professing to recognise, as the fundamental principle of
government and society, the Irishman’s profound axiom, that “one man is
as good as another—faith, and a great dale betther too!” it is not
indeed surprising that in the sphere of literature, as well as in
others, they should make more free with the characters and habits of
private life than is by us old-fashioned Britons considered tasteful and
becoming. Having now, however, passed their infancy, and in literature
as well as in social development “progressed” towards manhood, it is
high time that they should put away childish things. It has always
grieved us to see citizens of the great Republic betray so weak-minded a
delight in scrutinising the costume and domesticities of English
aristocrats, or the private life and fixings of American democrats.

In the department of contemporary biography, it must be confessed our
energetic cousins have fairly got the start of us. It seems, in fact, to
have attained the rank of an “institution” among the other beautiful
machinery of their political life. When Jullien visits the provinces, he
heralds his coming by means of a set of fascinating portraits, which
announce from every print and music shop window that the great Conductor
is at hand. Somewhat similar, but more intellectual and elaborate, is
the proceeding of the American “coming man.” No aspiring senator now
thinks of trying for the Presidency without securing in good time the
services of a competent biographer to relate the heroic story of his
life, and make his transcendent merits known to all whom it may concern.
Even a meditative Hawthorne turns his vision-weaving pen to such
service, and considers it no way unworthy of his genius to polish off an
electioneering biography of General Franklin Pierce. So deeply do
politics mingle in the current of American life; so sweet to the
aspiring statesman are the uses of biography!

But if the lives of politicians be written for the admiration of mankind
and the good of the State, should the lives of the mightier men who make
and unmake presidents and governments be esteemed less worthy of that
honour? Assuredly not. At it then, ye diligent Yankee scribes, and
hasten to convert into obsolete absurdity the oft-quoted line of the
dull old fellow who sang—

             “The world knows little of its greatest men.”

Let it not henceforth be said, to the reproach of civilisation, that the
world was ignorant during their lives of the birth and genealogy, the
schoolboy adventures and manly freaks, the trials and the triumphs of
such men as Horace Greeley and James Gordon Bennett. Be careful to
inform us, ye veracious cinder-gatherers—for posterity will not pardon
the omission—the length, breadth, and weight of these remarkable
men,—their complete phrenological development (so far as the addition of
abnormal bumps by hostile shillelahs can permit accuracy),—the kind of
clothes they wear—the kind of pens they write with, whether quill, iron,
or brass—the ink they use, whether common blue-black or sometimes
black-and-blue, or perhaps a cunning distillation of ditch-water—the
attitude in which they sit when discharging their thunder at the heads
of kings and cabinets, or composing their delicate invectives at one
another;—in short, let us have perfect daguerreotypes of these supremely
interesting and estimable men.

Behold! the thing is done, the good work has actually been commenced.
There, lying before us, in all the square-rigged ugliness of New York
upgetting, are the first-fruits of this new field of biographic
enterprise—the lives, in two stout volumes, of the “two noble kinsmen,”
the two great Arcadians whose names we have above mentioned. Many of our
readers, perhaps not grossly illiterate persons either, will look up and
ask, Who are Horace Greeley and James Gordon Bennett? While duly pitying
the limitation of culture implied in such a query, we cannot be too hard
on these poor ignoramuses, as we must plead guilty to having been
ourselves frequently staggered, in reading American books, by meeting
names associated with those of Milton and Aristides, as utterly new to
us as was, till recently, that of his Majesty Kamehameha III., Dei
gratiâ king of the Sandwich Islands. These two men, then, let all such
ignoramuses know, are the editors of two widely circulated New York
papers—the two most widely circulated, we believe, of any in America.[6]
What other claims they have to the honours of biography and the
remembrance of posterity, we shall consider by-and-by. Meantime we have
to say of the books that they are the most unique things in the way of
biography, or indeed of literature, that have come in our way since
America, about a year ago, furnished us with the autobiography of one of
her smartest citizens. They are of very different character—as different
as the men whose lives they profess to record—but in both the biographic
muse appears in a state of decided inebriety, highly unbecoming the
ancient dignity of her vocation. In the work of Mr Parton she is what is
called half-seas over, unsteadily hilarious, and amusingly absurd,
hiccuping out smart things now and then in a way that is irresistible,
then suddenly looking grave and uttering sublimities that are still more
outrageously laughable. In the anonymous companion-volume she is far
gone towards mortal insensibility; she might be said, in fact, to be in
_delirium tremens_, but that there is not a single flash of the wild
energy that diversifies the symptoms of that shocking malady. It is pure
dazed stupidity and double-vision from beginning to end. We have met
nothing comparable to it in all our experience of biographies.

The sole ground on which these volumes claim any notice, contemptible as
they both are (though not in equal degree) in matter and treatment, is
that which gave some importance to the infamous revelations of Barnum.
They are in some degree typical; their subjects at least are so in a
very considerable degree—“representative men” of their kind, and so far
important. A newspaper editor is in all civilised countries an important
personage. We are not going here to enter on an elaborate consideration
of the functions and influence of the press—so let nobody dread a
homily. The subject has been often enough handled well and ill, and
lately we have heard a good deal about it. We are nowadays rather given
to flourishing about the “Fourth Estate.” There is a tendency towards
cant on this as on all other interesting subjects. The Fourth Estate is
a grand fact, but let those who have any pretensions to connection with
it rather strive to keep it so than talk magniloquently about it. As for
those who have not, let them take care that it does its duty, and does
not go beyond it. Newspaper editors, we say, are important personages;
but they are like other human beings, some of them eminent for intellect
and virtue, many of them highly respectable for both, others of them
dignified by neither. The anomalous and fluctuating conditions of
newspaper life make it inevitable that men should sometimes attain high
influence in virtue of connection with the press, whom neither nature
nor education has eminently qualified for the guidance of their
fellow-men. This applies, of course, peculiarly (though not exclusively)
to America, where, on the admirable Irishman’s maxim above quoted,
everybody is equally fit for everything—faith, and a great deal fitter
too! where toll-keepers and publicans are colonels in the army, and the
man who fails as a ratcatcher turns his hand to preaching, and, if that
fail also, straightway sets up a newspaper. But though applying
peculiarly to the American press, our statement is not exclusive of
Britain. Journalism is becoming, indeed, with us more and more of a
recognised profession—a profession, too, calling for special gifts and
training—gifts and training, higher and more liberal, to those who think
rightly of their vocation, than do any of the three hitherto exclusively
entitled “learned.” The press is no more with us, if ever it has been, a
kind of literary Diggings, where the outcasts and desperadoes, the halt,
the maimed, and the blind, of every other calling, may find a precarious
refuge and irregular adventurer-work, from forging of thunderbolts to
winnowing of ash-buckets. But it is true, nevertheless, that the
fundamental conditions of success in this career are compatible with a
moral and intellectual standard by no means exalted. It is a common
mistake, that high literary ability is the first requisite for editorial
success. The fact is nearly the other way. The first requisite is
knowledge of men, the second confidence, and the third perseverance. Let
a man possess the concentrated gifts of a whole academy of _belles
lettres_, and be deficient in shrewd practical discernment of what suits
the public, he may pipe ever so melodiously, but he will get few
subscribers to dance. Let him know, or imagine that he knows, ever so
well what suits the public, if he have not a quick eye to see what other
men are fit for, and how far they can be trusted to do his work, he may
shut his shop and retire. Let him possess encyclopædic knowledge, and
the readiest flow of winged words, but if he be not a man of
hard-working, dogged persistence, he might as well sow the great Sahara
as undertake to conduct a newspaper. A paper once fairly established
may, indeed, conduct itself successfully, despite an unpractical and
easy editor; for good machinery compels even inert matter into activity
and order. But to rear a paper into vigorous existence amid a host of
competitors—to make bricks without straw, and snatch the bread of
victory out of the jaws of famine—the editor or conductor must be, in
the first place, a man of business—it is of very subordinate importance
that he be a man of letters. Hence it is sometimes objected, that
newspapers, being in so many cases merely commercial speculations, must
necessarily subordinate principle to profit. The objection is neither
sound in logic, nor, in this country at least, true in fact. The
manufacturer of shawls and blankets is not the less an honest man and
estimable citizen because his primary object is not the good of the
community but his own private advantage. His shawls and blankets are not
the less excellent and indispensable because he converts them into pelf.
If the shawl-manufacturer indeed become a power in the State, and begin
to arrogate high virtue to himself for his services to the public, and
to dictate laws in virtue of the prosperity of his business, it is
reasonable that we should apply to him something analogous to the
question, “Doth Job fear God for nought?” Applying this test to the
press of our own country, we arrive, on the whole, at satisfactory
conclusions. If we do not see so much as we could wish of a grave sense
of responsibility, and a careful weighing of facts and motives, we know
how much is due to the terrible exigencies of time. This we are assured
of, that in no other profession or occupation is there more of manliness
and fair play; in none other is the professional honour so untarnished
by the contact of lucre; and, so far as chastity of sentiment and
expression is concerned, “the freest press in Europe (Mr Macaulay might
have said, in the world) is also the most prudish.” Occasional examples
of recklessness and violence, of meanness and bad taste, invalidate in
no wise the force of this general assertion. Newspaper editors and
writers are, we repeat, human like others. To expect that they should in
every case display faultless wisdom and virtue is a devout imagination,
but an extremely vain and irrational one. As to the paltry £. S. D.
considerations, we have, for our own part, often admired, as a striking
example of the innate virtue of human nature, despite its depravity, the
magnanimous zeal which sustains so many newspaper proprietors in the
task of instructing the public at a very swinging loss to themselves!

The power of the press is greatly aided, as every one knows, by the
mystery which shrouds the writer, merging all personality of the
individual in the mysterious plurality of the organ through which he
speaks. It is not John or Thomas that proclaims the danger of the
nation, the incapacity of a Minister, the justice or injustice of a
deed. It is an unknown voice, uttered out of darkness, and therefore
formidable—the voice not of one, but of many, and therefore claiming
respect. The voice of a Greek tragedian sounded through his mask more
awful than it really was; and the majestic buskin raised a very ordinary
figure to the kingly height of Agamemnon. The “we” of John or Thomas,
through the speaking-trumpet of the _Times_, becomes a very different
pronoun from the “I” of these gentlemen uttered through their individual
windpipes. If any argument were necessary to prove that this formidable
anonymousness is not only essential to the liberty of the press, but the
true safeguard of its health and honesty, we might point for proof to
the Press of those States, whether despotic or free, where it is not
tolerated. In the United States, for example, there is almost as little
anonymous writing as in Paris or Vienna. There is no statute on the
subject, and no legal censorship exists, but the state of public feeling
makes it almost impossible for a man to conceal his personality. The
writer may not put his name to his articles, but if he does not, it is
only because he finds it unnecessary. Is the press there more honest,
more discreet, more tender of individual character than in Britain? No
candid American will answer that question with an affirmative. The press
of America is not the less formidable, not the more honest and
scrupulous, that its principal writers are known or notorious men.

The character of the two nations is illustrated by some of their
distinctive peculiarities in this respect. With us the tendency is to
merge the individual in the body—with them the notion of liberty is
associated with the clear recognition of individual independence. Here
the newspaper editor is generally the invisible head of an
association—there he is a right-well-known entity of flesh and blood, as
cowhide and rattan applications have too often most strikingly
demonstrated. There the journal is generally his, and his name figures
conspicuously at the head of its columns—here he belongs more frequently
to the journal, and, while wielding a great power in the community, his
personal existence is a kind of myth, and his name may never have been
heard by the great majority of his readers. The American editor, on the
contrary, must make himself known, or he will not be listened to. All
pugnacious republicans must have the means of knowing who it is that
abuses them. The occupant of the White House must be made familiar with
the name of the man who attacks or defends his policy, whose mouth may
be silenced, or whose fidelity rewarded by a due share of the federal
dollars. Let it not be imagined that any uncomplimentary remarks we make
on the American press are intended to apply universally. So speaking, we
should convict ourselves at once of ignorance and dishonesty. There are
American newspapers and editors of high and unblemished character, as
there are American politicians worthy of a better fate than to be kept
waiting three months for the election of a Speaker. But of the American
press generally the criticism still holds good, that, while boasting to
be the freest in the world, it is in practical thraldom to an
inextricably tangled system of democratic terrorism. Improvement there
has been, we delight to think, within the last dozen years—so much so,
that even papers which were the very offscourings of journalism, have
become, in their European editions at least, fit for decent mortals to
read. Out of a total of nearly three thousand papers, circulating among
so mixed and changeful a population, it is little wonder, also, that
there should be a large class of papers at which a cultivated man of any
nation must look with contempt and sorrow. We know too well, from
examples in our own colonies—as in India and Australia—how, in
heterogeneous and young communities, where men of high talent and
education seldom resort except in the established paths to success,
newspapers are apt to fall into the hands either of government agents or
of reckless adventurers, with the natural result, in the one case, of
insolence and servility, in the other, of indecent violence and
gossiping personality. That, therefore, in a country like the United
States, where men of intelligence and enterprise are never at a loss for
profitable occupation, the press should be left in a great measure to
those who can get nothing better to do, need not surprise us; nor, as
the necessary result, that its moral and intellectual standard should
hitherto have been such as a civilised and educated nation would, if it
were not too busy, and too jealous of foreign criticism, have viewed
with consternation as a professed mirror of itself.

While willingly granting thus much, the painful fact remains, that the
papers which have all along enjoyed the largest share of public
countenance in the United States, are those whose conductors have most
openly set at defiance every sentiment of justice, decency, and good
taste. The mere circulation of a journal is not, indeed, a conclusive
test of its importance as an organ of public opinion, but it clearly
enough points out what way the taste of the majority lies, and in a land
of universal suffrage it gauges exactly the amount of its political
influence. Our _Weekly Dispatch_ has perhaps twenty readers for the
_Spectator’s_ one, but the one reader probably has more power in the
commonwealth than the twenty. In a commonwealth, on the other hand,
where all men are equally good, a hundred thousand Barnums are as good
as a thousand centuries of Washington—faith, and in American politics,
“a great dale betther too!” Thus it is that the most widely circulated
paper becomes the greatest power in the State, and a power to which,
even while loathing it, presidents and politicians are forced to bow the
knee. Unwilling as we are that Mr James Gordon Bennett should lose any
of the benefit accruing to him from these remarks (which, of course, he
will turn duly to account),[7] we have no hesitation in saying that they
are intended to apply _par excellence_ to the organ which, under his
consummate management, has resolved one of the most singular problems of
modern times. That problem may be stated thus: Given the minimum of
literary ability, and the maximum of moral worthlessness—to educe out of
their combination a machinery which shall control the political action
of a Great Republic, and attain a leading place among the recognised
mouthpieces of twenty million English-speaking freemen. There is a
question of maxima and minima over which Dr Whewell might puzzle his
knowing head till doomsday, if he omitted to take into his calculations
an element or two of the plus description! What these elements are, we
must, however, leave for after consideration. In the mean time we
propose to treat our readers to a few of the biographic delicacies
furnished by the considerate Mr J. Parton. We consider his volume in
every way entitled to the precedence. It was the first published, and
evidently suggested the rival performance. It has all the marks of
honesty about it, and, compared with the Life of Bennett, is a perfect
_chef-d’œuvre_ of ability. Its subject, in like manner, if considerably
removed from our idea of a hero or a gentleman, is, compared with the
editor of the _New York Herald_, a very Bayard in chivalry, a Job in
uprightness.

Mr Parton sets about his work in a very thorough-going manner. The
industry with which he has raked together all the information that could
possibly be gathered regarding not only Horace Greeley, but Horace’s
ancestors to the third and fourth generation, is quite inconceivable;
and his own ingenuous account of his preliminary labours is well
calculated to awaken, if not the admiration, at least the astonishment
of the reader. The style of procedure is exquisitely characteristic;
and, as he himself phrases it, “the reader has a right to know the
manner” thereof. Let us thank heaven that the promulgation of the recipe
is not likely here to instigate imitation. First of all, the ingenious
youth procures, “from various sources, a list of Mr Greeley’s early
friends, partners, and relations; also a list of the places at which he
had resided.” The young bloodhound! This done, “all those places I
visited; with as many of those persons as I could find I conversed, and
endeavoured to extract from them all that they knew of the early life of
my hero.” From these veracious sources this high-minded young scribbler
compiled the narrative of the great man’s early years, not disdaining
even to accost drunken “old soakers” on the highway who might “hiccough
out” a little tale about Greeley; and where he could not ferret out
information on the spot, applying for it _by letter_. But this was a
small portion of the self-imposed labour, which included a diligent
inspection of the complete files of the “_New Yorker_, _Log Cabin_,
_Jeffersonian_, _American Laborer_, _Whig Almanac_, and _Tribune_,”
nearly every number of which, “more than five thousand in all,” he
carefully examined. After such a course of reading, our wonder is, not
that the biographic muse is slightly maudlin, but that she survived to
put two sentences together!

We are treated to a preliminary sketch of the history of Londonderry
(not omitting the siege), and the Scoto-Irish colony who thence
emigrated to New England. To the hasty reader all this may seem highly
unnecessary, but to those who are desirous deeply to penetrate into a
“nature” so uncommon as that of Horace Greeley, it is supremely
important, as we are told that “from his maternal ancestors he derived
much that distinguishes him from men in general.” Another chapter is
devoted to the paternal ancestors, regarding one of whom it is
interesting to learn that he was a “cross old dog,” “as cunning as
Lucifer,” and that he died at the age of sixty-five, with “all his teeth
sound!” At length, at page 33, we come to the great fact of Horace’s
birth. As has been the case with many great men, it was attended with
some remarkable circumstances. To these our biographer does full
justice. His account of the interesting scene is too fine to be
omitted:—

  “The mode of his entrance upon the stage of the world was, to say the
  least of it, unusual. The effort was almost too much for him, and, to
  use the language of one who was present, ‘he came into the world as
  black as a chimney.’ There was no sign of life. He uttered no cry; he
  made no motion; he did not breathe. But the little discolored stranger
  had articles to write, and was not permitted to escape his destiny. In
  this alarming crisis of his existence, a kind-hearted and experienced
  aunt came to his rescue, and by arts, which to kind-hearted and
  experienced aunts are well known, but of which the present chronicler
  remains in ignorance, the boy was brought to life. He soon began to
  breathe; then he began to blush; and by the time he had attained the
  age of twenty minutes, lay on his mother’s arm, a red and smiling
  infant.”

If the reader does not grant that to be one of the most graceful
climaxes in biographic literature, we shall not write another word.
Presuming on a general unanimity on this point, we proceed. The red and
smiling infant in due time of course turned out a prodigy; “he took to
learning with the promptitude and instinctive irrepressible love with
which a duck is said to take to the water,” and was able to read “before
he had learned to talk.” In spelling he soon became pre-eminent; and
great marvels are recorded of his orthographic prowess. Unfortunately he
was less distinguished by those virtues which we usually desiderate in
boys. Though never afraid of ghosts, or overawed by superiority of rank
or knowledge, he was eminently deficient in physical courage. “When
attacked, he would neither fight nor run away, but ‘stand still and take
it;’” the report of a gun “would almost throw him into convulsions.”
Fishing and bee-hunting were the only sports he cared for, “but his love
of fishing did not originate in what the Germans call the ‘sport
impulse.’ Other boys fished for sport; Horace fished for _fish_.”
Bee-hunting, again, “was profitable sport, and Horace liked it
amazingly. His share of honey generally found its way to the store.” His
passion for books was generally attributed to indolence, and it was
often predicted that Horace would never “get on.” Superficial idea! Even
in very early life, says Mr Parton complacently, he gave proof “that the
Yankee element was strong within him. In the first place, he was always
_doing_ something; and in the second, he had always something to
_sell_.”

Notwithstanding Horace’s remarkable cleverness, we are told that he was
sometimes taken for an idiot—a stranger having once inquired, on his
entering a “store” in a brown study, “what darn fool is that?” Even his
own father declared that the boy would “never know more than enough to
come in when it rains.” These pleasing anecdotes are given on the
authority of a bibulous old wretch, whom the indefatigable Mr Parton
encountered and cross-questioned on the highway. He was quite drunk at
the time, but “as the tribute of a sot to the champion of the Maine Law,
the old man’s harangue was highly interesting.” Mr Parton sets it down
to the praise of his hero, that though brought up in the bosom of New
England orthodoxy, “from the age of twelve he began to doubt,” and “from
the age of fourteen he was known, wherever he lived, as the champion of
Universalism.” Here the biographer indulges in what he considers
appropriate reflections, and points out to his readers the valuable
effects of youthful infidelity. “The boy,” he coolly observes, “seems to
have shed his orthodoxy easily.”[8] Horace Greeley was in a fair way of
training for his editorship.

The juvenile Universalist had long been ambitious of becoming a printer,
and at last obtained a vacant apprenticeship in the office of Mr Amos
Bliss, proprietor of the _Northern Spectator_. The great event is
described with elaborate circumstantiality. The young “tow-head” proved
a first-rate workman, and presently tried his hand at composition. “The
injurious practice of writing ‘compositions,’” says his biographer, “was
not among the exercises of any of the schools which he had attended.”
Considering the general literary character of editorial writing in the
United States, we are not surprised to find an American pronounce the
early practice of composition _injurious_; the sentiment evidently is
not peculiar to Mr Parton. Early attention to style might of course tend
to weaken that native force in the use of epithets which apparently
conduces so much to editorial success. Horace also joined a debating
society, where he proved himself a perfect “giant.” His manners were
entirely free from aristocratic taint, or any weak tendency to
politeness. “He stood on no ceremony at the table; he _fell to_ without
waiting to be asked or helped, devoured everything right and left,
stopped as suddenly as he had begun, and vanished instantly.” Again,
“when any topic of interest was started at the table, he joined in it
with the utmost confidence, and maintained his opinion against anybody.”
He never went to tea-parties, never joined in an excursion, and “seldom
went to church.” A most interesting young man, on the whole, was Horace
Greeley.

At length the _Northern Spectator_ broke down, and the apprentice was
left to shift for himself. His departure is described in quite a choice
Minerva-Press style. “It was a fine cool breezy morning in the month of
June 1830; Nature had assumed those robes of brilliant green which she
wears only in June, and welcomed the wanderer forth with that heavenly
smile which plays upon her changeful countenance _only when she is
attired in her best_. Deceptive smile!” &c. &c. Horace at length
determined to try his fortune in New York, and with ten dollars in his
pocket, a shabby suit on his back, and a small bundle on his stick,
landed “at sunrise, on Friday the 18th of August 1831,” near the
Battery. The biographer, as in duty bound, comes out strong, and
Benjamin Franklin, with his penny roll, appears in the proper place to
garnish the story. “The princes of the mind,” says he, waxing sublime,
“always remain incog. till they come to the throne.” Poor Horace’s
appearance “was all against him.” Certainly, if the vignette
representation of the youth with which Mr Parton has adorned his volume
conveys any adequate idea of his aspect that morning, the statement is
emphatically true. The prince of the mind was incog. with a vengeance—a
more calculating and skinny-looking young Yankee it would be difficult
to imagine. To the portrait on the opposite page, of the adult Horace in
his white greatcoat—bought from an Irish emigrant!—we must, however,
give the palm as a thoroughly characteristic representation of a
full-blown Yankee Wilkes-Bentham Socialist, Maine Law champion,
Vegetarian, Spirit-rappist, and we don’t know what else. The following
bit of information is important:—

  “The gentleman to whose intercession Horace Greeley owed his first
  employment in New York, is now known to all the dentists in the Union
  as the leading member of a firm which manufactures annually twelve
  thousand artificial teeth. He has made a fortune, the reader will be
  glad to learn, and lives in a mansion up town.”

To the event which gave Horace his “First Lift” in the world, the
biographer devotes a whole chapter. That event was the establishment of
the first Penny Paper. The idea originated in the head of an unfortunate
medical student afflicted by Providence with ready cash to the amount of
fifteen hundred dollars. Horatio David Sheppard, unwisely neglecting his
pestle and scalpel, took to dabbling in newspapers and magazines, and in
due time found himself _minus_ his dollars. Speculatively musing as he
passed through Chatham Street, a great mart of penny wares, he was
struck with the rapid sales effected by the energetic stall-keepers and
itinerant venders of shoe-laces. Parting with an odd cent or penny
seemed so natural and easy a proceeding that the offer of any article
for that sum seemed irresistible. Might not a newspaper be produced at
one cent with certain success? The idea, it must be admitted, was a
happy one. As might have been expected, however, the proposal at first
excited unbounded ridicule, and for eighteen months Dr Sheppard could
not get “one man” to believe in its feasibility. At last, on New Year’s
Day, 1833, appeared the _Morning Post_, published by “Greeley and
Story,” price two cents. It lived only twenty-one days, dying from pure
want of funds. The idea was soon after successfully realised by other
speculators, and in a few years the penny press was able to take society
by the throat. Its first reception is thus described:—

  “When the respectable New Yorker first saw a penny paper, he gazed at
  it (I saw him) with a feeling similar to that with which an
  ill-natured man may be supposed to regard General Tom Thumb, a feeling
  of mingled curiosity and contempt; he put the ridiculous little thing
  into his waistcoat pocket to carry home for the amusement of his
  family; and he wondered what nonsense would be perpetrated _next_.”

If such was the reception of the cheap press among the go-ahead New
Yorkers, it need not surprise us that in our own steady-going community
it should have been still less favourable. The experience of the last
few months, however, has pretty well demonstrated the absurdity of the
principal objections. The anticipated peril to the health of society
has, as every believer in the national good sense well knew, proved a
chimera. British intellect and morals fortunately are not dependent on
taxes and high price; and the gradual removal of all restrictions on the
freedom of the press has only shown more signally that this people needs
no legal bridling to keep on the path of decency and order. The number
of cheap papers has indeed proved much smaller than was anticipated, few
people seeming to have been aware how much energy and capital are
required for the establishment of a paying penny paper—a fact which was
alone sufficient to answer the fears of those who looked in June 1855
for the coming of the Deluge. In New York the case unfortunately was far
otherwise. The Father of the American Penny Press, if to any one man
that title is due, must be regarded as having treated his country in a
way the reverse of what St Patrick did for Ireland—as a male Pandora, in
fact, who opened the lid that shut in a countless brood of very hideous
creatures. The thing will end well, we hope, as we hope for a
millennium; and improvement, as we have admitted, there already is. But
that the birth of the cheap press in America was followed by a deluge of
quackery, virulence, and indecency which has not yet entirely subsided,
is a fact written in disgraceful characters on pages innumerable, and
legible on the skins of men now living, had they not been tougher than
bison’s hide. That such should have been the result of cheapening the
favourite stimulant of the American rabble was perfectly inevitable, and
that the new development of journalism was accompanied by marked
features of superiority is undeniable. The increase of violence and
slander was itself a point of superiority in the eyes of the vulgar
herd,—for coarseness passed for strength, and scurrility for smartness,
the American’s “darling attribute.” But, among a people of intense
activity and inquisitiveness, the increased energy in the procuring of
news (whether true or false) must be looked upon as the chief cause of
the immense popularity attained in so few years by the principal
American journals. To this source, rather than to any general
predilection for the vile and malicious, would we seek to attribute the
extraordinary success of papers in which libel and indecency constituted
a regular stock in trade. This is certainly no excuse for the patronage
so bestowed, but it at least helps to explain it in a way not utterly
destructive of our respect for a whole community.

And now, to return to our Horace. Of his dignified manners towards his
workmen the following may suffice as an example. It is interesting,
moreover, as showing that the extraordinary voracity of his early years
had given place to utter indifference to considerations so low as the
eating of dinner:—

  “There was not even the show or pretence of discipline in the office.
  One of the journeymen made an outrageous caricature of his employer,
  and showed it to him one day as he came from dinner. ‘Who’s that?’
  asked the man. ‘That’s me,’ said the master, with a smile, and passed
  into his work: The men made a point of appearing to differ in opinion
  from him on every subject, because they liked to hear him talk; and,
  one day, after a long debate, he exclaimed, ‘Why, men, if I were to
  say that that black man there was black, you’d all swear he was
  white.’ He worked with all his former intensity and absorption. Often
  such conversations as these took place in the office about the middle
  of the day:—

  “(H. G., looking up from his work)—Jonas, have I been to dinner?

  “(Mr Winchester)—You ought to know best. I don’t know.

  “(H. G.)—John, have I been to dinner?

  “(John)—I believe not. Has he, Tom?

  “To which Tom would reply ‘no,’ or ‘yes,’ according to his own
  recollection or John’s wink; and if the office generally concurred in
  Tom’s decision, Horace would either go to dinner or resume his work,
  in unsuspecting accordance therewith.”

With that interesting proneness to heresy of all kinds which
distinguishes Mr Greeley, he soon after adopted the semi-vegetarian
principles of a certain Rev. Dr Graham, who, says the biographer, “was a
_discoverer_ of the facts, that most of us are sick, and that none of us
need be; that disease is impious and _disgraceful_, the result in almost
every instance of folly or crime.” The italics are Mr Parton’s, whose
digestion, it is to be hoped, is unexceptionable.

At length, early in 1834, Horace, with two partners, started the _New
Yorker_, a weekly paper, “incomparably the best of its kind that had
ever been published in this country;” so good, in fact, that after seven
years of hard struggle it gave up the ghost. We would rather believe
that its want of success was due to the incompetency of its management;
but if the editor was in the habit of uttering such unpalatable truths
as is contained in the following specimen, we are afraid it must be
conceded with the biographer that the _New Yorker_ was not half enough
spicy, or fawning:—

  “The great pervading evil of our social condition is the worship and
  the bigotry of Opinion. While the theory of our political institutions
  asserts or implies the absolute freedom of the human mind—the right
  not only of free thought and discussion, but of the most unrestrained
  action thereon within the wide boundaries prescribed by the laws of
  the land, yet the _practical commentary_ upon this noble text is as
  discordant as imagination can conceive. Beneath the thin veil of a
  democracy more free than that of Athens in her glory, we cloak a
  despotism more pernicious and revolting than that of Turkey or China.
  It is the despotism of Opinion.”

The _New Yorker_ having never, during its whole term of existence,
reached the paying point, the poor editor was obliged to keep the pot
boiling by other means. In 1838 he undertook the sole charge of the
_Jeffersonian_, a paper of a class peculiar to America, and denominated
“Campaign Papers.” The noble purpose of the _Jeffersonian_ is thus
described by Greeley himself: “It was established on the impulse of the
Whig tornado of 1837, to secure a like result in 1838, so as to give the
Whig party a Governor, Lieutenant-governor, Senate, Assembly, United
States Senator, Congressmen, and all the vast executive patronage of the
State, then amounting to millions of dollars a year.”

The _Jeffersonian_ existed only one year, having served its end. The
labours of the editor were enormous; “no one but a Greeley” could have
endured it all. In 1840 he started another “Campaign Paper,” in the
interest of General Harrison. The absorption of the editorial mind
during this exciting season is illustrated by another of those graceful
anecdotes, in which our biographer delights—relating how Mr Greeley
arrives late at a political tea-party (Sunday evening), and straightway
plunges into a conversation on the currency; how the worthy landlady
asks him in vain to take tea; how she begs him to “try a cruller
anyhow,” and is rudely repulsed; how she places a large basket of these
unknown delicacies on his knees, and he mechanically devours every
morsel; how, fearing the consequences, she substitutes for the “cruller”
basket a great heap of cheese; how the remarkable boa-constrictor
gobbles it all up; and how, finally, he was _none the worse_ of it all.
“Anecdotes,” says Mr P., are “precious for biographical purposes.”

The _Log Cabin_ had a circulation of from 80,000 to 90,000, and yet such
was the easy virtue of the subscribers that the proprietor made nothing
by it, and the last number contained a moving appeal “to the friends who
owe us.” Such, also, is political gratitude, that Mr Greeley did not
even receive the offer of an office in acknowledgment of his valuable
services, at which his biographer is duly disgusted. He adds the
following significant anecdote:—

  “Mr Fry (W. H.) made a speech one evening at a political meeting in
  Philadelphia. The next morning a committee waited upon him to know for
  what office he intended to become an applicant. ‘Office?’ said the
  astonished composer—no office.’ ‘Why, then,’ said the committee,
  ‘_what the h—ll did you speak last night for_?’ Mr Greeley had not
  even the honour of a visit from a committee of this kind.”

Mr Greeley at length ventured on the bold experiment of starting a new
daily paper. There were already eleven in New York; but a cheap Whig
paper[9] was wanted, and accordingly, on the 10th April 1841, appeared
the _New York Tribune_, price one cent. It began with only six hundred
subscribers, and encountered much opposition, but was “from its
inception very successful.” The _Tribune_, says Mr Parton, was “a live
paper,” and it prospered by opposition. “FIGHT was the word with it from
the start—FIGHT has been the word ever since—FIGHT is the word this
day.” One thing was wanting to success—an efficient business-partner.
Such a man was found in the person of Mr Thomas M‘Elrath. The biographer
shouts and rubs his hands with ecstasy at such a combination of
excellence as was now realised. Hear him:

  “Roll Horace Greeley and Thomas M‘Elrath into one, and the result
  would be, a very respectable approximation to a Perfect Man. The Two,
  united in partnership, have been able to produce a very respectable
  approximation to a perfect newspaper. As Damon and Pythias are the
  types of perfect friendship, so may Greeley and M‘Elrath be of a
  perfect partnership; and one may say, with a sigh at the many
  discordant unions the world presents, Oh! that every Greeley could
  find his M‘Elrath! and blessed is the M‘Elrath that finds his
  Greeley!”

And woe to the Greeley that finds his Parton!

For a complete history of this respectable approximation to perfection,
says Mr Parton, “ten octavo volumes would be required, and most
interesting volumes they would be.” Mr Parton gives us instead the small
dose of “over” 200 octavo pages, and we are bound to say that it is at
least 190 too many. In these weary sheets the curious will find a full
account of Mr Greeley’s exertions in defence of Fourierism, Whiggism,
Teetotalism, Anti-Slavery, Woman’s Rights, and Irish Rebellion, his
libels on Fenimore Cooper, his motions in Congress, his lectures, his
European travels, his personal appearance, his private habits, &c. &c.

“For Irish Repeal,” among other good causes, the _Tribune_ “fought like
a tiger,” the magnanimous editor accepting a place in the Directory of
the Friends of Ireland, “to the funds of which he contributed
liberally.” Mr Greeley is not a warlike man, as his boyish experiences
have indicated, but incendiarism and bloodshed in British territory are
things for which he willingly sacrifices a few dollars. Our readers are
aware that the publication of the wildest fictions, pleasantly
denominated “hoaxes,” constitutes an attractive element in American
journalism. In August 1848, New York red-republicanism was “on the
tiptoe of expectation for important news of the Irish rebellion.” The
fortunate _Tribune_ obtained exclusive intelligence, and hastened to
publish, “with due glorification,” a flaming account of the great battle
of Slievenamon (afterwards known as “Slievegammon,”) in which 6000
British troops were killed and wounded. “For a day or two the Irish and
the friends of Ireland exulted; but when the truth became known, their
note was sadly changed.” The editor, we learn, was absent at the time,
but there is no doubt he would have exulted as much as any man to hear
of the “stench” of a three-mile shambles of British soldiers. His tone
on the subject of the Russian war has betrayed no weak sympathy with the
Western combatants; and doubtless he takes a brotherly interest in the
insane and detestable conspiracies now or lately hatching among the
unhappy exiles of Erin.

In November of that year, Mr Greeley was elected to a seat in Congress,
by a machinery the corruption of which is testified by no less a person
than himself. He was very active as a member, and soon made himself
prominently obnoxious by exposing various legislative jobs. Some of the
lively scenes that occurred are described at immense length. Mr Parton
draws no flattering conclusion from the reception of his hero in the
House of Representatives. Let our American friends console themselves
with the assurance that his testimony is not decisive.

  “An honest man in the House of Representatives of the United States
  seemed to be a foreign element, a fly in its cup, an ingredient that
  would not mix, a novelty that disturbed its peace. It struggled hard
  to find a pretext for the expulsion of the offensive person; but not
  finding one, the next best thing was to endeavour to show the country
  that Horace Greeley was, after all, no better than members of Congress
  generally.”

In 1849, the _Tribune_, with its habitual predilection for the fanatical
and revolutionary, or, as Mr Parton loftily phrases the thing, “true to
its instinct of giving hospitality to every new or revived idea,”
devoted large space to the promulgation of Proudhon’s delightful ideas
on the subject of Property. Among other things also, says our
chronicler, it began a rejoinder to the _Evening Post_ in the following
spirited manner,—the only specimen we choose to quote of Mr Greeley’s
vituperative abilities:—

“You lie, villain! wilfully, wickedly, basely lie!”

This observation, placidly remarks the historian, “called forth much
remark at the time.” The person to whom it was addressed was WILLIAM
CULLEN BRYANT. With the same instinctive hospitality towards every form
of delusion, the _Tribune_ opened its accommodating columns to the
Spirit-Rappers, who, notwithstanding a few hundred cases of insanity and
other small evils, have, in Mr Parton’s opinion, done much good. About
the same time it took up the Woman’s Rights humbug, acknowledging that
the ladies are perhaps unwise in making the demand, but maintaining that
no sincere republican can give any adequate reason for refusing them “an
equal participation with men in political rights.” A whole chapter is
devoted to Mr Greeley’s platform exhibitions, which it seems are very
frequent and edifying—Horace having, as Mr Parton tells us, a benevolent
appreciation of the delight it gives “to _see_ the man whose writings
have charmed and moved and formed us.” Not only does he lecture as often
as possible, but

  “At public meetings and public dinners Mr Greeley is a frequent
  speaker. His name usually comes at the end of the report, introduced
  with ‘Horace Greeley being loudly called for, made a few remarks to
  the following purport.’ The call is never declined; nor does he ever
  speak without saying something; and when he has said it, he resumes
  his seat.”

The remarkable man!

In 1851, Horace went to see the World’s Fair in Hyde Park. No foolish
curiosity or sentimentality instigated the philosophic editor; his main
object, as announced (the American editor keeps his readers regularly
informed on all his movements) in the _Tribune_, being to inspect “_the
improvements recently made, or now being made, in the modes of dressing
flax and hemp_, and preparing them to be spun and woven by steam or
water power.”

The departure and passage are carefully described; Mr Parton having
apparently paid a steward to note, watch in hand, all the phenomena of
Horace’s sea-sickness. Nothing that he saw in this effete country seems
to have in the least impressed his great mind. The royal procession
would have faded before “a parade of the New York Firemen or Odd
Fellows.” The Queen he patronisingly noticed, and was even “glad to
see,” though “he could not but feel that her _vocation_ was behind the
intelligence of the age, and likely to go out of fashion at no distant
day;” but not, poor thing! “through _her_ fault.” The posts of honour
nearest her person should have been confided, he thought, to “the
descendants of Watt and Arkwright;” the foreign ambassadors should have
been “the sons of Fitch, Fulton, Whitney, Daguerre, and Morse,” &c. &c.
Hampton Court he thought “larger than the Astor House, but less lofty,
and containing fewer rooms.” Westminster Abbey was “a mere barbaric
profusion of lofty ceilings, stained windows, carving, graining, and all
manner of contrivances for absorbing labour and money;” less adapted for
public worship “than a fifty thousand dollar church in New York.” He
gives credit to the English for many good qualities, but thinks them “a
most _un-ideal_ people,”—he, the romantic Greeley! “He liked the amiable
women of England, so excellent at the fireside, so tame in the
drawing-room; but he doubts whether they could so much as _comprehend_
the ideas which underlie the woman’s rights movement.” (The amiable
women of England may well console themselves under a doubt so
complimentary to their common sense.) In Paris the great man was
apparently in better humour, devoting two days to the Louvre—a wonderful
fact. His great political sagacity shines forth in his estimate of
French affairs in June 1851. France he found as “tranquil and prosperous
as England herself;” as for fear from Louis Napoleon, he “marvels at the
_obliquity of vision_ whereby any one is enabled, standing in this
metropolis, to anticipate the subversion of the Republic.” In Italy his
first remark was, that he had never seen a region so much in want of “_a
few subsoil ploughs_.” Edinburgh, it seems, was honoured, before his
return to New York, by a visit from this great unknown; and we are proud
to learn that it “surpassed his expectations.”

“In the composition of this work,” says our judicious biographer, “I
have, as a rule, abstained from the impertinence of panegyric.” When,
therefore, he tells us that the rolling together of Greeley and
M‘Elrath, after the manner of a dumpling, would result in something like
perfection; that Greeley is “too much in earnest to be a perfect
editor;” that “he is a BORN LEGISLATOR,” and “could save a nation, but
never learn to tie a cravat;” that he is “New York’s most distinguished
citizen, the Country’s most influential man,” and editor of the best
paper in existence; that, in short, he is “the Franklin of this
generation—Franklin liberalised and enlightened,”—we are to take these
statements as the sober expression of bare hard fact; and the reader is
left to conclude from them how much might have been said by a more
partial and weak-minded biographer—his imagination is left to fill up
the outline of a Greeley’s perfections!

But does the reader wish to see the man himself—to know his height and
weight, not metaphorically, but actually, in British feet and inches,
and in pounds avoirdupois? So pleasant and laudable a desire the amiable
Parton is far from disappointing; for does not the great man say that
“there’s no use in any man’s writing a biography unless he can tell what
no one else can tell.” Here, then, reader, you have it, what no one else
assuredly could, would, or should dream of telling you but the
inimitable, the unapproachable Parton:—

  “Horace Greeley stands five feet ten and a half inches, in his
  stockings. He weighs one hundred and forty-five pounds. Since his
  return from Europe in 1851, he has increased in weight, and promises
  to attain, in due time, something of the dignity which belongs to
  amplitude of person. He stoops considerably, not from age, but from a
  constitutional pliancy of the back-bone, aided by his early habit of
  incessant reading. In walking, he swings or sways from side to side.
  Seen from behind, he looks, as he walks with head depressed, bended
  back, and swaying gait, like an old man; an illusion which is
  heightened if a stray lock of white hair escapes from under his hat.
  But the expression of his face is singularly and engagingly youthful.
  His complexion is extremely fair, and a smile plays ever upon his
  countenance. His head, measured round the organs of Individuality and
  Philoprogenitiveness, is twenty-three and a half inches in
  circumference, which is considerably larger than the average. His
  forehead is round and full, and rises into a high and ample dome. The
  hair is white, inclining to red at the ends, and thinly scattered over
  the head. Seated in company, with his hat off, he looks not unlike the
  ‘Philosopher’ he is often called; no one could take him for a common
  man.”

Now, then, reader, if you do not give us credit for introducing you to
the acme of modern biography, we pronounce you the most ungrateful and
least discriminating of human beings. “If Horace Greeley were a flower,”
says J. P., “botanists would call him single, and examine him with
interest.” “He is what the Germans sometimes style ‘a nature.’” And if
J. P. also were a flower, botanists would inevitably pronounce him “a
tulip.” He is what in Scotland we sometimes call “a natural”—otherwise
known as “a halfling;” or, in vernacular English, a born fool. Horace
Greeley is not, to our mind, a person very agreeable or very venerable;
but intensely as we dislike his bad qualities, and those of his paper
(in some respects a good one—very attentive, in its own peculiar way, to
literature, and excellently printed[10]), his dreary fanaticism and
vulgarity, his bigoted Yankeeism, his strong anti-British feeling—much
as we dislike all this, we do not like to see him made absolutely
ridiculous, had he no other good quality than the pleasure he takes in
farming. We are not surprised, however, to learn that he has few
friends, “and no cronies.” His biographer, at least, is not among the
former; for any man would accept his chance against a Kentucky rifle
sooner than a biography at the hands of Mr J. Parton. There is this
comfort, at least, that Horace Greeley “has no pleasures, so called, and
suffers little pain,” otherwise, we imagine, the admiring scribbler
would not, with such inconceivable indelicacy, have opened the doors of
his closet, and exhibited him _in puris naturalibus_ to the gaze of the
world.

Turn we now to the veracious record of the Life and Adventures of the
Jack Ketch of editors, the redoubtable and happily unparalleled James
Gordon Bennett, with whom, for several reasons, we must be brief. The
author has of course sought no counsel from “Mr Bennett, nor any one
connected with him.” The work is a pure labour of love, “a spontaneous
act of literary justice” to the character of a noble and much maligned
man. The former statement we perfectly believe, as we imagine the
consultation would naturally proceed _from_ and not _to_ the subject of
the memoir. As to the spontaneity, there can be little doubt that the
work was prompted by the dumpy and infatuated volume of which we have
attempted faintly to shadow forth the beauties,—as to “justice,” no man
is more dreadfully in earnest for justice than when he defends himself.
The motto prefixed from Dr Johnson is admirable: “_History, which draws
a portrait of living manners, may perhaps be made of greater use than
the solemnities of professed morality, and convey the knowledge of vice
and virtue with more efficacy than axioms and definitions._” Which being
applied to the present case, may be interpreted to signify that the life
of a notorious blackguard is more eloquent than a sermon of Dr Blair,
and conveys the knowledge of virtue, through the exhibition of its
contrary, with more impressiveness than all the proverbs of Solomon! In
this sense the Life of Mr James Gordon Bennett might, in faithful and
competent hands, do as much good as the _Newgate Calendar_, or Defoe’s
Autobiography of an Unfortunate Female,—it might carry along with it, as
this preface says, “not a few valuable lessons.” Unhappily, however, the
genius of this biographer is utterly unequal to the subject, and instead
of a lifelike and instructive portraiture, he has produced a senseless
and incredible daub. More speaking by far is the portrait which fronts
the title-page. It represents in sharp outline the face of a
hard-headed, heavy-browed, obstinate man; vulpine sagacity in the
wrinkles of the mouth and the corners of the eyes; long upper-lip and
heavy under-jaw, and bold vulturine nose seeming to scent carrion from
afar. The eyes are upturned in sculptured lifelessness—in artistic
justice, we presume, to that unfortunate ophthalmic defect known as a
diabolical squint. The portrait, we say, is better than the book, and
tells, though probably a flattering likeness, a clearer and more honest
story.

“Is it not,” inquired Mr Dickens in New York, “a very disgraceful
circumstance that such a man as So-and-so should be acquiring a large
property by the most infamous and odious means, and, notwithstanding all
the crimes of which he has been guilty, should be tolerated and abetted
by your citizens? He is a public nuisance, is he not?—Yes, sir. A
convicted liar?—Yes, sir. He has been kicked, and cuffed, and
caned?—Yes, sir. And he is utterly dishonourable, debased, and
profligate?—Yes, sir. In the name of wonder, then, what is his
merit?—_Well, sir, he is a smart man!_” Such is the satisfactory
solution of the problem to which we have already alluded, the solution
of the Barnum phenomenon, and with it of all analogous phenomena.
Similar is the testimony of the smart young man whom we have just parted
with. “Every race,” he says, “has its own ideas respecting what is best
in the character of a man.... When a Yankee would bestow his most
special commendation upon another, he says, ‘That is a man, sir, who
generally _succeeds_ in what he undertakes.’” Let no delicate and
high-minded person, therefore, be astonished that such a man as James
Gordon Bennett, whom the respectability of New York has for twenty years
loathingly patronised, should have attained a commanding position among
the spiritual powers of the American Republic. He is a man of undeniable
“smartness”—not in our sense, indeed, for we have never seen a line of
his composition that exhibited anything above what could be called
third-rate mediocrity of thought and style, but in the sense of keen
appreciation of means and ends, audacious scheming, impenetrability to
shame, and invincible endurance of chastisement. His inflictions in this
respect, both moral and physical, he has uniformly turned to the best
account: in a sense different from that of the Psalmist, he can say that
it was good for him to be afflicted. No man probably ever made more
dollars by the proclamation of his own disgrace. A mere catalogue of the
horse-whippings he has undergone during his long career of inglory,
would astonish the nerves of our readers.[11] Each new infliction has
been prominently blazoned in the columns of the _Herald_, and the
attractive words “COW-HIDED AGAIN!!!” have been duly followed by a rush
of buyers and a cheering flow of cents into the pockets of the
complacent victim! On this subject his own testimony and that of his
biographer are singularly frank and decided:—

  “Since I knew myself, all the real approbation I sought for was my
  own. If my conscience was satisfied on the score of morals, and my
  ambition on the matter of talent, I always felt easy. On this
  principle I have acted from my youth up, and on this principle I mean
  to die. Nothing can disturb my equanimity. I know myself—so does the
  Almighty. Is not that enough?”

“This,” says the biographer, “_is not the language and spirit of a
common mind_. It is the essence of a philosophy which has not deserted a
man who has never failed to republish every slander against himself, and
who has been conscious always that calumnies cannot outlive and
overshadow truth.”

A man whose conscience seems never to have given him much trouble, and
whose ambition has been satisfied with the acquisition of wealth and
political power, may well feel easy under the whips and scorns of a
whole universe! This is assuredly, and we rejoice to think so, not the
language and spirit of the majority of mankind. Those only despise the
approbation of their fellows who have shaken off the attributes of
humanity, and accept the reverse of the proverb, that “a good name is
rather to be chosen than great riches.” The impious allusion to the
Almighty is worthy of a Couthon or a Marat.[12]

The success of such a journal as the _New York Herald_ is an undeniable
blot on the community on whose follies and vices it battened into
prosperity. The damning fact cannot be denied, that it was not in spite
but _on account_ of their scandalous character that such journals first
attracted public attention and secured a hearing. While, therefore, we
diminish not a jot our abhorrence of the men who reared these monuments
of their own infamy, we are bound to regard them as but the concentrated
type of the character that pervaded their constituency. If the _New York
Herald_ was unprincipled and obscene, the readers of the _New York
Herald_ must have shared in these qualities. Its conductor may have been
a scoundrel, but he certainly was no fool; he fed his readers with such
food as suited their taste. Had that taste been purer, he was knowing
enough to have provided cleaner fare: in a grave and religious community
he would probably have preached with unctuous decorum. Already the taste
of that community has improved (no thanks, assuredly, to him); the
deluge of vituperation and indecency has subsided, and the _New York
Herald_ has followed the temper of the time. It may not, as the helpless
biographer tells us it is, be “a familiar journal at every court
throughout the world, and in all intelligent communities,” but, compared
with its former self, it is positively respectable.

Granting, therefore, that James Gordon Bennett was as disreputable an
editor as Dr Faust’s great patron ever let loose upon mankind, it is
both philosophically and historically just that we should regard him, as
Germans would say, not as an isolated phenomenon, but as a
highly-remarkable-and-in-itself-much-embracing-development of social
existence. The half-apologetic statements on this subject by the
biographer, who is in general so preposterous in his partiality and
admiration as to be utterly beyond criticism, are among the most curious
things in the book. After describing the state of society and of
journalism previous to 1833, he says:—

  “A more fortunate position of circumstances cannot be imagined than
  that which presented itself for Mr Bennett’s talents at this period.
  He had been moulded by events and experience to take a part in the
  change which the Press was about to undergo....

  “Mr Bennett was prepared in every way for the occasion. He had been
  just so far injured as to urge him to take hold of the world with but
  little mercy for its foibles, and with so little regard to its
  opinions that he could distinguish himself by an original course in
  Journalism. He felt as Byron did after the Scotch Reviewers had
  embittered his soul by their harsh treatment of his ‘Hours of
  Idleness.’ This was a mood highly favourable to the production of a
  rare effect. The dormant spirit of the people could only be awakened
  by something startling and novel, and circumstances had produced a man
  for the times.”

The early numbers of the _Herald_, we are told, were “agreeable,
pleasantly written, and comparatively prudish.” The habits of the editor
were “exemplary.” Finding that this sort of thing was “no go,” the
astute adventurer took a bolder course, and flung aside those trammels
of decency and moderation which would have impeded or ruined the
prospects of a weaker and less original mind. The biographer admits that
his hero behaved somewhat grossly, but argues, as one might plead in
defence of a vampire or a cobra-de-capello, that he merely used the
weapons which nature had given him, and that at any rate he was no worse
than his neighbours.

  “The improved taste of the present hour will not sanction the mode in
  which Mr Bennett at first undertook to be the censor of society: but
  _a philosophical analysis of the means which were used in his peculiar
  and eccentric course (!)_ exhibits motives as the springs of action,
  which do not necessarily indicate a callous heart or a bad temper....
  That Mr Bennett had been provoked to use any and all power at his
  command, to overturn the wanton assailants of his character, cannot be
  denied. _He had but armed himself with the best instruments heaven had
  bestowed upon him_, and his mode of warfare was quite as dignified as
  that which had been resorted to, and adopted for fifteen or twenty
  years before, by the Press generally.”

If instead of the blasphemous word “Heaven” we substitute another more
congruous to the nature of the subject, the above may be taken as a
sufficiently “philosophical” view of the point at issue. A little
farther on there is a still clearer admission. After telling us that the
public did not care for political articles in such small sheets as the
_Herald_, the biographer shows how it became _necessary_ for Mr Bennett
to fill his paper with falsehood and obscenity:—

  “It would have been folly, therefore, to have attempted to make a
  daily offering to the public of a newspaper, such as is accepted even
  at the present hour. Mr Bennett saw this—he felt it. He wrote to
  create an interest for himself and the _Herald_. In this he was
  pecuniarily wise, for had he taken a more dignified course, and thus
  have produced only such studied articles as he had contributed to the
  _Courier and Enquirer_, from 1829 to 1832, the _Herald_ would not have
  existed for a single month, unless sustained by a sacrifice of capital
  which it was not in the power of Mr Bennett to command. All of his
  success depended upon his making a journal wholly different from any
  one that was in existence.”

And in that attempt the enterprising editor succeeded to a miracle, for
certainly anything approaching to the _Herald_ in its “peculiar”
character, the literature of civilisation had not seen!

That there may be no mistake on the matter, the biographer, in summing
up the transcendent merits of Mr Bennett near the close of the volume,
assures us that the course pursued was perfectly deliberate:—

  “On the 5th of May 1835, he commenced _his work of regeneration_ by
  publishing the first number of the _New York Herald_, which, till it
  was established, was conducted with such peculiarities as secured it
  attention—_peculiarities which seemed to have sprung from a mind
  resolved to carry out certain broad personal characteristics_, which
  in themselves furnish the bitterest satire upon the true nature of
  political and social life known to the literature of any age or
  country. _The course adopted was not based on impulse. There is no
  excuse for it on that ground. It was the fruit of the most careful
  reflection, as is proved by the fact that the original prospectus has
  not been departed from in any point whatever during a period of twenty
  years._ The original design was to establish a journal which should be
  independent of all parties, and _the influence of which should be
  grounded upon its devotion to the popular will_—a plan which has found
  numerous imitators, and which is the only one suited to satisfy the
  demands of the public.”

Mr Bennett, who of course “endorses” these sentiments, is thus, it is
evident, as much at ease in his “conscience” with regard to his past
conduct as ever, and would, if the thing were to be done over again, do
it _con amore_ again. The _popular will_—not Truth or Righteousness; the
most sweet voices of the rabble, not the still small voice of the man
within the breast—that, then, is the creed of this “regenerator” of
journalism—_Apage Satana_.

The best type of Scottish character is eminently distinguished by force
and earnestness; but as a Scotchman, when he is good, is intensely so—a
Scotchman, when he sells himself to Clooty, is perhaps of all human
beings the most devoted servant of that personage. Scotland, which has
produced such eminent examples of genius and nobleness in this century
as Thomas Chalmers and John Wilson, had the misfortune to give birth
also to James Gordon Bennett. Let her not grieve, for the same England
that gave birth to John Milton, was the mother likewise of Titus Oates.




                           THE GREEK CHURCH.


There can be no question with the philosopher, that war is one of the
great sources of change in the movement of the world. Whether its
purpose be conquest or defence, or its stimulant ambition or
restlessness, or its immediate impulse the genius of some great leader,
urging the rapacity of a people, the changes which it makes in the
general mass of society are always more remarkable than those of any
other instrument of human impression. Wars are the moral thunderstorms,
which either cover the face of society with havoc, or purify its
atmosphere. War is the shifting of the channel in which the great stream
of society has hitherto flowed on, and the formation of the new course
which fertilises a new region, while it leaves the old one barren; or,
is like the power of steam, a pressure in its nature explosive, and
marking its power only in its ruin, but capable of being guided into a
general benefactor of man, and originating effects large and general
beyond the means of any other mover.

To the reader of the Scriptures, the question is decided at once. War is
constantly held forth as the instrument of Divine action—sometimes as
punishment, sometimes as restoration, but always as subservient to a
great providential intention. A voice of more than man calls Cyrus from
the sands of Persia, at once to smite the pride of Babylon, and to break
the chains of the Jew. The same voice summons Alexander from the hills
of Macedonia to subvert Persepolis, and be the protector of the chosen
people. We have the distinct declaration from the highest of all
sources, that the Roman war which closed the national existence of that
unhappy but memorable people, was the direct performance of the Divine
will by the instrumentality of the heathen sword.

It is true, that in later history we have not the same power of
ascertaining the distinct purposes of Providence. We “see through a
glass darkly,” through the dimmed medium of human knowledge, through the
comparison of things imperfectly shown, and the misty conjectures of
man. Yet still it is a study honourable to human intelligence, and we
are sometimes enabled, even by flashes and fragments of evidence, to
trace without superstition or exaggeration the ways of that great
Disposer, who balances the fates of nations, and whose vigilance is as
sleepless as His power is immeasurable. No man conversant with modern
history can doubt, that the war of the German princes in the sixteenth
century sheltered the cradle of the Reformation, until the mighty infant
was enabled to quit that cradle and assume maturity; or that the war
with Spain and the destruction of the Armada gave English Protestantism
an embodying of strength in England, and a renown abroad, which secured
it from all assault either at home or abroad; or that the wars of
William III., in Ireland and on the Continent, were the virtual throwing
of a shield over Protestantism in England, and extinguishing by the
sword in France the power which had pledged itself to the extermination
of French Protestantism; or that the French revolutionary war, however
originating in the national vices, had, in its conquest of the three
Capitals of Austria, Prussia, and Russia, a direct connection with the
vengeance of insulted justice, and the retribution of outraged humanity
on the royal spoilers of unhappy Poland.

Nothing among the phases of human affairs has been a matter of older or
more frequent wonder to both the philosopher and the Christian, than the
condition of the country ranging along the eastern shore of the
Mediterranean. That, within the perpetual hearing, and almost within
sight of the civilisation of Europe, with the sounds of its moral
revolutions, progress, and discoveries in its ears, it has never
exhibited an inclination to try the strength of its own frame in any of
the exercises of self-government; that, with a population highly gifted
by nature, acute, adroit, and even warlike, fifty-fold more numerous
than the Turk; that, with the finest climate of the globe, the richest
soil, the noblest historic recollections, the whole region, from Egypt
to the Euphrates, should have exhibited its bravery in nothing but the
exploits of banditti, its intelligence in nothing but the craft of the
trafficker, and its philosophy in nothing but the submission of the
slave, seems unaccountable.

Yet especially that Palestine, the land of which we can never speak the
name, or remember the afflictions, or revolve the history, without
homage, sorrow, and hope; that the soil, with every hill and valley and
sea-shore sacred to the Christian heart, and the object of promises, on
which we fully rely, yet which transcend all that earth has seen of
blessing, power, and splendour,—the land of which Inspiration has
pronounced: “Thy sun shall no more go down; neither shall thy moon
withdraw itself: for the Lord shall be thine everlasting light, and the
days of thy mourning shall be ended. Thy people also shall be all
righteous: they shall inherit the land for ever, the branch of my
planting, the work of my hands, that I may be glorified. A little one
shall become a thousand, and a small one a strong nation: I the Lord
will hasten it in his time” (Isaiah, lx. 20); that Palestine, towards
which every man, Christian or Jew, looks, as the prophet in the days of
the captivity looked in his prayer, should be still desolate; that even
Jerusalem, whose very dust is dear to us, should be known as scarcely
more than the haunt of obscure superstition, and the squabbles of Greek
and Latin monks,—is among the most surprising facts of human annals.

We are by no means sanguine as to the _effect_ of the war, into which
Russia has provoked the Powers of Europe. It is an impulse which may
pass away—a “wind which bloweth where it listeth, and we hear but the
sound thereof”—a form of ambitious frenzy, starting up from the imperial
couch, and, in the first moment of exhaustion, sinking back within its
curtains. But, notwithstanding all those possibilities, to chide the
eagerness of human anticipation, nothing is more evident than that the
war has some features which distinguish it from all the wars since the
fall of the Greek Empire. It is remarkable that its first quarrel was in
Jerusalem, and the express contest was for the possession of the most
venerated spot in Jerusalem, the Holy Sepulchre. Whether this quarrel
was sincere or a pretence—whether to restore injured rights or to cover
a determination of wrongs—is a matter of no moment in presence of the
fact that thus began the Russian war. Another obvious fact is, that
though there have been expeditions to the Levant within the century, as
the march of Napoleon into Syria, and the later assaults on Acre, this
is the first war, since the Crusades, which ever poured the weight of
the great armies and navies of England and France on the East, which
ever planted a solid step on the lands under the Mahommedan rule, which
ever exhibited European strength, arts, discipline, and treasure, in
their actual and distinct character, to the eye of the Mahommedan. If
the European forces should be withdrawn to-morrow, there can be no doubt
of their having thrown a new light on the mind of the Mahommedan world.
The old generation must soon pass away, and a large portion of its
prejudices must pass away with it. The new generation may respect its
memory, and act as the pallbearers in its obsequies, but they will not
go down into its grave. Already the Turk is becoming associated with the
Englishman and the Frenchman; the English discipline of the Contingent
must leave its impressions, even when the Contingent shall be broken up.
The pay, the punctuality, the good order, and the gallantry of the
service, cannot be forgotten; and the man will be cast into a mould,
manlier and more capable of progress than any Turk, since the tribe,
with the “black banner” before them, descended from the slopes of the
Himalaya. The Christians of the Ottoman Empire have obtained new
privileges already by this war. Measures are on foot for making their
testimony available in the courts of justice. They are to have the right
of bearing arms in the Ottoman service—a highly important innovation,
and leading to every privilege; and there can be no doubt that the
Ottoman government must acknowledge its old power of oppression to be at
an end, or that any attempt at persecution or violence to its Christian
subjects would be under penalty of provoking resistance from its
Christian allies. All those results have their origin in the war, and
those are in their nature progressive. Privilege begets privilege, and
the next quarter of a century, whether in the struggles of war or the
activity of peace, will place the Christians of the East in a position
higher than their most sanguine speculation could have contemplated
before the war on the Euxine.

Views of this order give additional value to that interesting subject,
the character of the Christian Church in the East. It becomes important
to know how far that Church is capable of assisting the progress, aiding
the energies, or even conforming to the character of a people on the eve
of renovation; whether it is to continue the swamp that it has been for
the four centuries since the capture of Constantinople, or to be the
fount flowing with the waters of national life; whether it is to be
regarded as a monument of dreary ceremonial, encumbering the soil with
its weight, and of doctrines incompatible with the gospel, or as only
waiting to be freed from the barbarian accumulations of antiquity, to
show the world an architecture worthy of its apostolic founders, and fit
for the reception of enlightened mankind.

The Greek Church has, beyond all question, high claims to the
consideration of Christendom as the mother of all the churches,—founded
by the Apostles, governed by the last of the Apostles,—the Church of the
first Christian empire, and for the first four centuries exhibiting the
most illustrious examples of virtue and ability, of patience under
trial, and of piety in the propagation of the faith. In the Church of
proconsular Asia was the arena in which the strength of revelation was
first tried against all the power of imperial heathenism, the severer
combats than against the lions of Numidia. To that province was sent the
message to the “Angels of the Seven Churches;” in its neighbouring
Byzantium was erected the central Church, the spiritual sun, which
spread its light through the East and West, through the shores and
forests of the North, and through the mountains and wildernesses of the
South,—the Church which, resisting the image-worship of the Western
nations, and the mysterious mythology of the East, continued for fifteen
hundred years the Ark of Christianity.

The subject has been frequently touched on in the rapid publications of
our time, but with an inaccuracy of detail, and an obscurity of view,
which fully justifies the attempt to rectify the one, and to clear up
the other.

From the fourth century, the subtle spirit of the Greeks began to
exercise itself in those questions of Scripture, which, being
confessedly above the range of the human faculties, are to be received
on the authority of Scripture alone, as the objects of faith, and not of
experience. The Arian, Nestorian, and Eutychian heresies began to
disturb the world. The great Council of Nice (A.D. 325), an assemblage
of 318 bishops, declared the voice of the Church against the doctrine of
Arius; yet the heresy continued for some ages to distract the empire.
When these disputes had worn themselves out, another source of
disturbance exhibited itself in the Civil claims of the rival Sees of
Rome and Constantinople. The Bishop of Rome demanded the Supremacy for
the sitter in the ancient capital of empire; the Bishop of
Constantinople demanded it for the sitter in the capital of the actual
empire. But the contest was unequal. The Bishop of the West had no
imperial figure to thwart his authority; the Bishop of the East stood
directly under the shadow of the imperial figure. The former was the
lord of the faith to the half-civilised and superstitious millions of
the barbarian settlers in Europe; the latter was surrounded with as many
heresies as episcopates, with keen inquiries and doubtful fidelity, with
philosophy envenomed into scepticism, and with four Patriarchs,
sometimes denying his doctrine, and always envying his authority.

The contest continued through two centuries, treated by the warlike
emperors with contempt, and regarded by the feeble emperors with alarm.
At length it was decided by Justinian, one of those characters who form
epochs in history. It is only by such epochs that we can mark the
progress of those unvarying years and casual trains of events which form
the stream of Time. Remote history is like the remote landscape; we
judge of the country only by its mountain-tops. History has done but
narrow justice to this restorer of the Roman empire. It has measured his
imperial strength on the scale of his personal weakness; but the true
estimate of the governor of kingdoms is by what he has done on the
throne. Monarchs are _actors_, with their kingdom for a stage, and the
world for their audience. When they throw off the royal robe and the
buskin, they are but men; but who has a right to follow them behind the
scenes? In the reign of Justinian was reunited the dislocated empire.
Italy and Northern Africa were conjoined. The barbarian kingdoms of
Europe were reduced into submission, the celebrated Code was established
which formed the body of law to Europe for nearly ten centuries, and
which exists as the civil law to this day. The noblest temple of Europe
(until the sixteenth century), the Santa Sophia, was built by him, and
he held the sceptre with undiminished authority to the end of a reign of
thirty-nine years, and a life of eighty-three!

The sole imperial weakness of Justinian was his theology; he loved to
mingle in the turbid discussions of the time. In one of those
discussions, to conciliate the verdict of the Roman bishop, he conferred
on him the title of “Head of the Universal Church,”—a title which no man
could be guiltless in either bestowing or accepting, the title belonging
to Him alone who earned it on Calvary; the bestowal was a usurpation,
and the adoption a crime. From this transaction, and from the year 533,
the Papacy dates its assumed supremacy over the Universal Church.

The separation of the Greek and the Latin Churches was near at hand. In
the seventh century Rome had adopted image-worship. In the eighth
century the Emperor Leo proclaimed it an abomination, and ordered that
all images should be taken from the altars. The Pope (Gregory II.)
answered the command by a challenge. His answer was an Anathema. “You
accuse,” said his letter, “the Catholics of idolatry: in this you betray
your own impiety. You assault us, tyrant, with a carnal and military
hand; we can only implore Christ that he will _send you a devil_ for the
destruction of your body and the salvation of your soul. Are you
ignorant that the Popes are the bands of union, the mediators of peace
between the East and the West? The eyes of the nations are fixed on our
humility, and they _revere as a God on earth_ the Apostle St Peter,
whose image you threaten to destroy. The remote kingdoms of the earth
present their homage to Christ _and His viceregent_.” A war followed;
Gregory sent out his “pastoral letters” through the West. The imperial
troops were beaten in Italy by the peasant insurrection. A battle was
fought on the banks of the Po, with such slaughter of the Greeks, that
for a succession of years the people refused to eat of the fish. Rome
was broken off from the empire. The imperial sovereignty of the West was
at an end, after a dominion of seven centuries; and image-worship was
established as the religion of the Popedom.

The schism of the churches was now begun. But the question had changed
from doctrine, which the growing ignorance of the age was unable to
discuss, to jurisdiction, a discussion which at once excited the
ambition and fed the animosity of a time of _darkness_. The bitterness
of the contest was increased in the ninth century by the elevation of
Photius to the see of Constantinople.

This remarkable man was the solitary light of his age in the East. He
was a layman, who had passed through the highest offices of the State,
and a scholar who has left the monument of his scholarship to posterity
in his celebrated _Bibliotheca_. To place him in the bishopric, the
emperor deposed its former possessor, who appealed to Rome. The pope
ordered his restoration; the emperor repeated his refusal.

It would be as idle to trace, as it would be difficult to disentangle,
the perplexities of a quarrel which continued for centuries. But the
consummation was now at hand. The Pope (Leo IX.), and the Patriarch,
Cerularius, had excommunicated each other. A conference of pretended
conciliation was held in Constantinople with the papal legates. It ended
in new claims, met by new resistance: the legates, at last, went
solemnly to the church of Santa Sophia, publicly read the letters of
excommunication, placed the document of anathema on the high altar, and
then departed from Constantinople! Thus in 1054 was completed the
Schism, which had been commenced in arrogant ambition, and continued in
priestly rancour; which had scandalised Christendom, and libelled
Christianity; and which, in Asia, was punished by the conquests and
conversions of Mahommedanism, and in Europe by the increased power, the
darker superstition, and the sterner severities of Rome.

From this period we may state the doctrines and practices of the Greek
Church, as an independent community.

The doctrine of the Holy Trinity is established. But the Holy Spirit is
assumed to _proceed_ from the Father only; in this point differing from
the Popish and the Protestant Churches. This difference was the subject
of long controversy between the East and the West, but, with the usual
fate of ancient disputation, leaving both parties more confident in
their own opinions.

On the doctrine of Redemption, its language is that of Scripture; Christ
is acknowledged to be the Regenerator of our fallen nature.
Justification by Faith includes the works which prove the sincerity of
the faith, without which “faith is dead.”

Regeneration is regarded as _essential_, but this Church admits of no
_Indulgences_; on this point differing totally from the practices of
Rome.

The Church acknowledges no _purgatory_. But it holds an “intermediate
state of the departed;” the spirits of the wicked remaining in a place
of sorrow and comparative suffering, and those of the virtuous in a
place of rest and comparative happiness; and both thus remaining until
the Resurrection. But it admits “prayer for the dead;” not for the
redemption of the spirit from a place of _purification_ or partial
penalty, but from a consideration of the Divine mercy. In those
doctrines it makes some approach to Protestantism, though in praying for
the dead it obviously goes beyond the only authority to which we can
look for the condition of man after death—namely, Scripture.

In its ritual, the Church more nearly approaches Rome. It acknowledges
as Sacraments, Marriage, Confirmation, Extreme Unction, Ordination, and
Penance, in addition to Baptism and the Lord’s Supper.

Baptism is administered by trine immersion.

Infants are baptised on the eighth day.

Chrism, or anointing with holy oil, which is regarded as confirmation,
is administered soon after baptism.

The Lord’s Supper is administered under both forms, the bread and the
wine, to both priest and laity. But the Church holds transubstantiation,
or, in the words of the Confession, “when the priest consecrates the
elements, the very substance of the bread and wine is transformed into
the substance of the true body and blood of Christ.”

The ceremonial of the consecration is worth remarking, as it seems to
have been taken in some degree as the model for the modern innovations
in the English Ritual. The elements are first carried round the church
_on the head of the deacon_; then the priest prays that the Almighty may
convert them into the substance of the body and blood. He then prays to
the Holy Spirit for His gift. He then prays to Jesus Christ, as sitting
on the right hand of the Father, and yet invisibly present, to impart to
the receivers “His immaculate body and precious blood.” Still, there are
some distinctions in the Eastern and Western practice. The _same_ degree
of worship is not offered to the Host as in the Romish Church. It is not
carried in procession, nor is it offered to public adoration, nor is
there any festival in its honour. It is carried to the sick, but the
priests do not prostrate themselves before it. All this ceremonial the
Eastern Church pretends to justify on the ground of antiquity, where it
was not to be found in the purest and most primitive centuries. The
Protestant looks to the original solemnisation, and takes his practice
from Scripture. What common sense can believe that Jesus of Nazareth
gave His actual body to be eaten before His eyes, or that the Apostles,
while at supper, believed that they were eating flesh and drinking
blood, and this without a sign of repulsion and reluctance, or without
even a remonstrance or an inquiry? The words, “This do in _remembrance_
of me,” are a sufficient declaration that neither His flesh nor His
blood was to remain on _earth_; for remembrance implied departure. And
that the _remembrance_ was the express purpose, is distinctly declared
in the words, “As oft as ye eat this _bread_ and drink this _cup_, ye do
show the Lord’s death _till He come_;”—thus extinguishing at once
transubstantiation, and the more diluted doctrine of the “Real
presence.” St Paul (A.D. 59) describes the Sacrament as still the
_bread_ and the _cup_ (1st Corinthians, xi. 26), the popular dishonour
of which would involve dishonour to the body and blood of which they
were the _representatives_. And he further states, that when the “Real
presence” shall have come, the representation shall pass away; as in the
instance of the Jewish sacrifices, which represented the offering of
Christ, but when the _real offering_ was come, the representation
naturally passed away, the Temple was overthrown, and sacrifice was no
more. And this was the language of the great Apostle of the Gentiles
upwards of a quarter of a century _after_ the Crucifixion. If St Paul
believed in Transubstantiation, it is impossible to doubt that he would
have scrupulously avoided any mention of the “bread and the cup,”
particularly on an occasion when he was warning the dissolute and
disputatious Corinthians of the danger of _disrespect_ to the Sacrament.

The Greek Church holds the doctrine of Penance, Absolution by the
priest, and Auricular Confession, as a consequence of the doctrine of
Absolution, “the priest not knowing _what_ to absolve until he knows the
state of the penitent.” Absolution and Confession are held to be of the
highest importance, and of the most general application. They have been
termed “the axle on which the globe of ecclesiastical polity turns;” and
beyond question they have been the most extensive sources of power and
revenue to both the Greek faith and the Roman.


                              CEREMONIAL.

The Ritual of the Eastern Church is even more laborious than that of the
Roman, both churches in this point straying from the simplicity of
Scripture. The elaborate ritual of the Jewish dispensation was for a
Divine purpose—the separation of the people from Heathenism; but when
that purpose ceased with the cessation of the national privileges and
the coming of Christianity, ceremonial perished, as being unnecessary to
a religion whose laws were to be “written in the heart,” and as
inconsistent with the nature of a religion which was yet to be
_universal_. Christ came to redeem mankind, not only from the yoke of
sin, but the yoke of ceremonial. “Come unto me, all ye that labour and
are heavy laden,” was the language, not merely of help to human nature,
but of relief from the weight of ordinances. Christianity has _no
ceremonial_, and but two rites, Baptism and the Lord’s Supper. It has
_forms_, for forms are essential to _order_, but it prescribes no
_system_ of worship, no locality, and no _labour_ of devotion.

The Greek Church abounds in Fastings, and those of the severest order.
Besides the Lent of the Western Church, it has three seasons of public
abstinence within the year—one from St Whitsuntide to St Peter’s Day,
one from the 6th to the 15th of August, and one during the _forty days_
before Christmas. In the monasteries, to this number is superadded one
for the first fourteen days of September, in honour of the “Exaltation
of the Holy Cross;” and those unnatural and unnecessary abstinences are
practised, in general, with extreme severity, even to the rejection of
all fish. On the other hand, the festivals of their saints are literally
_feasts_; thus producing, in the one instance, hazard to health, and in
the other, hazard to morals. These feasts, however, and their attendant
levities, have the presumed character of religion; and the saint of the
day is especially invoked as an intercessor, equally in contradiction to
common sense and the Gospel,—the first telling us the folly of appealing
to beings of whom we cannot possibly know whether they can hear or
answer prayer, and the second, declaring that there is but one
intercessor between God and man, Jesus Christ.

Image-worship is held in abhorrence by the Eastern Church, yet it pays
the same species of adoration to pictures; on the idea, that while
images represent the inventions of man, pictures represent some real
existence; or that, in the words of St Paul, “An idol is nothing in the
world” (1st Corinthians, viii. 4), while a picture is the _adumbration_
of some true transaction,—as the existence of Christ, the Virgin Mary,
the saints, &c. But, for the purpose of preserving their devotion as
pure as possible, they make those pictures generally the most
unattractive possible. With the higher orders the picture may serve only
as a stimulant to devotion, but, with the peasantry, the adoration is
probably complete.

The Greek priests of the higher order generally exhibit a reluctance to
acknowledge the reality of this worship, this “pinakolatria,” if we must
coin a word for it. They acknowledge the popular homage, but excuse it
on the ground of respect for memorable names; as in common life we
preserve the pictures of memorable persons, and value those of our
departed friends. But the Eastern homage goes wholly beyond this
grateful observance. _We_ do not make genuflections to the pictures of
our great men, nor pray to those of our friends, nor send those pictures
to assist women in the sufferings of childbirth, nor place them on the
beds of the dying, nor believe them to work miracles.

In fact, this worship of resemblances, whether pictures or images, is
one of the most general, and yet most _improbable_, delusions in the
world. To imagine that the statue which we carve, or the picture which
we paint, the actual work of our hands, is gifted with powers above the
man who has made it; or can have a holiness which he has not, or
faculties of which he is unconscious, or a _spirit_ which he can
approach only with homage,—is an absurdity which tasks the utmost
credulity of man. Or if he be willing to try the effect of this
contempt, he may fling the statue from its pedestal, or take down the
picture from its shrine, with the most perfect impunity. And yet, what
millions have worshipped the statue and the picture, and worship them
still!

In the first ages of Christianity, worship was exclusively given to the
God of the Gospel; the objects of heathen adoration were an abhorrence,
and the ceremonial of the temples a theme of perpetual scorn. At length,
however, the influence of heathenism returned; Christian corruption
adopted its emblems, and the images of Christ and the Virgin were
surrounded by the sicklier devotees or more fanatical formalists of the
Church. Then came miracles. The perils of the Greek Empire required
supernatural protectors; and the Greek, unused to arms, and trembling at
Saracen invasion, gladly committed the hazardous trust of defending his
battlements to the saint in his hands. The city of Edessa was thus
_saved_! by the sight of a napkin, marked with the face of Jesus. These
cheap defences finally failed, and Mahomet was lord of the Empire; but
the passion for the picture still lived among the serfs of the Caliph;
and while Europe, looking on the remote danger with secure contempt,
multiplied her idols, Greece, under her Arab scourge, cherished her
pictures as the source of her consolation.

The chief treasure of her mythology, the Veron Eikon, or true
resemblance, was a picture of our Lord, supposed to bear His impression
from having wiped His face on Calvary. This He gave to a woman, who gave
it to the Emperor Tiberius, whom it cured of the gout! But as the napkin
was triple-folded, it carried _three_ impressions, which were
impartially divided among the faithful; one being sent to
Constantinople, another to Paris, and the third being already in the
hands of that rather hazardous guardian of relics, Tiberius. The Veron
Eikon has seen a great deal of service since, and its last exploit was
its attempt to rout the French column advancing to Rome in 1796, an
attempt in which it unhappily failed. Such is the history of the most
authentic, renowned, and sacred relic of the Greek and Popish world. The
historian[13] gives the hymn of Byzantium to the Veronica (for they
changed it into a female, and the female into a saint) in the sixth
century. “How can we with mortal eyes contemplate this image, whose
celestial splendour the host of heaven presumes not to behold? He who
dwells in heaven condescends this day to visit us by His venerable
image. He who is seated on the Cherubim visits us this day by a picture;
which the FATHER has delineated with His immaculate hand, which He has
formed in an ineffable manner, and which _we_ sanctify by adoring it
with faith and love.” Such is idolatry everywhere at this hour!

The “_sign_ of the Cross” is universal, and almost perpetual. The Cross
itself is frequently addressed in prayer, and in language applicable
only to the Divine Being. A quotation from Stourdza, a man of
intelligence and learning, in his defence of the Greek Church, will show
to what an extent this mysticism can be carried.

“The Cross is the representative of the structure of man. It seems to
have been formed expressly for man, and its punishment explicitly to
serve as the emblem of his misery and his grandeur. Standing erect,
looking down on all surrounding things, the arms extended as if to
embrace the immense space of which it appears the King; the feet fixed
in this valley of tears, the brow crowned with thorns, signs of the
cares which surround man even to the tomb. Behold the Man! _Ecce
homo_—behold the adorable attitude of the God-man upon the earth. The
more we contemplate, the more we must feel that it is only by the
punishment of the Cross that Jesus Christ could express in Himself all
the woes and all the transgressions of man, expiate them, ransom them,
and exhibit collectively the human race under one form alone.”

The use of tapers and torches in daylight services is defended, not on
the Popish principle of emblematising the Holy Spirit, but on the more
plausible ground of imitating the primitive ages, when the Christians
met only before daylight and in caverns. Both are equally presumptuous,
as unauthorised by Scripture; and both equally profane, as palpably
adopted from heathenism.

The services of the Greek Church are wearisomely long; they are in
_Hellenic_, and therefore almost wholly unintelligible to the people,
and they are intolerably laborious to the priest; the whole body of the
services occupying twenty folio volumes, with an additional volume of
directions!—a study to which the time of the priest is almost wholly
confined, not for its knowledge, but for its manipulation; the selection
of the services appropriate to the day, which change every day, and even
in the course of the day. The Liturgy, so called, is limited to a small
portion of those labours, namely, the Communion.

Ambition in a priesthood and ignorance in a people always produce
superstition; the priest eager to extend his authority, and the people
unable to detect the imposture. The natural results are, the Legend and
the pretended Miracle. These practices in the Greek Church take a
colouring from the picturesque region and the romantic fancy of the
people. Every island, and perhaps every hill and valley, has its sacred
spot, to which the population approach in long processions on any
remarkable public circumstance, whether of Nature or the Calendar. To
appease an epidemic, to still an earthquake, to make the skies
propitious after a drought, or to call down the peculiar aid of the
Virgin, who usurps, in the Greek mind, the whole power of
_intercession_, and thus effectively possesses the sceptre of
Omnipotence, summons the multitude in all their pageantry.

The services of the Church being performed in a tongue comparatively
obsolete, and being recited by the priest habitually in a tone of
mystery, which renders them scarcely audible, if they were understood,
leave the people in almost total ignorance of their meaning, and of
course indifferent to all but the forms of devotion. Like the priest of
Rome, the Greek priest is the presumed _mediator_, not the leader of the
popular devotion; his prayers are _for_, not _with_, the people. Thus
his performance of the service is supposed to answer its purpose,
whether audible or whispered. One portion of his duty, however,
addresses itself to the general ear,—the reading of the “Lives of the
Saints,” entitled “The Tablet of the United Worthies,” a record of 365
lives; all equal to gorge the most ravenous credulity. Greece, once the
land of invention, is now the land of imposture; the original talent of
the soil is now exhausted on dreary fiction. Still believing in magic,
charms, the influence of dreams, and the inspiration of the “genius
loci,” they are prepared to welcome every folly of fanaticism, and
submit to every artifice of superstition.


                              GOVERNMENT.

The four Patriarchs, of Constantinople, Jerusalem, Antioch, and
Alexandria, are the religious rulers of the Greek Church; the three
latter being, in a certain degree, subordinate to the Patriarch of
Constantinople, without whose consent nothing of general importance can
be effected. This Patriarch is elected by the votes of the neighbouring
bishops; but he must be presented to the Sultan for institution; and as
nothing is done in Turkey without a present, the fee on this occasion
amounts to 20,000 or 30,000 dollars, the Sultan still retaining the
power of deposition, banishment, or even of death. The Patriarch
possesses the considerable privilege of naming his brother patriarchs,
but the rescript of the Sultan is still necessary for their
confirmation, and even to that of every bishop who may be appointed by
the Patriarch. Thus the Greek Church exhibits none of the “supremacy” of
the Roman. It has since the reign of Constantine claimed no “temporal
sovereignty,” and it has thus in some measure been freed from the
intrigues, violences, and crimes, which form so large a part of the
history of priestly ambition.

Another important prevention of those evils was the marriage of the
parochial priesthood. In the earlier periods of this Church, marriage
was _commanded_ to the priest, and was considered so necessary to his
office that on the death of his wife he must give up his parish. Even
now, notwithstanding the example of Rome, the _secular_ clergy are
permitted to marry, though only once. The _regular_ clergy (monks) are
not permitted to marry, on the absurd principle that their lives are an
offering for the popular sins, and that celibacy belongs to holiness.
The marriage of the priesthood had the natural effect of rendering them
loyal, by the connection of their children with the country, of
preventing the irregularities to which constrained celibacy inevitably
gives rise, and of preventing that ambition for the influence of their
class which naturally exhibits itself in great bodies who have no tie
but to the head of their order. _Constrained_ celibacy is, in fact, a
conspiracy against human nature, which always transpires in a conspiracy
against human Allegiance.

Monasticism forms a prominent feature of the system. The Greek convents
are numerous, powerful, and in some instances opulent. Their inhabitants
are divided into Caloyers (monks) and lay brethren. The lives of the
former are comparatively indolent; of the latter, comparatively
laborious. But the Caloyer has his peculiar round of irksome
occupations. Matins begin at four in the morning, and last until dawn.
The performance of the Liturgy is followed by reciting the life of some
saint, and that is followed again by nine hymns, six of which are to the
Virgin, and three to the saint of the day. In Lent, his task is
wearisome: he must go through the whole Psalter every day, and perform
the Metania, which consists in kissing the ground _three hundred_ times
in the twenty-four hours. To this employment four hours of the night, of
which two are immediately after midnight, are devoted. How any human
understanding can conceive that this drudgery is connected with virtue,
is productive of good to man, or is acceptable to his Creator, must be
left to the reveries of the monk, and the recorded absurdities of human
nature.

The lay brothers are the farmers, the shepherds, the tillers, and the
traders of the convent. They are industrious, and so far they remove the
stigma from the general uselessness of conventual life. Some of those
communities are largely endowed. The monks of the well-known brotherhood
of Mount Athos have twenty convents, and possess extensive lands. Their
Turkish taxation is generally moderate, and indolence never had an
easier form than in the shape of the Caloyer.

The state of the Russian Church would lead us too far into inquiry; but
it has a history of its own, some remarkable peculiarities, and some
prospects well worthy of examination. Those who feel an interest in the
subject may be referred to Stourdza, _Considerations sur la Doctrine_,
to King _On the Russian Church_, and to the brief but exact _Treatise on
the Greek Church_ by the present learned Dean of Durham. The subject may
well interest us, when it involves the religious welfare of the millions
inhabiting the Eastern provinces of Europe, the Danubian provinces, the
length of Asia Minor, a portion of Syria, Assyria, and Africa, and the
sixty millions of Russia—an immense extent of human existence, which a
few years may open to a purer faith, and which is already qualifying, by
the effects of knowledge, suffering, and war, for the GOSPEL.




                     NICARAGUA AND THE FILIBUSTERS.


It is a fixed idea with the American people, that in due course of time
they are to have the control of all the North American continent, and of
the Island of Cuba; they consider this their “manifest destiny,” and any
movement in that direction is looked on by them as a matter of course,
and deserving of encouragement.

The popular name for the agency by which such a state of things is to be
brought about is “filibusterism.” The word “filibuster” is a French and
Spanish corruption of the English word freebooter, an appellation which,
in former days, from its being frequently assumed by a certain class of
men, who disliked the harsher name of pirate, became familiar to the
inhabitants of the West India Islands and Central America; but as
filibusterism is now used, it expresses the action of the American
people, or a portion of the people, in the acquisition of territory
which does not belong to them, unrestrained by the responsibilities of
the American Government.

The sovereign people of the United States, and the United States
Government, are two distinct bodies, influenced by different motives.
The Government is obliged to maintain the appearance of keeping faith
with other friendly powers, but at the same time is so anxious to gain
popularity at home, that it does not take really effectual measures to
check any popular movement, however illegal it may be, if favoured by
the majority of the people.

The manner in which the State of Nicaragua has been reduced, or, it
should rather be said, raised to her present position, by being occupied
and governed by a large body of Americans, affords an instance of the
truth of this statement.

For the last two years the American and English Governments have been
exchanging diplomatic letters, arguing at great length on the abstract
meaning of certain words of a treaty, by which either power was equally
bound not to occupy, fortify, colonise, or take possession of, any part
of Central America. In the mean time a party of American citizens, under
command of a certain Colonel Walker, have virtually taken possession of,
and do now govern the State of Nicaragua, one of the States specially
mentioned in the treaty. When they first landed in Nicaragua, not ten
months ago, they numbered only fifty-six men; but in as far as they had
the good-will of the majority of the American people, they represented
the nation as truly as General Pierce and his Cabinet. Colonel Walker
was merely the practical exponent of a popular theory, and his success
has been so rapid and decisive, and such is the position he now holds in
Nicaragua, strengthened by daily accessions to his force from California
and from the United States, that the Americanisation of Nicaragua may be
almost considered an established fact.

Should the Americans in that country be able to maintain their position,
of which, at present, there seems to be every probability, the
successful filibustering of Nicaragua will be but the beginning; the end
will be the occupation, by Americans, of all the Central American
States, and, in due course of time, of Mexico and Cuba.

In order to show why the filibustering energies of the Americans have
been specially directed to Nicaragua, and how it is that so small a
party of them have so quickly got control of that State, and also to
appreciate fully the position which their leaders occupy as members of
the newly-formed government, it is necessary to give some information on
the political condition of the country, and on recent events there,
which the writer, while a resident in the country during the greater
part of the revolution, had good opportunity of acquiring.


On the discovery of gold in California in 1848, when there was such a
rush of gold-hunters to that land of promise both from the Old and the
New World, the route generally followed was that by Panama, as the most
expeditious—lines of steamers being established by American companies
from New York and New Orleans to Chagres, and from Panama to San
Francisco.

The supply of steamers, however, was never sufficient for the
accommodation of the crowds of eager emigrants; the profits of the
steamship companies were enormous, and American enterprise was not long
in discovering and opening a new, and in many respects superior, route
to the golden regions of the Pacific.

The new route lay through the State of Nicaragua, one of the five States
into which the Central American Confederation was dissolved in the year
1831.

It was to the advantages offered by its geographical position that
Nicaragua owed its distinction. The Lake of Nicaragua, a splendid sheet
of water ninety miles long by about fifty broad, lies within the State.
Its most western extremity is only twelve miles from the Pacific, and at
its eastern extremity about one hundred and fifty miles from the
Atlantic: it empties itself into that ocean through the river San Juan,
which is navigable all the distance for small vessels, and forms at its
mouth the harbour of Greytown or San Juan del Norte. An inter-oceanic
canal was first talked of, but it was found that it would take all the
gold in California to construct it; so that idea was for the time
abandoned, and a New York company, styled the Accessory Transit Company
of Nicaragua, got a charter from the State, granting them for
considerations the exclusive privilege of steam-navigation of the river
San Juan, and of the Lake Nicaragua, for a period of ninety-nine years.

Steamboats of various capacities, to suit the navigation of the river
and of the lake, were sent out—a road over the twelve miles of land,
between the lake and the harbour of San Juan del Sur on the Pacific, was
commenced—steamships were put on between that port and San Francisco,
and between New York and Greytown, and a large share of the Californian
emigration began to stream through the country.

The difficulties of the route were at first considerable, owing to the
number of rapids in the River San Juan requiring boats of peculiar
construction for their navigation, and from the fact of the country
through which lies the road to the Pacific being a mountainous
wilderness, the greater part covered by a dense tropical forest.

In the rainy season, which lasts for about five months, the road was so
bad that a mule would sink to his belly at every step; the twelve miles
were not unfrequently a two days’ journey, and many a poor mule, after
vainly struggling to extricate himself, succumbed to his fate, and was
absorbed in the mud, leaving his rider to fight his own way through,
which he generally did without much trouble. Such little difficulties
were not thought much of by Californian emigrants in those days.

The Company, however, soon completed the road, and so far perfected
their arrangements that the passage from ocean to ocean is performed in
two days.

The travel to and fro between California and the Atlantic States is not
confined to any particular class of the community. Capitalists,
merchants, professional men, mechanics, labourers,—in fact, people of
all classes, are constantly going and coming. For the last five years an
average of two thousand Americans per month have passed to and fro by
this route, and, during the few days occupied in transit, have had ample
time to admire and covet the splendid country through which they passed,
to look with utter contempt on the natives, and to speculate on what a
country it would be if it were only under the Stars and Stripes.

The country, its climate, its advantages, resources, and social and
political condition, have thus been gradually made familiar to a
constantly increasing proportion of the people of the United States and
of California.

It is in natural consequence of all this, and of the apparent
hopelessness of immediate success in Cuba, that the attention of the
filibustering portion of the American community has been gradually
directed to the State of Nicaragua, and the late civil war in that
country offered too favourable an opportunity to be lost for making a
beginning in furtherance of the cherished idea.

The constitution of Nicaragua, like that of all the Spanish-American
States, is republican—that is to say, in name; in effect it approaches
more nearly to a despotism, a mode of government much better adapted to
a people the majority of whom are quite incompetent to form any idea on
the subject of self-government.

Since the dissolution of the Central American Confederation the country
has been in a constant state of revolution. Two years is about the
longest period of peace which has intervened. The people are wantonly
destructive and cruel in their civil warfare; and having been so
actively employed for nearly twenty years in cutting each other’s
throats, battering down each other’s cities, spending their money in
gunpowder, and ruining all producing interests by taking the labourers
from the field to serve as soldiers, they had managed to reduce
themselves and their country to such a wretched state of misery, that it
really appeared to be the duty of some civilised nation to step in and
keep them all in order.

In passing through the country, one cannot but be struck with the ruin
and desolation everywhere apparent, and with the remains of bygone
wealth and grandeur, but little in accordance with the poverty and
listless indolence in which the inhabitants are now contented to live.

Their cities are half in ruins, and the churches, which, in their mode
of warfare, they use as fortresses, have come in for their full share of
destruction. Those which remain are peppered all over with cannon balls.
The ruins on the old indigo and cotton estates give one an idea of the
different way in which the people once employed themselves; but now, in
a country capable of producing in the greatest abundance indigo, cotton,
sugar, rice, coffee, tobacco, and nearly every other tropical
production, little else is to be seen but plantains and Indian corn, the
two great staple articles of food. The tobacco grown in the country is
good; the people, men, women, and children, are inveterate smokers, but
they do not even raise sufficient tobacco for their own consumption. The
“cacao,” or chocolate, raised in the neighbourhood of the town of Rivas,
is the finest in the world: it is a national beverage, and the greater
part of the crop is consumed in the country; a small quantity is
exported to the neighbouring States; but with the exception of a few
bullock hides and deerskins, which are sent to New York, the country
cannot be said to have any exports.

The climate generally is by no means unhealthy. It varies very much
throughout the State, being in some parts much tempered by a constant
breeze off the lake, while in the high lands of Segovia and Matagalpa,
the temperature is so moderate that most of the grains and fruits of the
north can be raised in great perfection.

The rainy season commences about the end of July, and continues till
November or December. During this season it rains in torrents for days
at a time, and the roads become almost impassable. The most sickly
periods of the year are the beginning and the end of this season; fever
and ague are then very prevalent, but the natives suffer more than
foreigners, chiefly owing to the wretched way in which they live, the
habitations of the lower orders affording generally but poor protection
against the weather.

In the mountains of the district of Matagalpa, which form part of the
great range which traverses all the North American continent, are mines
of gold and silver. They have hitherto only been worked by the Indians
in a very rude manner, but sufficient has been done to prove that they
are rich: if scientifically worked, they will no doubt prove very
productive.

The forests abound in rosewood, mahogany, and other beautiful woods, and
throughout the State many valuable medicinal gums and plants are found.

The scenery is varied and very beautiful; at certain seasons the trees
are completely covered with flowers, and the forests are a confused mass
of luxuriant vegetation.

There are several volcanic mountains in the country, all of great
similarity of appearance: the finest is Ometepe, which rises out of the
lake, in the shape of a perfect cone, to the height of many thousand
feet.

The people are very deficient in ambition and energy, and have a very
decided objection to labour. As long as a man has sufficient to supply
his immediate wants, he cannot be induced to work, but will devote
himself to the passive enjoyment of swinging in his hammock, and smoking
a cigar. In this way they pass the greater part of their time, as very
little labour is requisite to provide plantains, beans, and Indian corn,
which are the principal articles of food.

Gambling is a prevailing vice, cards and dice being chiefly played.
Cockfighting, however, is the great national sport, and at this the most
money is staked. The fight is never of very long duration, being
generally nothing more than a flutter of wings for a moment, when one
cock crows over the other lying dead at his feet, nearly cut in two by
the long sharp knives with which their heels are armed.

They have celebrated breeds of chickens, on which they pride themselves,
and in almost every house in the country may be seen one or more
gamecocks tied by the leg in a corner. The owner is always ready to
fight a cock on any occasion, but Sunday afternoon is the time generally
devoted to this amusement, which is patronised by all classes.

The people possess a great deal of natural grace, and are extremely
polite and formal in their manners; even the lower orders are remarkable
for their gracefulness of gesture, and for their courteous phraseology.

The principal cities of Nicaragua are Granada, on the northern shore of
the lake, and Leon, about a hundred and fifty miles to the north, and
not far from the Pacific coast. They are both fine cities, built in the
usual Spanish-American style, with narrow streets, and large houses of a
single storey, covering an immense area, and built in the form of a
square, the centre being an open space, generally planted with trees and
flowers, and all round which is a wide open corridor. The houses are
very spacious and lofty, and admirably adapted to the climate.

The population of Granada is about 15,000, that of Leon is rather more.
Between the inhabitants of these two cities there has always existed a
bitter feeling of jealousy and enmity, and in most of their revolutions
the opposing factions have been the Granadinos against the Leoneses. So
it was in the revolution which is only now terminated, and which
commenced in May 1854.

The government at that time was in the hands of the Granada party. The
president, the late Don Fruto Chamorro, was a man of great energy and
determination, but unfortunately also of most stubborn obstinacy. He
would listen to advice from no one, but blindly insisted on carrying out
his own ideas. After being a little more than a year in power, and
becoming more despotic every day, he issued a decree, declaring himself
president for four years more than the usual term.

The Leon party of course immediately got up a revolution, of which the
leaders were a few prominent men, whom Chamorro had a few months before
banished from the State, on suspicion of their being engaged in a
conspiracy against the government. At the head of them was Francisco
Castillon, a man of superior education, and with much more liberal and
enlightened views than most of his countrymen, having spent some years
in England as minister for Nicaragua. The object of the revolution was
to place Castillon in power, and the party professed to entertain
liberal ideas, and styled themselves the Democratic Party. They
commenced their operations at Realejo, a small port on the Pacific, at
the northern extremity of the State, where, with a small force, they
surprised the few soldiers of the garrison. They proceeded to
Chinandega, a considerable town about six miles on the way to Leon. Here
they met but slight resistance, the majority of the people being
favourable to them; and with a large addition to their force, they
marched towards Leon, distant about thirty miles, where they established
their head-quarters, after fighting one battle in the neighbourhood with
the government forces under Chamorro in person, who was defeated, and
retired to Granada. In Leon they remained some time recruiting their
forces, before venturing to attack Granada, which is the great
stronghold of the government party.

The system adopted of recruiting is very simple indeed. A few soldiers
with fixed bayonets are sent out to bring in fresh men, or, to use their
own expressive term, to “catch” men. When the unfortunate recruit is
“caught,” a musket is put in his hands, and he becomes a soldier.
Soldiering is by no means a popular occupation: during a revolution, at
the approach of forces of either party, the peace-loving natives, in
order to escape being “caught,” and forced into the service, will remain
hidden in the woods till they are nearly starved. The lower orders take
but little interest in the revolutions, or in politics, and from troops
raised in this way, of course very valorous deeds are not to be
expected. They generally desert on the first opportunity; but, if they
do not take their muskets with them, it is of little consequence, as
other men are soon caught, and made to carry them. Sometimes, however,
men become scarce, the able-bodied having emigrated to some more
peaceful locality; in such a case one-half of a garrison is placed to
keep guard over the other half, to prevent their running away.

There is consequently no mutual feeling of confidence between officers
and men. During impending danger of an attack, the officers will keep
their horses saddled all night, and sleep with their spurs on, ready to
cut and run at a moment’s notice, and leave their men to take care of
themselves. The men, in their turn, when led into battle, will turn
round and desert their officers at the most critical moment. There are
exceptions, of course; and during the late revolution, many, both
officers and men, fought well and bravely; none more so than the late
President Chamorro.

While the Democrats were recruiting in Leon, Chamorro was busy
collecting his forces in Granada, and preparing to stand a siege.

In all these Spanish towns is a large public square called the Plaza, in
which are generally the principal church, the barracks, and other public
buildings. The Plaza, in case of war, becomes the citadel, the streets
leading into it being all barricaded, and cannon planted so as to
command the approaches. Chamorro enclosed within his barricades the
Plaza, and a considerable portion of the city immediately surrounding
it. The streets being narrow, barricades were soon made of logs of wood
and “adobes,” a sort of sun-dried bricks, of which the houses are built.

Double and triple barricades of this sort, eight or ten feet high,
presented a very effectual resistance to anything which the enemy had to
bring against them. The Democrats soon made their appearance, and taking
possession of all that part of the city not enclosed in the barricades,
they fixed their head-quarters in an elevated situation, from which they
could pop their cannon balls into any part of the Plaza.

Neither party were well provided with artillery. They had each three or
four guns, twelve and twenty-four pounders, with which they blazed away
at each other for nearly a year, and between them managed to lay about
three-fourths of the city in ruins.

The city was never completely invested, and occasional skrimmages
between small parties of the opposing forces took place outside the
town, but nothing worthy the name of an assault was ever attempted. The
Democrats soon became masters of the entire country, with the exception
of the besieged portion of the city of Granada occupied by Chamorro and
his party, the Legitimists, as they called themselves.

When a small detachment of the Democratic army marched upon Rivas, the
only town of importance in the part of the country through which the
Transit road passes, the inhabitants, being mostly in favour of the
Chamorro government, fled _en masse_, taking with them all their
valuables and movable property, to the neighbouring state of Costa Rica,
the frontier of which is within twenty miles.

The few who had the courage to remain were not molested, but the
Democrats appropriated to their own use as barracks, &c., whatever
private houses suited their convenience, and commenced levying
contributions on the inhabitants; but as they had fled, and were not
present to respond to the call, their property was advertised for sale,
their stores broken open, their goods sold, and sundry other forcible
measures taken to raise funds.

The mode of financing in time of revolution is equally simple with that
of recruiting.

When a contribution, as they call it, is levied on a town, the principal
inhabitants are assessed arbitrarily by the officers in command for as
much as each is supposed to be able to pay. The unfortunate victims have
then to fork out the dollars; there is no help for them. If they refuse,
or plead poverty, they are perhaps imprisoned and kept on low diet: a
few days of this treatment has a wonderful effect on the memory, and
frequently enables a man to remember where he has buried his cash, or to
discover some means of raising the needful, to be handed over for the
support of the party, to which probably he may be opposed. When his own
party come in to power again, they will make him disgorge to double the
amount by way of punishment. For these forced loans he may get some sort
of debenture, worth about as much as the paper it is written on. In such
times the people are afraid to let it be supposed that they have any
money at all; they feign poverty, burying their money secretly, and the
houses of foreign residents are lumbered up with all sorts of chests and
boxes, sent there stealthily by the unfortunate natives, in order to
keep them safe from the rapacity of their countrymen.

The Democrats from the first were eager to obtain the good-will of the
American residents; and as they professed to be fighting in the cause of
liberty and progress, against tyranny and old-fogeyism, they succeeded
in enlisting a dozen or so of Americans in San Juan del Sur and Virgin
Bay. The latter place is a small village on the lake, where the
passengers by the Transit route embark on the steamers. They paid these
men about a hundred dollars per month, gave them commissions as colonels
and captains, and sent them to Granada to pepper the Chamorro party with
their rifles.

With the aid of some Americans, they also took possession of San Carlos,
which is an old fort situated at the point where the lake debouches into
the river San Juan. It is a position of great importance, as it commands
the entrance into the lake, by which is the only communication between
the interior of the country and the Atlantic. They also occupied an old
Spanish fort about fifty miles down the river, called Castillo, where
there are a few hotels kept by Americans for the accommodation of
passengers by the Transit route.

In Leon, the head-quarters of the Democrats, they proclaimed their
government, declaring Castillon president. They appointed all the
necessary government functionaries throughout the State, and in fact
were the virtual government of the country.

The Legitimists remained in a state of siege in Granada, and would have
had to surrender for want of ammunition, had they not succeeded in
retaking San Carlos from the Democrats, and thereby opening their
communication with the Atlantic; they then procured a large supply of
powder and shot from Jamaica.

During the siege the besieging army of Democrats numbered about fifteen
hundred, while the Legitimists did not number more than a thousand.

The Democrats were assisted by the state of Honduras to the extent of
two hundred men; and the Legitimists were long in negotiation with the
government of Guatemala, which was favourable to their cause, but they
did not succeed in getting any material aid from that State.

After ten months’ vain endeavour to take the Plaza of Granada, the
Democrats, last February, broke up their camp, and retired to Leon. At a
town called Masaya, about half-way from Granada, they were overtaken and
attacked by the opposite party. A bloody fight ensued—the thickest of it
took place in the church, in which some three hundred men were killed.

The Granada party now regained possession of the southern part of the
State, while the Democrats continued to hold Leon and all the northern
portion.

During the time that the Transit route had been held by the Democrats,
they had been most active in their endeavours to enlist Americans in
their cause. Cash was scarce, but their offers of lands to those who
would join them were very liberal; and it soon became known, both in
Nicaragua and in California, that a negotiation had been concluded
between Colonel Walker in San Francisco, through his agent in Nicaragua,
and the Democratic government, whereby large tracts of land were granted
to him, and other privileges guaranteed to him, on condition of his
coming down with a certain number of men to serve in the Democratic
army.

This Colonel Walker had already distinguished himself as the most daring
filibuster of the day. In the month of October 1853, he was the leader
of an expedition which sailed from San Francisco, with the intention of
taking possession of Sonora, a northern state of Mexico, adjoining
California. He landed at a small place on the coast, with some fifty or
sixty men, where he met but little resistance. He proclaimed himself
president, and appointed each one of his party to some high office of
state. He very soon, however, had to evacuate the premises, and escaped
to California, with but a small portion of his original band; and on his
arrival in San Francisco, was tried for a violation of the neutrality
laws: he conducted his own defence, and of course was acquitted. The
people of California are not disposed to judge very harshly of such an
enterprise, and from the larger portion of the community he met with
more sympathy than condemnation.

It was so publicly known in San Francisco that Walker was fitting out
his Nicaraguan expedition, that the authorities were of course compelled
to interfere. Their endeavours to stop the sailing of his brig, however,
were not very effectual, as Walker, having embarked all his small party
of fifty-six men, managed to get under weigh during the night.

In the month of May they arrived in the port of Realejo, and marched to
Leon to join the head-quarters of the Democratic army.

The Legitimists were now in a perpetual state of consternation: during
the siege of Granada they had learned to appreciate the efficacy of an
American rifle in American hands; and in their frightened imaginations,
Walker’s modest force of fifty-six men was augmented to 500. They made
active preparations, however, to give him a warm reception:
proclamations were issued with the object of rousing the patriotism of
the people, calling on all to be ready to take up arms to save the
independence of the country, and ordering all the inhabitants, on the
approach of Walker, to retire to the nearest garrison. However,
excepting among the political leaders of the party, and those
compromised with them in the revolution, the prospect of Americans
gaining the ascendancy in the country seemed to be regarded with
indifference. Indeed, many of the upper classes, tired of their constant
revolutions, and the ruin and misery attendant upon them, longed
secretly for the presence of any foreign influence which should
guarantee peace in the country.

The first active service in which Walker and his men were engaged was in
an expedition which was formed by the Democrats to recapture the town of
Rivas. About the end of June, the expeditionary force, consisting of
Walker’s party, and two hundred native troops under the immediate
command of their own officers, embarked at Realejo in two or three small
vessels, and landing in the neighbourhood of San Juan del Sur, marched
across the country upon the town of Rivas, distant about twenty-five
miles.

The people of Rivas, when the Legitimists retook the town in February,
had returned from their voluntary exile in Costa Rica; and feeling, no
doubt, ashamed of the inglorious way in which, a year before, they
abandoned their town to the Democrats without ever firing a shot, they
roused themselves now to make a stout resistance, their spies having
given them ample warning of the enemy’s approach.

When the Democrats arrived, and the fight began, Walker was most
shamefully deserted by the whole of the native troops, and he found
himself, with his fifty-six Americans, opposed to a force of about four
hundred.

His party, however, had taken up their position in a house, from which
their rifles dealt sudden death most profusely—all the natives killed
were hit in the head; but at last they expended their ammunition, and
the Legitimists setting fire to the house, they were obliged to cut
their way through them, and retired to San Juan del Sur, which place
they reached unmolested, the natives not caring to follow them.

The loss on Walker’s side, in this affair, was six men killed; while the
Legitimists lost about seventy.

At San Juan del Sur they found a small schooner to take them back to
Realejo; and before sailing, Walker performed an act of summary justice,
which raised him highly in the opinion of many people in the country. He
and his men had all embarked quietly in the evening on board the
schooner, which was lying in the harbour, and were waiting till morning
for a breeze, when, about midnight, two Americans, who did not belong to
Walker’s party, and were well known to be bad and desperate characters,
set fire to a large wooden building which was used as a barrack: their
object was to burn the town, and take the opportunity of the confusion
to rob and plunder the inhabitants, expecting, no doubt, that Walker’s
party would join them.

They made a great mistake, however; for, on going on board Walker’s
vessel, and boasting of what they had done, he immediately arrested
them, and as there were no authorities ashore to whom he could hand them
over, he had them tried by a court-martial at once, by which they were
sentenced to be shot. One was shot while endeavouring to make his escape
in a boat; the other was taken ashore to be shot, where, in the darkness
of the night, he managed to escape from his guards.

About a month before this time General Chamorro died of an illness,
under which he had been for some months gradually sinking. He was
succeeded as General-in-chief of the Legitimist party by General Corral,
who had already been actually in command for some time.

Walker did not attempt another descent on that part of the country till
the month of August, when he landed at San Juan del Sur with about
seventy-five Americans and two hundred native troops. There he met with
no opposition, the forces of the Legitimists being all concentrated in
the town of Rivas. He shortly marched to the village of Virgin Bay on
the Lake: while there he was attacked by a vastly superior force of
Legitimists under General Guardiola. The fight lasted several hours, but
Walker succeeded in driving them back to Rivas with considerable loss.
The casualties on his side were, two Americans wounded and half-a-dozen
natives killed. After this he again returned to San Juan del Sur, where
he remained quietly receiving reinforcements from California, and
enlisting from the passengers passing through the country.

Virgin Bay and San Juan del Sur are two small villages, called into
existence by the establishment of the Transit route. They form the
termini of the land travel, and are composed principally of American
hotels for the accommodation of passengers; the requirements of the
Transit route also furnish employment to a small number of Americans at
these two points.

About the middle of October, Walker—now holding a regular commission as
Commander-in-chief of the Democratic army, and having gradually
augmented the number of Americans under his command to two hundred, and
having a force of two hundred and fifty native troops—proceeded to
Virgin Bay, and, taking possession of one of the Transit Company’s
steamers, he embarked his whole force. After a few hours’ passage he
landed his troops about two miles from Granada, and marched directly on
that stronghold of the Legitimists. General Corral, the
Commander-in-chief, was in Rivas with the greater part of his forces,
expecting that Walker would make that the first point of attack. The
garrison in Granada were completely taken by surprise, and, after firing
but a few shots, Walker had full possession of the city. The inhabitants
were at first greatly alarmed, expecting that the Democrats would commit
all sorts of excesses; but Walker quickly issued a proclamation,
promising protection to person and property. As the people found that he
maintained such strict discipline among his troops as to be able to keep
his word, tranquillity was soon restored; and no doubt favourable
comparisons were drawn between the order and quiet which prevailed on
the taking of their city by the Democrats under Walker, and the scenes
of plunder and excess which had ensued on such occasions in their former
revolutions.

During the months of July and August, the country had been visited by
cholera in its most deadly form. Many small villages, Virgin Bay and San
Juan del Sur among the number, were almost depopulated. In the town of
Masaya, with a population of about ten thousand, nearly one-third of the
number perished. Castillon, the Democratic president in Leon, fell a
victim to the disease; and Walker, being General-in-chief, was now at
the head of the party. He was offered the Presidency, which he
judiciously declined, retaining his more effective office of
General-in-chief.

The Commander-in-chief of the Legitimist party, General Corral, being at
Rivas with his forces, it was proposed to offer him terms, as it must
have been evident to him that his cause was now hopeless. Colonel
Wheeler, the United States Minister resident in Nicaragua, was induced,
at the urgent solicitation of the people of Granada, to undertake the
duty of negotiating terms, assisted by Don Juan Ruiz, a man of great
influence in the Rivas department.

On their arrival in Rivas, in pursuit of their pacific object, Colonel
Wheeler very soon found himself a prisoner in the hands of the
Legitimists. Some days afterwards, his non-appearance causing alarm to
his friends of the other party, a schooner was despatched to make a
demonstration before Rivas, which is situated about a mile from the
shore of the Lake. After a few guns had been fired, the Legitimists took
the hint, and set Colonel Wheeler at liberty.

A negotiation was afterwards entered into, which resulted in a treaty of
peace being agreed upon, and signed by Walker and Corral, as the
representatives of their respective parties.

By this treaty, which was concluded towards the end of October, it was
agreed that the two governments which had existed in the country since
the commencement of the revolution, should cease. Don Patricio Rivas was
declared provisional President for fourteen months, and General Walker
was acknowledged General-in-chief of the army, who, with four ministers
to be appointed by the President, were to form the government.

According to the stipulations of the treaty, General Corral, a day or
two afterwards, entered the city of Granada with his troops, and was
received by Walker. The two generals then went through an imposing
ceremony of solemnly ratifying the treaty in church. A Te Deum was sung,
the Legitimist troops were joined to the Democrats, and became one army
under command of Walker, and the following government was proclaimed:—

           DON PATRICIO RIVAS, _President_.
           GENERAL WM. WALKER, _Commander-in-Chief_.
           GENERAL MAXIMO XERES, _Minister of State_.
           GENERAL PONCIANO CORRAL, _Minister of War_.
           COL. PARKER H. FRENCH, _Minister of the Hacienda_.
           DON FERMIN FERRER, _Minister of Public Credit_.

Although the Democrats had gained the day, the new government was
composed of men of both parties.

Rivas the President is a gentleman much esteemed and respected; he is
the head of an influential family, who have always been opposed to the
Democratic party. For some years he has been collector of customs at San
Carlos.

General Walker, commander-in-chief, filled the same office in the
Democratic government.

General Maximo Xeres, minister of state, was Walker’s predecessor in
command of the Democratic army, he and Corral, the new minister of war,
having been the generals of the two hostile armies during the greater
part of the revolution.

Colonel Parker H. French, minister of the Hacienda, is an American who
distinguished himself some years ago in the intestine wars in Mexico,
and has latterly been conducting a newspaper in California.

Don Fermin Ferrer, minister of public credit, is a wealthy citizen of
Granada, who took no active part in the late revolution.

A very few days after General Corral had so solemnly ratified the
treaty, letters were intercepted, written by him to some other leaders
of the old Legitimist party, from which it was evident that he was
conspiring with them to upset the government, of which he had just
become a member. He was immediately tried by court-martial for treason;
and being found guilty, he was sentenced to be shot next day. With his
party he was immensely popular, and during the revolution had displayed
great ability as a military leader; but the evidences of his treachery
admitted of no doubt, and he was shot according to his sentence, in the
Plaza of Granada, in presence of the whole army. His summary execution
will no doubt have a beneficial influence on the people, by inculcating
on them the necessity of acting with sincerity, in whatever obligations
they come under.

The new government was now formally acknowledged by Colonel Wheeler, the
American minister, the only foreign minister resident in the State. The
president was also visited by the captain of the United States sloop of
war Massachusetts, then lying in the harbour of San Juan del Sur.

The natural consequences of a restoration of peace, after a year and a
half of revolution, were soon manifested in the return of many of the
inhabitants, who had absented themselves, to avoid the horrors of civil
war, and in the impulse given to all peaceful pursuits.

The power of the press is such an acknowledged fact in the United
States, and the establishment of a newspaper follows so closely on the
advance of civilisation, that wherever half-a-dozen Americans are
settled together in the backwoods, one of them is sure to publish a
newspaper for the edification of the rest.

So in Granada one of the first things the Americans did was to bring out
a weekly paper, called “_El Nicaraguense_”—“the Nicaraguan,” half
English, half Spanish. It is a very respectable sheet, with a good deal
of its space devoted to the enlightenment of the public regarding the
natural advantages of the country, its fertility, its delightful climate
and great mineral wealth. The only thing in the shape of a newspaper
hitherto known in Nicaragua, had been a mere Government Gazette,
published once a-month or so.

The State of Costa Rica, adjoining Nicaragua on the south, is the most
flourishing of all the Central American States. It has been for many
years free from revolution, and the people are comparatively thrifty and
industrious. The finances of the State are in a good condition, and in
military matters it is far in advance of Nicaragua, having a
well-organised militia of 4000 or 5000 men. A certain proportion of the
troops are armed with the Minié rifle, and they are well provided with
artillery. There are great numbers of Germans in the country, many of
them in the employment of Government, and it is to them that the people
are indebted for the effective state of their army. The principal
production of the country is coffee, of which the export is large, the
greater part being sent to England. The Government were in great
consternation at the success of the Walker party in Nicaragua, thinking,
no doubt, that their turn would soon come. They made active preparations
to resist invasion, but it is not likely that they will attempt to act
on the offensive.

Honduras, which adjoins Nicaragua on the north, was favourable to the
Democratic party, and has acknowledged the Americo-Nicaraguan
Government. The president of that State lately visited Walker in
Granada; and as Honduras is threatened with a renewal of hostilities by
Guatemala, Walker is about to assist the former State with a portion of
his American forces. The fact of Walker taking half of his force from
Nicaragua to the assistance of a neighbouring State, is a convincing
proof of his confidence in the security of the position which he has
attained. In Honduras, of course, the same game will be played as in
Nicaragua. In fighting for the people, the Americans will gain the
ascendancy over them, and will keep it.

Guatemala, which lies to the north of Honduras, is the largest and most
important of the Central American States, and is also the most hostile
to American influence.

But whatever be the feelings of the other States towards Americans, it
is not to be supposed that, having gained the foothold they have in
Central America, they can be restrained by the weak and indolent people
by which they are surrounded from extending their dominion. In whatever
way they may come into contact, whether in war, diplomacy, or peaceful
competition in mercantile and industrial pursuits, the superior
boldness, energy, and perseverance of the Anglo-Saxon character is sure
to assert its supremacy.

The spirit of filibusterism is not confined to any particular class of
the American community. Among the small party with which Walker
originally sailed from San Francisco were several lawyers and doctors,
and others holding a respectable position. General Walker himself is of
a respectable family in Alabama. He is about forty years of age, and is
a man of superior education, the greater part of which he received in
Europe. He originally studied medicine, but afterwards became a member
of the legal profession. For some years he conducted a newspaper in New
Orleans; but when the California excitement broke out, he went to that
country, and for some time edited a journal in San Francisco, and has
latterly been practising his profession in Marysville, a city of some
importance in the northern part of California.

In personal appearance he is not at all what one would suppose such a
daring and successful filibuster to be, being an exceedingly quiet man,
with a mild expression of face, and very decidedly Saxon features. His
followers hold him in the utmost esteem and admiration; and his conduct,
since his accession to power in Nicaragua, has been such as to inspire
with confidence in his judgment and abilities many influential
theoretical filibusters in California, who are not likely to allow the
present flattering prospect of the realisation of their ideas to be lost
for want of support.

He has been receiving continual accessions to his force, and now the
Americans in Nicaragua under his command amount to upwards of 900 men.

The following article from the _San Francisco Herald_ of the 6th October
gives a very good idea of the popular feeling in favour of Walker, even
before the achievement of his success in Granada had become known. The
inefficiency of the executive to repress such a wholesale shipment of
recruits and arms is also remarkable:—

  “THE DEPARTURE OF THE WALKER REINFORCEMENTS FROM SAN FRANCISCO.

  “_Exciting Scenes along the Wharves—Ineffectual Attempt of a Party to
  board the Steamer in a Sailing Vessel—Three Hundred Stand of Arms for
  Walker’s Army—Proceeding in the Twelfth District Court—The Sheriff’s
  Party too late—Incidents, &c._

  “The current rumours of the past week relative to the number of
  adventurers who intended to embark on the steamer Uncle Sam, to join
  Walker at Nicaragua, served to attract a large crowd in the vicinity
  of the steamer on the occasion of her departure yesterday. The vessel
  was advertised to sail at 9 o’clock A. M., and long before that hour
  Jackson Street wharf was filled with spectators and those interested
  in the embarkation of the Expeditionists. It is stated that nearly
  four hundred through passage tickets were sold before the appointed
  sailing hour, but, as will be seen, various circumstances compelled
  the agent of the line to postpone the steamer’s departure until four
  o’clock P. M. Officers were stationed in every part of the vessel,
  with positive orders to allow no one on board unless provided with a
  passage ticket. There seemed to be no disposition to infringe this
  order, and everything went on quietly until about noon, when it was
  discovered that some of the passengers were in possession of arms
  belonging to the ‘San Francisco Blues’ military corps. A
  search-warrant was immediately procured, and twenty-nine muskets,
  identified by members of the company named, were recovered. The
  warrant was executed by a single officer of the police, who received
  no molestation, but was permitted to make a thorough search of every
  quarter of the vessel. During this investigation two large crockery
  crates, full of arms, were discovered, but as the officer had no
  authority to seize upon these, they were left undisturbed, although
  information of the fact was immediately given to the Quartermaster,
  General Kibbe of the State militia, who soon after ascertained, by
  means of the telegraph wires, that the armoury of the Sacramento rifle
  company had been entirely divested of every weapon and round of
  ammunition. General Kibbe at once commenced suit in the Twelfth
  District Court to recover the arms belonging to the State, on board
  the Uncle Sam. The business of the suit was despatched with all
  possible haste; but before the necessary documents could be procured
  and placed in the hands of the sheriff, the hour had arrived for the
  sailing of the steamer. As the lines holding the vessel to the wharf
  were cast adrift, there was some indication of trouble between the
  officers of the vessel and those on the wharf anxious to obtain
  passage. The wharf was densely packed with men, and at the first move
  of the steamer’s paddles, a general rush was made to board her. The
  officers of the boat resisted, and the body of the crowd was driven
  back, at the imminent risk of their being crushed between the vessel
  and the wharf, or launched overboard. The scene was frightful, indeed;
  but fortunately, and singularly enough, no one sustained serious
  injury, as far as could be ascertained. About fifteen or twenty
  succeeded in getting on board, and the vessel shot out into the
  stream, where she came to, evidently with the view of compelling those
  to return on shore who had succeeded in boarding the vessel by force.
  By this time the expeditionists, to the number of three hundred, had
  chartered a large schooner lying convenient to the wharf. This
  movement was seen on board the steamer, and as the schooner spread her
  canvass, the steamer’s paddles were again put in motion; but she had
  not proceeded far when she again lay-to. The schooner was now under
  full headway with a fine breeze, and tacking quickly, she came up
  under the lee of the steamer, when she was ordered to keep off, and at
  the same time the steamer commenced moving ahead. It was now beyond
  the power of the schooner to work up to the position of the steamer
  until the latter would have sufficient time to send the intruders
  ashore and get under way again. Still the schooner persevered, and
  stood off for another tack. In the meantime a posse of Sheriff’s
  officers, headed by Mr Dowdigan, with the writ of restitution, had
  procured a rowboat for the purpose of boarding the steamer. This they
  were unable to accomplish, as the steamer got under way just as the
  Sheriff’s boat reached her side. The schooner was at this time within
  a few cables’ length of the steamer, but, coming up under the lee of
  Telegraph Hill, the breeze died away, and all thought of boarding was
  at once abandoned, as the steamer was by this time under a full head
  of steam, with her bows directed seaward. The schooner landed the
  disappointed expeditionists at Jackson Street wharf; and a large
  number of ships’ launches and other small craft filled with men who
  evidently intended to take the first opportunity to board the steamer,
  put back to the shore. It would be useless to attempt a description of
  the scenes along the wharves. From Jackson Street to North Point,
  every place of observation was crowded with eager spectators of the
  movements of the two vessels. It seemed to be the universal impression
  that the schooner load would be permitted to board, as it was rumoured
  that they had obtained passage tickets by some means just as the
  steamer left the wharf. No foundation for this rumour could be
  ascertained, and it was undoubtedly erroneous. The city Marshal, with
  several policemen, remained on the steamer until she was fully under
  way. Among the number who attempted to board in small boats, was a man
  named Henry Gray, who strenuously persisted in his endeavours to board
  the steamer, although forcibly resisted by officer Connelly. At last
  Gray drew a revolver and pointed it at the officer, who also drew his
  pistol, when the boatmen in the boat with Gray covered his person with
  their own. Gray was subsequently arrested by the police and placed in
  confinement. It is generally believed that the Uncle Sam carried away
  about three hundred stand of arms for the use of Walker’s army. It is
  known that a large quantity of arms and ammunition had been purchased
  in this city to be sent to San Juan by this steamer. Just previous to
  the sailing of the steamer it was ascertained that a number of
  percussion lock muskets, belonging to the Manhattan Fire Company of
  this city, were taken from the engine-house during the night. The
  rifles taken from the Sacramento military company are said to be
  excellent weapons, and they will, undoubtedly, be a valuable
  acquisition to the armament of the Nicaragua republican troops. Many
  of those who failed to procure passage on the steamer yesterday had
  placed their baggage on board. This baggage will unquestionably be
  landed at San Juan, and kept for them by their more fortunate comrades
  until such time as they shall be successful in their endeavours to
  join Walker.”—_San Francisco Herald_, Oct. 6.

This is the way they do things in California, affording a striking
contrast to the very imposing demonstration made in New York about two
months ago in support of the neutrality laws.

Shortly after the formation of the Walker government in Granada, a
decree was issued, granting two hundred and fifty acres of land to every
emigrant who would come and settle on and improve his grant; and in
consequence of advertisements to that effect, inserted by the Nicaraguan
government in the New York papers, great numbers of men intended sailing
for that country in the regular steamer of the Nicaragua Transit
Company.

Proclamations were issued by President Pierce, warning the citizens not
to violate the neutrality laws; and when the steamer was on the point of
leaving the wharf, the government officers made an attempt to arrest
her. The captain, however, disregarded them, and got under way, but was
brought up, while steaming down the harbour, by two or three shots from
a man-of-war. The steamer was searched, but no evidence of the violation
of the laws was found on board of her. The company, however, requested
the assistance of the government officers in putting ashore about two
hundred men who had not paid their passage. This was done, and the
steamer went on her way, carrying two or three officers of government to
see whether, on using up the coal, some cannon might not be found at the
bottom of the coal-bunkers.

At this time, also, Colonel French, who had resigned his seat in the
Walker cabinet as minister of the Hacienda, presented himself at
Washington as minister-plenipotentiary from the State of Nicaragua; but
the American Government refused to receive him. Colonel Wheeler, the
American minister in Nicaragua, had already formally acknowledged the
Walker government immediately on its formation, and as he visited
Washington in the month of July, it is hardly to be supposed that he
returned to his duties in Nicaragua, without acquainting himself with
the views of his Government on the course to be pursued in event of the
success of the Americans in that State. But Colonel Walker had already
so firmly established himself in Nicaragua that any want of countenance
from the American government could not weaken his position; the
President’s message also was soon about to appear, and too cordial an
acknowledgment of the Americans in Nicaragua would not have been
consistent with the tone observed in that document in regard to the
enforcement of the Clayton-Bulwer treaty.

The Mosquito protectorate question is being practically settled by the
Mosquitians themselves. Mosquitia is a strip of land on the Atlantic
coast, part of which has always been claimed by Nicaragua, and which,
from its geographical position, seems naturally to belong to her. Since
the establishment of peace in that country, the government have sent
commissioners among the Mosquito Indians in the neighbouring parts of
Mosquitia. The natives are reported to have expressed great
dissatisfaction at the exactions of the king, and to have declared their
readiness to come under Nicaragua. So the Mosquito kingdom seems likely
to revert to Nicaragua, the State to which it originally belonged.

The success which has attended Walker’s enterprise offers a strong
contrast to the failure of that which, for the attainment of a similar
end, was originated in New York towards the end of the year 1854.

A company was started under the name of the Central American Land
Colonisation Company, or some such name. The ostensible object was the
colonisation and cultivation of the Mosquito territory, more especially
a certain portion known as the “Sheppard Grant,” a large tract of land
acquired by a Mr Sheppard from the King of Mosquitia. A certain Colonel
Kinney took a prominent part in the organisation of the Company, which
was supported by many capitalists in New York and other cities of the
Union. The government also professed to be favourable to the scheme, and
preparations were commenced on a large scale for carrying it out. A
great deal was said about the promotion of agriculture on the Mosquito
coast; but it was pretty generally understood by the public, that the
real object in view was to filibuster the State of Nicaragua, or at all
events to establish a depôt in that part of the world, from which, when
all should be ready, a descent upon Cuba might be conveniently made.

At the remonstrances of the Nicaraguan minister in Washington, the
administration were compelled to open their eyes to the true nature of
the expedition.

A great fuss was then made; proclamations were issued, warning the
people not to take part in the hostile invasion of a friendly State; a
large steamer, chartered by Colonel Kinney, and all ready to take down
several hundred agriculturists to cultivate the pestiferous swamps of
the King of Mosquitia, was seized by the authorities; several men of war
were stationed in New York harbour to watch her, and Colonel Kinney
himself was arrested and held to bail.

Many of the supporters of the enterprise now withdrew; but Kinney was
not to be deterred; and as he could not go in his steamer with several
hundred followers, he modestly started, about the month of May, in a
small schooner, with a couple of dozen men. He was wrecked somewhere
about the West Indies, and was finally brought into Greytown, his
original destination, by an English brig, which had picked him and his
party off the rocks.

About this time the Accessory Transit Company of Nicaragua raised a
little army in New York, on their own account, of fifty men, principally
French and German. These they sent down in one of their steamers to
Nicaragua, and stationed at Castillo, on the San Juan River, there to
stop the advance of foreign invaders. This is the French legion referred
to in the treaty of peace.

It was given out that Kinney and his small party were only the pioneers;
that reinforcements were coming from New Orleans and other ports, but
they have never yet made their appearance; and Kinney and his men still
remain in Greytown, where, with the exception of starting a newspaper,
they have as yet done nothing.

This Walker business in Nicaragua has been much more cleverly managed.
The Americans in that country appear in the light of men who have gone
there at the request of a party which constituted the majority of the
people. They became citizens of the State, fought for it, and have risen
to power.

The United States have themselves been to a certain extent filibustered
in the same way. The Irish party has of late become so formidable, that
the native Americans have had to form a league to counteract the Irish
influence; and even if the American Government were opposed to the
present movement in Nicaragua, they cannot prevent individual citizens
from emigrating to, and becoming citizens of, that State.

It cannot be doubted that the advantages to Nicaragua, in consequence of
the introduction of American influence, will be very great.

The constant fear of revolution being removed, the people will have more
confidence in carrying on agricultural and commercial undertakings. The
Americans will do away with all the antiquated absurdities of Spanish
law, and amend a ridiculous old tariff, whereby many of the commonest
articles of civilised life have been virtually prohibited; foreign
capital will be freely employed in the cultivation of sugar, rice,
tobacco, indigo, and other valuable crops, in the production of which
Nicaragua can compete with any country in the world; and the resources
of the mining districts will be developed by energetic and experienced
miners from California.




                      THE SCOTTISH FISHERIES.[14]


The Fisheries of Scotland constitute her most valuable and important
interests, and form, in some of their features, the only really
_national_ undertaking in which our people are engaged. Of the benefits
arising from agriculture and manufactures, we have, of course, our
share; although our colder climate, and less affluent natural resources,
make our merit all the greater in reaping in both of those departments
such redundant harvests. But what is often wanting on the surface of our
sterile land, is compensated by the products of the exhaustless deep. A
hardy and athletic race is thus maintained in useful independence—a race
for whom, but for this so frequent occupation in the great waters,
nothing would now remain save expatriation or the poor’s-roll.

When mention is made of the vast importance of our fisheries, and of
their increasing prosperity, it must, however, be in no spirit of
boastfulness, nor with any very buoyant feelings of continuous and
assured success. The fisherman’s vocation is at the best one not only of
perpetual toil, but of frequent peril; and truly, while engaged in it,
no man knows what even an hour may bring forth. The brightest day, with
its calmly glittering sea, and sky as clear in its cerulean depth as
ever fondly brooded over the “cloudless Parthenope,” may be followed by
the thick darkness of a night of storm and terror; and instead of
another gladsome sunrise, with hopeful mothers and happy children
scattered in expectant groups along some sheltered semicircular shore,
the wild waves are coursing tumultuously over the lifeless forms of many
whose places will henceforward know them no more for ever. Let any
kindly and considerate person pass even an hour or two in one of our
fishing-villages, and converse with the inhabitants, whether old or
young. Strong stalwart men of iron mould, enduring and unbending as the
gnarled oak, and in no way given to that sickly sentimentalism which we
sometimes meet with elsewhere, become softened and subdued when the dark
remembrance of some great bereavement comes back in bitterness upon
them,—in earlier life the loss of fathers and elder brothers,—in later
years that of sons and helpmates, fellow-workmen in the world of waters.
How many hearths are cold or cheerless, how many homes desolate, or the
forlorn dwellings of the widow and the fatherless! Women may be seen
seemingly intent upon the preparation of hooks and lines; but there is
not one among them that cannot tell some heart-rending tale of sudden
and unlooked-for death; and as they cast their melancholy eyes over the
then gently heaving sea, they never cease to feel, because they too
sadly know, how wrathful and ruthless is the power of that dread
destroyer.

A seafaring people are proverbially subject to calamities of the most
fatal and almost irremediable kind, such as no exercise of skill or
caution on their own part can possibly provide against, and which befall
no class of artisans or agricultural labourers. The sea, like the land,
has also its barren and unproductive places; and even its richer fields
are not seldom those of death and desolation. Therefore, whatever tends
to ameliorate the condition of such of our people as are engaged in the
fisheries should be carefully encouraged, and any sudden, especially if
doubtful, changes in their relationship to the rest of the world,
considered with the greater caution, even although certain existing
conditions should not altogether conform to those general principles of
political economy which it might otherwise be prudent to apply.

             “The weary ploughman plods his homeward way,”

but seldom fails to find it. The

                  “Swinked hedger at his supper sits,”

and soft is the mossy bank beneath him, and sweet the air around,
redolent with the balmy breath of flowers, and filled with the melody of
birds singing their evening hymn. How rarely does the extinction of life
from other than natural causes overtake these dwellers on the land,
compared with the frequent fate of those who do business in the great
waters! How astounded would be the natives of our inland vales, and the
shepherds on a thousand hills, if ever and anon their hitherto steadfast
and enduring boundaries were rent by earthquakes, and, literally “adding
field to field,” one fine piece of pasture was lifted up and laid upon
another, entombing for ever alike the corn and its cultivators, the
shepherds and their sheep. No very pleasant greetings in the
market-place would ensue among the grain-merchants, wool-growers, and
cattle-dealers, when the morning’s news might chance to be—that the
Lammermoors had subsided 1500 feet, and were entirely under water; that
“Eildon’s triple height” had been turned over, peaks downmost; that the
debris of Penicuik was scattered over the vestiges of Peebles; and that
the good town of Dalkeith was lying (its fine body of militiamen fast
fossilising) at the bottom of a coal-pit. Yet equally disastrous, though
not quite similar, calamities not unfrequently befall those whose
precarious lot it is to cultivate the sea.

The formation of more commodious harbours, and of substantial and
efficient piers, and whatever other accommodation may be most required,
along our rock-bound shores, may therefore surely be regarded as
emphatically a work both of necessity and mercy, without which the
bountiful gifts of nature are either useless, or obtained at such fatal
sacrifice of life and property as it would be painful to contemplate. It
has been sometimes said, that as the coast proprietors are benefited by
an increased success of the fisheries, the duty of erecting harbours or
other shore-works is chiefly incumbent upon themselves. It is true that,
when a proprietor builds a farm-steading or a porter’s lodge, he is
bound to pay for it, as he may be presumed to reap the chief advantage,
and, at all events, is entitled to debar others from any participation
of profits. But a building which abuts into the region of the sea-shore
is so far public property, is under certain Admiralty supervision and
control, and cannot be used exclusively for individual interests,
although a reasonable power of regulation, in the way of imposing
harbour-dues, may very properly be agreed upon as between proprietors
and the public. The existence or non-existence of such works is often as
the difference betwixt life and death to those who seek some shelter
from the sea. Their construction is a great and indispensable public
benefit, and therefore necessity; and a proprietor need no more be
grudged the individual advantage which undoubtedly, and we think
fortunately, accrues to him, than he can be grudged the corresponding
advantage (which he shares with the general community) of those public
roads and bridges which intersect or span the more inland portions of
his property. It is, therefore, a very narrow and unpatriotic view which
would saddle the expense of sea-works, of whatever kind, upon the
immediate local owners of the land. Let them bear their share, as they
are assuredly much benefited by the increase of fishing or other
commercial intercourse, both as direct advantages, and as almost
necessarily leading to the improvement of property and a rise of rents;
but considering the wild and unstable nature of the elements with which
we have to deal, and the almost incalculable general benefits which
result from all such works, when skilfully planned and substantially
executed, let the public also largely and ungrudgingly join in the
required expenditure.

As Captain Washington has well observed, it is not one or more great
harbours of refuge on our north-eastern shores that is now required. The
Bay of Cromarty, the _Portus Salutis_ of the ancients, one of the finest
and most secure harbours in the known world, lies not more than fifty
miles to the southward of Wick, while the safe anchorage of Long Hope,
in the Orkneys, is only twenty miles to the northward of that great
fishing capital of Caithness. These are accessible at all times to every
kind of shipping. But it is not so much shelter for the general trade,
as security for fishing-boats, and coasting vessels connected with the
fisheries, that is so imperatively needed. In proof of this we shall
here briefly record the great catastrophe which befell a portion of our
fishing population of the north-east coast of Scotland in the autumn of
1848. It is known that at this time upwards of 800 boats, manned by 3500
men, were engaged in the fishery from the Wick district alone. On the
afternoon of Friday the 18th of August of that year, the majority of
these fishing-boats (all open ones) left Pulteneytown harbour soon after
high water, and remained in the Bay of Wick. Towards evening they stood
out to sea, and when about ten miles off the land, as usual, shot their
nets. The afternoon was fine, though the evening had somewhat of a
threatening aspect, yet not such as to deter a fisherman from the
pursuit of his accustomed calling. At midnight, much wind and sea having
risen, many of the boats ran for the harbour, and got safely in about
high water, which occurred at half-past one o’clock. By three in the
morning the wind had increased to a gale from the south-east, with heavy
rain. Most of the remaining boats then bore up for the Bay, which they
reached between four and five o’clock; but by this time the tide had
fallen one-half, and therefore there was not more than five feet depth
of water at the entrance of the harbour, so that, with such a sea
running, no loaded boat could enter. Some, however, made the attempt,
and were either thrown up at the back of the north quay, or wrecked on
the south pier, or swamped upon the bar. In this disastrous way 25 men
perished, besides 12 others whose boats were swamped at sea; thus, in
the brief period of about three hours, occasioning a loss of 37 men
drowned, leaving 17 widows and 60 children utterly destitute. There was
a destruction of property in boats and nets of about £1600.

Dunbeath lies some sixteen or eighteen miles to the south-west of Wick.
It is a favourite fishing-station, and much resorted to, having about
106 boats and 410 men. Its creek is slightly protected on the east by a
promontory, and some detached rocks, which partially throw off the sea,
and direct it into the west side of the bay; but it is much exposed to
the south-west and southerly winds, and the fishermen have twice built
up a breakwater of loose stones on the south side, near the burn-mouth.
Not only is the violence of the waves to be dreaded, but after much rain
in the interior, heavy fresh-water _spates_ descend suddenly, and cause
great destruction among such boats as have not been hauled up to a place
of safety. Thus in the storm referred to, 18 boats were drifted out of
the harbour by the river flood, and were smashed upon the beach. Still
more unfortunately, a Lybster boat, while making for the harbour, was
upset, and three men drowned.

Helmsdale, in Sutherlandshire, is fifteen miles farther to the
south-west. It has made wonderful progress within comparatively recent
years—is in a very thriving condition, and possesses some of the best
curing establishments in all Scotland. But there is great want of
accommodation both for men and boats, and the crowded state of the river
is disadvantageous. There is also a bar at its mouth, and the
harbourage, moreover, suffers much from the inland spates. During the
autumn of 1848 there were 177 boats fishing from Helmsdale. Of these,
130 put to sea on the evening of the 18th of August. In the disastrous
gale of the ensuing morning, two boats were upset while running over the
bar for the harbour, and four men were drowned. Two other boats were
either run down or foundered at sea, when 5 men perished, and another
man was washed overboard while endeavouring to haul his nets,—making a
loss of 10 lives.

On the southern side of the Moray Firth, Buckie is known as a most
important, though exposed and almost shelterless station. It puts out
about 160 boats, and its fishermen are noted as among the most daring as
well as industrious on our coasts. They pursue the deep-sea fishing, and
so labour not during the herring harvest alone, but all the year round.
In the gale of the 19th of August, 12 of its boats were wrecked off
Peterhead, 8 were sorely damaged, and their nets carried away, while 11
men were drowned. Port Gordon, Portessie, and Findochtie belong to the
same quarter. They lost among them 5 boats wrecked, and 10 men
drowned—making a total loss, for that limited district, of 17 boats and
21 men.

Peterhead occupies a commanding and well-known position on a projecting
and very exposed portion of our coast, and the stations included as in
the same district, extend southwards as far as Aberdeen. It has about 60
boats of its own, while those of the entire district amount to 262, with
920 men and boys. But while these are the numbers belonging to the
district, the actual amount at work within it, during the season of
1848, was 437 boats, employing 2185 men. Peterhead has the advantage of
both a north and south harbour, each of considerable extent. The south
harbour is dry at low water, but the outer portion of the northern has
from six to seven feet at low water of spring-tides, and eighteen feet
at high water. During the gale of the 18th and 19th of August, the boats
began to run for shelter about eleven o’clock at night, and continued to
do so until half-past three o’clock in the morning, at which time it was
high water. But while endeavouring to make the harbour, 30 boats were
totally lost, 33 were damaged and stranded, and 31 men were drowned.

Stonehaven is the principal station of the next and more southern
district, which extends for about fifty-five miles from Girdleness to
Broughty Ferry on the Tay. This district furnishes 306 boats, manned by
1160 fishermen. Of its 23 fishing stations 17 have no piers. Findon, so
celebrated for its smoked haddocks, has 14 boats, but no pier.
Portlethen, somewhat sheltered by a ledge of rocks, has 20 boats, but no
pier. Cowie, under a similar precarious shelter, has 18 boats, but no
pier. Auchmithie, with 37 boats, and Johnshaven with 10, have nothing
like a pier. In many of these places the shore is steep and rough, with
loose though heavy shingle. The boats, when they get in safely, must
often be hauled well up for a continuance of protection. This, with
relaunching, is most laborious and exhausting work. The women labour in
and out of water, whether deep or shallow, as well as, sometimes even
more assiduously than, the men. They carry the wet nets up the steep
banks to be spread and dried, and they are not seldom seen bearing the
wearied men out of the boats upon their backs, and landing them, high
and dry, upon the beach. But these are savage customs, and lead to or
perpetuate an uncouth and indurated, if not savage life. Yet before we
can “excavate the heathens,” and ameliorate their manners, we must
excavate their beach, and build them substantial piers of stone and
lime. On the miserable morning of the 19th of August, 6 boats belonging
to this district were totally lost, and 19 men drowned.

The following is a brief summary of the loss of life and property which
was suffered in the course of a very few hours during this disastrous
gale:—

 ┌────────────────┬────────────────┬────────────────┬────────────────┐
 │   District.    │Number of boats │ Value of boats │ Number of men  │
 │                │lost or damaged.│ and nets lost. │    drowned.    │
 ├────────────────┼────────────────┼────────────────┼────────────────┤
 │Wick,           │              41│           £1621│              37│
 │Lybster,        │                │             320│                │
 │Helmsdale,      │              24│             800│              13│
 │Peterhead,      │              51│            3820│              31│
 │Stonehaven,     │               8│             450│              19│
 ├────────────────┼────────────────┼────────────────┼────────────────┤
 │Total loss,[15] │             124│           £7011│             100│
 └────────────────┴────────────────┴────────────────┴────────────────┘

A calamity so great and sudden forcibly drew the public attention to the
subject, and the Lords of the Admiralty were induced ere long to depute
Captain Washington to inquire into and report regarding it. His report
was printed by order of the House of Commons, and contains many most
valuable observations and suggestions.[16] We cannot here enter into
technical details, but may quote one of his concluding paragraphs.

  “In reviewing the evidence adduced on the present inquiry, it cannot
  fail to strike the most cursory reader that the want of good harbours,
  accessible at all times, is the grand cause of the loss of life and
  property, and the increased risk connected with our fisheries. It is
  not the construction of two or more large central harbours (as has
  been suggested) that is wanted, but a general deepening and
  improvement of all the existing harbours and rivers along the whole
  eastern coast of Scotland. Nor would the improvement of these harbours
  be attended with any very considerable outlay. _It is scarcely
  credible that the small sum of £2500 a-year, which Parliament has
  devoted_ [through the Board of Fisheries] _to building harbours and
  piers in Scotland for the last few years, should have given so great a
  stimulus to important local improvements as those grants are found to
  have done._ But they are quite inadequate to grapple in earnest with
  the want which exists: four times their amount, or £10,000 a-year for
  a few years, steadily laid out on piers and harbours, would do much to
  remedy the want, and to place the fishermen of the east of Scotland on
  a par with those of more favoured coasts. It would be an act of mercy
  to a race of hardy, industrious, frugal men—to 10,000 fishermen of one
  of the poorest and most unproductive districts of Scotland, who are
  not at sea as occasional passers-by, but are constantly hovering off
  the coast in pursuit of their calling for three months together,
  exposed to the suddenness and violence of north-east gales—such as
  that of August 1845, and again in August 1848—without the common
  shelter that all mariners are entitled to look for in the hour of
  need.”—_Report_, p. xvii.

Here we seem to have a distinct statement of what is most required,—an
equally distinct recognition of the great benefits which have already
resulted from small means,—and a strong recommendation of a large
increase of those means, to be administered, we may presume, through the
same medium and machinery as heretofore employed, and of which Captain
Washington so much approves.

The harbour of Lybster lies in a sheltered situation, about half-way
between Wick and Helmsdale. The best localities for the herring fishery
are only a few miles off; and it had thus risen from a creek, scarcely
navigable by small boats, to a fishing-station of very considerable
importance. More than twenty years ago, Mr Sinclair, the proprietor,
erected a pier on the west side of the harbour, at an expense of about
£7000. Above 100 herring-boats were in use to frequent it during the
season; many coasting vessels entered in; the quay-dues produced a
revenue of £130, and a large and thriving village became established.
All this time the harbour accommodation was limited and incommodious,
consisting only of the channel of the river; and its increase of trade
cannot be explained in any other way than by the safety experienced by
boats in consequence of the entrance being well protected from the worst
and most prevailing winds. Such being the case, Capt. Washington thought
it highly desirable to profit by the advantages which nature had
bestowed upon this creek; “or rather,” he observes, “it becomes an
imperative duty to do so, when we consider the number of lives
endangered, and the value of the property at stake, on the sudden
springing up of an easterly gale, such as that of August 1845, and again
in August 1848, which strewed the coast of Caithness with wrecks.” We
may add, that the Lybster district comprises also Occumster, Clyth,
Latheronwheel, Forse, &c., and that these places yielded, during the few
weeks’ continuance of the fishing of 1854, as many as 41,550 barrels of
herrings. In consequence of Captain Washington’s recommendation, and
other patriotic influences, the Treasury advised a grant of £6000 for
the improvement of the harbour of Lybster. The sum was voted by
Parliament, and has since been successfully administered under the
superintendence of the Board of Fisheries. The advantageous effects of
this well-managed grant are manifest from the following facts. The
number of boats that fished from the old harbour of Lybster in 1850 was
97, but the number that has fished from it since the basin was enlarged,
is 174 boats in 1853, and 171 boats in 1854. But the difference in mere
numbers of these two years, as compared with 1850, does not exhibit the
actual alteration and improvement; for since the disastrous gale of
1848, the boats have almost every year been of larger build—so much so,
that the fishermen consider that the old harbour would not have held
above 80 boats of the existing size, and that 180 of these boats are now
harboured in greater safety than 80 could have formerly been. The amount
of fishermen employed in 1848 was 418; during the past season (1855) it
was 920. Had this increased accommodation existed in 1848, there is no
saying what saving of life and property might have been accomplished.
During the gale so frequently referred to, of the 34 boats which fished
from Forse, 9 were totally lost, with all their nets, and 11 were
severely damaged. Some of those Forse boats did, however, run for
Lybster, and were saved; and all would have done so, but from the fear
of want of room. It was this fear, unfortunately, that induced one of
the Lybster boats, as already mentioned, to run for Dunbeath, where she
was totally wrecked, and three of her crew drowned.

Our notices have hitherto been of a very casual kind, drawn out by the
sympathy which cannot but be felt for the disastrous death of intrepid
men and the destruction of property, which inevitably leads to such
severe and long-continued suffering on the part of the survivors, haply
but little thought of during the first wild wailings of the widow and
the fatherless. But poverty sorely embitters grief; and the amount of
prolonged misery involved by destitution so often consequent on death,
can be in no way conveyed by the mere recital of the facts, however
harrowing these may be. But it is cheering to know that the occasional
disbursement of sums, which, to the greatest maritime nation that ever
existed on earth, or made its undisputed home upon the deep, are only as
a few grains of sand to the shores of the immeasurable sea, may produce
the most obvious, immediate, and permanent advantage, and actually go
far to convert a life of danger and difficulty into one of comparative
security and ease. In reference to this view of the subject Captain
Washington has well observed:—

  “Besides the invaluable boon on this (the Caithness) coast of a
  harbour that might be fearlessly run for at all times of tide, and
  within which the fisherman might land his cargo immediately on his
  arrival, and rest quietly at his home until the moment of sailing
  arrives (instead of the anxious hours now often spent off a harbour’s
  mouth, waiting for the rise of tide), such a harbour would probably
  lead to a larger and safer class of fishing-boats (those now in use
  being adapted to a shallow dry harbour), and induce the fishermen to
  follow the deep-sea fishing all the year round, instead of merely the
  herring fishery for the season; and thus cultivate habits of steady
  industry and occupation, which could not but be beneficial to himself,
  his family, and the community.”—_Report_, p. viii.

  “Nor could such an outlay,” he afterwards adds, “be considered in any
  other light than as sound economy. By the exertions of the British
  Fisheries Society, and of individuals, a vast public interest has been
  created on this coast within the last half-century. A fishing village
  has been raised into a comparatively opulent town, wealth has been
  diffused, and civilisation has followed in its wake. The example here
  set has had a most beneficial influence on a large portion of the
  Highlands and islands of Scotland, and habits of industry and the best
  mode of fishing have been taught to the Highlander. The large amount
  of 126,000 barrels of herrings, or one-fifth of the whole produce of
  the Scottish fisheries, was cured at Wick during the past year, in
  addition to 12,000 barrels otherwise consumed.[17] The total value of
  the boats, nets, and lines employed exceeded £61,000, while the
  catching and curing the fish occupied 5600 persons; and the carrying
  of salt, and the export of the fish to Ireland and the European
  markets, gave occupation to 16,700 tons of shipping. _These are great
  public interests, which are entitled to be considered._ They are the
  results of spirited enterprise that may fairly claim to be encouraged,
  not by bounties and protection duties, but by placing these
  industrious and hardy Caithness fishermen, as far as possible, on a
  level with those of more favoured coasts, by the construction of a
  low-water harbour, to which they may confidently resort in the hour of
  need.”—Ibid. p. ix.

There can be no doubt that the formation of a capacious, easily
accessible, and well-sheltered low-water harbour, in a central portion
of the great fishing district of the north-east of Scotland would be of
infinite advantage; but it is equally certain (and Captain Washington,
as we have already shown, is likewise of that opinion) that the
improvement and increase of the smaller, even the creek harbours, and
the precarious piers of such as have any such erections, would be of
incalculable service. It is a well-known fact, and one worthy of being
held in remembrance, that during the lamentable gale of the 19th of
August 1848, thirty boats ran for Keiss Bay, where there is a harbourage
built or enlarged by the Board of Fisheries, and were saved. We may here
add, what is well known, that where there are no harbours, the boats
must be drawn up and beached in creeks and bays. Their size, therefore,
in these cases, corresponds not to the wilderness of waves which they
have to encounter, but to the nature of the situation on which they can
be drawn up and placed in safety. We thus frequently find a great
contrast between the size of boats where harbours or other sheltering
fabrics have been built, and those frequenting places where there are
none. It is also well known that the boats engaged in the cod and ling
fisheries, &c., now require to proceed farther out to sea than formerly;
and as they are necessarily constructed of a larger size, and so draw
more water, they also need deeper harbourage than of old.

We may now briefly notice the commercial value of our fisheries. The
capital embarked in the trade is not less than _two millions seven
hundred and thirty thousand pounds_. It is chiefly distributed among a
people inhabiting wild and barren districts of the country, where the
climate is cold and moist, employment precarious, labour poorly paid,
and all creature-comforts few and far between. Their real resources lie
in the sea, the products of which, unlike the _cereals_, are fortunately
not very materially affected by a somewhat cloudy and uncomfortable
climate. Many years ago, views of this kind were propounded by a
Scotchman, Mr David Loch, the father, we believe, of the late lamented
M.P. for the Wick burghs. He writes rather critically regarding the
natives of the _Western_ Highlands:—

  “I am sorry to observe that the fishing is greatly neglected at this
  and the harvest seasons, as most of the people are farmers as well as
  fishermen; so that their time being divided between the two branches,
  the great object, fishing, has not that time and attention paid to it
  which is absolutely necessary. It is true that the country is not
  unfavourable to the breeding of sheep, not only on account of the
  pasture in general, but also as the snow never remains long on the
  ground; and as the farmers, very judiciously, use no tar, they sell
  their wool at 14s. the stone. The fisheries, however, should be their
  first care; and I declare, from my own knowledge, that a few boats’
  crews of our east-country fishers would make rich here, and realise
  more money than half the farmers in this quarter. What a pity it is
  the inhabitants should be so blind to their own interest, and neglect
  to avail themselves of the advantages which their local situation
  offers to them! A boat’s crew of six men would make more money in one
  month than any farmer here can off the produce of a hundred acres of
  his best arable land, after deducting the value of the seed and the
  expenses attending its culture; and the former could, from the
  proceeds of their fish, furnish themselves with meal, flour, malt,
  barley, and vivers of every kind, on easier and much better terms than
  the latter can possibly raise and supply themselves with from their
  own farms. _Fish_ is the natural produce of their seas, with which
  they abound, and to which they are contiguous; and _grass_, for
  pasturing sheep and black cattle, the natural produce of their lands.
  Nature, in denying them the means (of grain culture), has given them
  the fisheries, which is their natural staple, and is more than an
  equivalent for the deprivation of the other.”[18]

A higher and more recent authority, Sir John M‘Neill, G.C.B., Chief
Commissioner of the Poor Law Board for Scotland, has borne corresponding
testimony to the value of our fisheries, and their great advance during
our own days. In reference to the county of Caithness, he observes:—

  “Nearly the whole sea-coast of the county, including the towns of
  Thurso and Wick, is inhabited by persons more or less directly
  dependent upon the fisheries. In the rural parts, the fishermen have
  generally attached to their dwellings small farms or lots as they are
  called, varying in extent from two to ten acres of arable land. These,
  however, do not afford them the chief part of their subsistence. They
  rely upon the fisheries, and regard the cultivation of their lots as a
  secondary and comparatively unimportant part of their business.

  “At the end of the last century, the value of the cured fish annually
  exported from Caithness did not exceed £13,000, and it then consisted
  almost exclusively of salmon. The cured herring, cod, and ling,
  exported from Wick and Lybster for the last ten years, gives an
  average annual value of not less than £130,000, according to the
  Returns of the Board of Fisheries. The annual value of the whole land
  in the county was returned in 1843 at £66,000. The population in 1841
  was 36,343.

  “The Caithness fisheries have thus not only become a source of
  prosperity to the county, but have also become an object of national
  importance; and their further extension appears to be in a great
  measure dependent upon the increase of suitable harbour accommodation
  for the boats engaged in them. Harbours, more or less secure, have
  been formed from time to time at different creeks along the coast,
  from Wick southward, and the number of boats appears to have increased
  in the ratio of the accommodation provided for them. There is no
  reason to believe that the limit has yet been reached, or that, if the
  harbour accommodation were increased, the fisheries, more especially
  of herring, would not receive a corresponding development. But even
  now the population of the county is not nearly sufficient to supply
  the demand for hands during the fishing season, and some thousands of
  men from the west coast, find in Caithness, during that season,
  employment and wages, without which they could not subsist. The
  increase of harbour accommodation in Caithness, besides increasing the
  general amount of production, would thus afford additional employment
  to the inhabitants of the West Coast and Islands of Inverness, Ross,
  and Sutherland, who frequent the east coast fisheries because they
  cannot find sufficient employment at home.”[19]

We may add in connection with the above, that about 10,000 Highlanders
pass across from west to east during the continuance of the autumnal
fishery, in which they find, for the time being, their sole refuge from
destitution. It is estimated that from 7000 to 10,000 Highland women of
the poorest class, and otherwise most forlorn condition, are likewise
beneficially employed in gutting and packing herrings.

Great improvement and increased activity have been manifested in the
fisheries of late years, and the facilities afforded by steam-navigation
and the formation of railways have no doubt given a decided impulse to
that department, as to so many other branches of commercial occupation.
The value of our _materials_ alone, in the way of boats, netting, and
lines, now amounts to upwards of £580,000, minutely portioned out as the
property, we need scarcely say in many cases the sole property, of a
very poor though industrious part of the population.[20] There are
nearly 11,000 boats employed in the Scotch fisheries (including a few
hundred from the Isle of Man), giving permanent employment to about
40,000 fishermen, besides occupying, as coopers, gutters, and labourers,
towards 30,000 other persons. Of the higher class of merchants or
fish-curers, there are considerably above 1100 engaged in the trade.[21]

In estimating the money-value of the products of the Scotch fisheries,
each barrel of cured herrings may be regarded as equivalent to £1, 1s.
The price is sometimes higher, as in 1854, when it often reached to £1,
4s.; but it is also occasionally lower, when there is a large stock in
hand, and the foreign markets are sluggish. The fishing trade is more
than most others liable to fluctuations,—the supply itself varying from
glut to scarcity. Thus the average profits are probably very moderate to
all concerned. But taking the sum first mentioned as a fair price, it
has been ascertained, that, upon the most moderate computation, the
herring fishery of 1855 will produce—

                      Of cured herrings, £700,000
                      Of fresh herrings,  150,000
                                         ————————
                                         £850,000

The price, however, of cured fish being actually up, and as the returns
of fresh fish are always much below the mark, we are informed, on the
best authority, that the real value of the preceding season’s capture
will exceed _one million_ sterling. This is a great thing for so poor a
country, and especially for the poorer classes of that country. That our
wealthier neighbours over the Border are made large partakers in our
scaly spoils, is obvious from what appears to us to be a remarkable
though distinctly ascertained fact, that in the course of a few weeks of
last season, _5053 tons of fresh herrings_ were transmitted, chiefly
southwards, from the Dunbar district, by the North British Railway
alone. The _take_ of herrings in 1849, for Scotland and the Isle of Man,
was 942,617 barrels. The season of 1853 was also very productive,
yielding, exclusive of the English stations, 908,800 barrels.

Of the cured fish a very considerable portion is exported to Ireland and
the Continental kingdoms. Thus during the immediately preceding season
(fishing of 1855), it is estimated that out of a total cure of 705,109
barrels, 100,000 barrels were sent to Ireland, and 338,360 barrels to
the Continent. To Stettin alone we have this year exported close upon
155,000 barrels, almost all guaranteed as in prime condition, and
skilfully cured, by means of the Fishery crown brand impressed by
burning on the staves. This process of branding is regarded as of great
importance by the foreign merchants, more especially by such as have
afterwards occasion to consign their stock to others for inland
transportation. The crown brand is our Government official mark, and
testifies that the contents have been carefully examined and approved of
by the appointed Fishery officer of the district where the fish were
caught and cured; and so great is the confidence now placed in the skill
and integrity of these experienced and faithful functionaries, that
barrels so marked pass from hand to hand, without examination, into the
very heart of Europe, and onwards to the shores of the Black Sea. We
need scarcely say how deteriorated the contents would be if the barrels
were opened and the fish inspected, as they passed from country to
country, or from one purchaser to another. By the present practice this
loss is avoided, and great advantage gained.

A single sentence may suffice for cod and ling. Stornoway in Lewis, and
the Orkney and Shetland Islands, are the chief stations for these fine
fish. In 1854 the amount cured at these and the other places in the
north was 115,850 _hundredweight_. Besides these, there were caught and
disposed of _fresh_, 58,042 hundredweight. The quantity of individual
fish of the cod and ling kind, killed in the north of Scotland during
the season of 1854, was _three million five hundred and twenty-three
thousand two hundred and sixty-nine_. Of these, 1,385,699 were caught
off the Shetland Islands. What a boon to a people who can scarcely grow
grain, and cannot live on grass!

The preceding facts seem, on the whole, to indicate a rather pleasant
and prosperous condition of affairs, for which we ought to be
unfeignedly thankful, and with which it might not be deemed advisable to
intermeddle, at least in the way of sudden and unsought-for change.

Our fishery affairs, we may now observe, are at present managed, so far
as legal rules and regulations are concerned, by a certain number of
Commissioners, who constitute the “Board of Fisheries.”[22] The
functions of that Board are chiefly as follows: To obtain for Parliament
accurate statistical returns of the cod and herring fisheries,—of the
seafaring and other persons employed in those occupations,—of the
number, computed tonnage, value, &c., of the boats and other vessels
engaged, and to give clearances for the same. In the herring fishery, to
see that the measures for the delivery of fresh herrings, as between
purchaser and seller, are of the legal standard size; and when the fish
are cured, to ascertain that the barrels in which they are packed are of
the full dimensions, and not fraudulently made, and to apply the
official mark, called the Crown Brand, to whatever barrels contain
herrings so cured and packed, and of such superior quality as to entitle
them to receive it; to enforce the fishery convention between Great
Britain and foreign countries, and guard the coast of Scotland against
the intrusion of foreigners during the fishing season; to act likewise
as a home police among the multitudinous masses of fishermen and other
natives collected for the herring fishery along the coast, or in the
numerous narrow firths and sea-lochs of our country, where there is
often scarcely room to hold them; and to see that the boats in all such
cases take up their proper stations, so as to prevent fouling of gear,
and unseemly, sometimes dangerous, brawls; finally, to erect piers and
quays, and to make and maintain harbours on the coasts with aid from the
proprietors and fishermen, with whom the Commissioners are in frequent
communication, and to protect the boats and property in those harbours.

Of course these important and multifarious duties cannot be performed
but at some expense; yet when we consider the deep interests involved,
the vast capital embarked, the steady and increasing occupation of a
remunerative kind afforded to so great a mass of our poorer population,
and the difficulties and dangers which naturally beset this adventurous
calling, we think the sum is very small compared with the advantages
which its expenditure insures. The police department, especially on the
western shores and islands, is chiefly maintained by the Princess Royal
cutter, of about 103 tons burden, and a crew of 20 men and boys,
including an experienced commander, and mate. This vessel is under the
exclusive control of the Board. During the height of the fishing season,
one or more small steam-vessels are placed by the Admiralty under the
direction of the Board, and one of these vessels is usually continued in
the Firth of Forth, for the protection of the winter fishing, so
frequent there. The entire coast is divided into districts amounting,
with the Orkney and Shetland Islands, to 22 in number, managed by a
general Inspector, and 25 resident officers, whose sole occupation
consists in the direction and encouragement of whatever may tend to the
improvement and increase of the fisheries, and their products. It is
imperative that these men should themselves have served for three years
in the practical performance of the cooper’s art. They are selected on
account of their probity, sobriety, assiduity, and intelligence, and
they are not raised to be the responsible officers of a district till
they have acquired the requisite knowledge, and given proof of their
capability, as assistants and nominees, for the higher situations. They
reside among, and habitually mingle with the people of the fishing
stations, and keep up a friendly and uninterrupted intercourse with
them. That they skilfully and faithfully fulfil their functions, may be
inferred from the very few instances in which, during a long continuous
course of years, and almost countless series of transactions, any
complaint of defective cure in any barrel bearing the brand has ever
been presented to the Board.

The mere bestowal of the brand is, however, by no means the sole, though
it is the final act of those officials. They are on the alert wherever
fish are landed from the exhaustless deep. They encourage and hasten the
immediate application of the most approved modes of handling, assorting,
gutting, rousing, salting, re-pickling, packing, filling up after
sinking, and so on, and are thus actively engaged among all the various
classes of people, whether of the sea or shore, explaining what is
right, and checking what is wrong, from the first moment that the fish
are landed from the boats, like glittering and gorgeous heaps of silver,
till the full barrels are finally fixed down, and the brand applied.
They also ascertain that the measures used as between the fishermen and
the curers, and between the curers and the public, are properly
constructed, and of just dimensions. To do this effectively, in a
station such as that of Wick, where many hundred large boats are
discharging their almost living freight nearly at the same time, it is
obvious that energy, activity, and considerable sharp-sightedness, are
indispensable to see that all is open and above board among such an
innumerable and multifarious crew from all quarters,—counting among
them, no doubt, as in all other trades, those who are not so scrupulous
as to debar their being somewhat greedy of gain. We have been told, from
the highest source, of how many evils that fatal though frequent passion
is the root.

The expenses of the Board, as above constituted, are the following.
There is a special grant of £3000 (by Act of Parliament) for the
erection of piers and quays, or other harbour-work. There is a further
sum granted, by the annual votes of supply, of £11,000 for the general
expenses of the Board, their head office in Edinburgh, their
establishment of district officers throughout the country, the general
superintendence of the fisheries, and the maintenance of the cutter and
her crew. The Commissioners of the Board act gratuitously. We presume
that the functionaries last alluded to, although unpaid, assiduously
perform the duties required of them, and to which they are pledged. The
following is Mr John Shaw Lefevre’s testimony in their favour, as well
as in advocation of the continuance both of the brand and Board:—

  “Having arrived at the conviction of the necessity of maintaining at
  present the system of branding herrings, it appears to me that this
  would of itself require the continuance of the Fishery Board,
  independently of the question of the general utility of that
  establishment. I conceive that the superintendence of that system, and
  of the officers conducting it, could not be better or more
  satisfactorily executed than by that Board, which is thoroughly
  conversant with the subject, as respects the Scotch fisheries, to
  which the branding system is practically limited, and far more
  conveniently situated than any Central Board in London.

  “Having had the opportunity of inspecting the correspondence and
  proceedings of this Board, it would be unjust not to take this
  opportunity of adverting to the important services which the
  Commissioners, acting themselves gratuitously, and with a moderate
  establishment, have rendered to the public in assisting for a long
  period of years in the development of this branch of national
  industry, and of expressing my belief, that, in the present condition
  of the poorer classes in Scotland, the question of the continuance of
  the Board of Fisheries is not merely to be regarded in reference to
  measures of economy,—that it is impossible to doubt the social and
  moral advantages which may and do result to this class of the
  population, from the attention bestowed upon their welfare by a body
  of eminent persons, distinguished by their rank, position, and
  knowledge, and who are constantly endeavouring to obtain and
  disseminate information useful to those employed in the fisheries, to
  encourage their enterprise, to stimulate their industry, and to
  promote their physical and moral welfare.”

We quite agree with Mr Lefevre in the opinion expressed above, and
especially in his belief that a Scotch Board, necessarily conversant
with the subject of the Scotch fisheries, will exercise a more effective
and satisfactory superintendence, and perform its functions much more
conveniently and economically, than could any board in London, so far
removed from the scene of action.

The general importance of our present subject is too obvious and
admitted to be argumentatively insisted on. If we have writ our annals
true, it cannot be doubted that the British fisheries, as the great
nursery for seamen of habitual hardihood, and fearless of “the
lightning, the fierce winds, the trampling waves,” are altogether
invaluable, and, in a national point of view, far transcend the mere
direct pecuniary advantages, however great, which may so easily be shown
to spring from them. It is long since Sir Henry Wotton maintained that
there was something even in the capture of fish, viewed simply as a
trade, which tended to improve the moral, if not the intellectual
character of men, and to bring them up for the most part a humane as
well as hardy race; and more recently, Baron Cuvier, so well acquainted
with both man and beast, and every other thing that dwells on this
terraqueous globe, has recorded his opinion, that all nations possessed
of any sea-coast where the herring occurs, have given great
encouragement to its capture, wisely regarding that occupation as the
most natural nursery for the bringing up of robust men, intrepid
sailors, and skilful navigators, and so of the highest importance in the
establishment of maritime greatness. Lacepede goes so far as to regard
the herring as “une de ces productions dont l’emploi décide de la
destinée des empires.” We know that during the palmiest days of the
States-General, out of a population of 2,400,000 persons, 450,000 were
either fishermen, or connected with the building and equipment of ships
and boats pertaining to the fisheries; and so the Pensionary De Witt was
not far wrong when he stated that every fifth man in Holland earned his
subsistence by the sea, and that the herring fishery might be regarded
as the right hand of the republic. Indeed, the Dutch nation, so wary,
considerate, and persevering, have always admitted that their wealth and
strength resulted from the sea; and hence the old saying still in use
among them, that the “foundation of Amsterdam was laid on
herring-bones.”

Seeing, then, that we are surrounded by so great a mass of witnesses,
testifying to the importance of this trade, and knowing to what height,
after so many years of toil and trouble, we have now attained, ought we
to put in peril our present most advantageous position, by venturing
upon any fanciful alteration of that familiar machinery which has
hitherto worked so well?

It is, however, rumoured that Government proposes, we presume by way of
mending these matters, to abolish the Board of Fisheries, collect the
statistics, and exercise the superintendence, after some other fashion,
cast the brand into oblivion, withdraw the grant for the building of
piers and quays, and so dispense, _in toto_, with the advice,
assistance, or intervention of the old and experienced authorities. This
proposal, of course, proceeds upon the assumption that the brand may now
be advantageously done away with, and the principle adopted which has so
long been applied to the linen and woollen manufactures, which are not
now stamped officially, but depend for preference on the character and
merits of each particular maker. We understand it to be alleged, that
this so-called sounder system should be applied to the Scotch fisheries,
with a view to assimilate them, so far, to those of Ireland. We shall
now consider this proposal, which, we need scarcely say, has sorely
perplexed and alarmed the people of our coasts. They almost feel as if
the fate foretold by the Prophet Isaiah was now in store for them, and
that the time is at hand, when “the fishers also shall mourn, ... and
they that spread nets upon the waters shall languish.”—Isa. xix. 8.

We shall now, as briefly as we can, take up the subject under the
different heads into which it naturally divides itself.

In the first place, we can bear testimony, from personal knowledge, to
the fact, that great importance is attached by our fishing population to
the existence of the Board. They view it as a body to whom they can have
easy access, through the resident Fishery officers at the various
stations. Their impression is that their interests are cared for by it,
and hence their willingness, in cases of difference or dispute, to be
regulated by the friendly interposition of the official superintendents.
Innumerable cases might be cited of aid afforded by the captain and crew
of the Princess Royal fishery cutter, as well as by the effective
influence and authority of the naval superintendent, with his Queen’s
ship. But the great advantage of the former vessel is, that she is under
the entire control of the Board for the whole year, whereas the
war-steamer is only given for a time, and is of course always under
Admiralty orders. There is also additional benefit found to flow to the
Highland population of our insular and other western shores, from the
easy intercourse they can have with the Gaelic-speaking boats’ crew of
the cutter, compared with the utter and irremediable absence of all
intelligible intercourse, which not unfrequently occurs, between that
population and the unalloyed Saxons of a steamship from the south.

We doubt not that the Board of Fisheries believes itself, and on good
ground, to be, from the very nature of its constitution, in a more
favourable position than any other body of men can be, to ascertain and
judge of the local requirements of parties applying for additional
accommodation in the way of piers and quays. Their accurate statistical
returns enable them to know whether a given station is on the increase
or otherwise, and their local officers having necessarily an intimate
acquaintance with the character of the fishing population of each
district, can testify to their activity and success. They can thus give
information which it would be extremely difficult to obtain in any other
way, but without which the propriety of erecting, or repairing and
extending, any of these shore-works, could not be so satisfactorily
determined.

In respect to the proposal to assimilate the Scotch to the _Irish_
fisheries, we believe the fact to be, that the Irish _Herring_ Fishery
has actually no existence as a national undertaking. Let any one read
over the _Reports_ of the Irish Commissioners, and he will perceive at
once that their functions are confined almost exclusively to the
regulation and improvement of the _Inland Fisheries_; that is, those of
salmon and white trout. Any mention of herrings is, in truth, of the
most casual and unimportant kind. There is, no doubt, a somewhat regular
herring fishery off a portion of the eastern coast of Ireland, the boats
sailing, for the time being, to and from the harbour of Howth. But it is
very well known to every person in any way conversant with the subject,
that these boats consist of about 140 from St Ives, in Cornwall, of
towards 100 from the Isle of Man, and of some 20 from Campbeltown in the
west of Scotland. Scarcely any native Irish boats frequent that fishery.
We believe that a few come off from Arklow,—we presume very few, as they
are not enumerated by the Irish Commissioners. These Commissioners,
however, state, that of all the boats above mentioned, the Scotch “are
invariably the most successful,” owing to the superior nature of their
nets, and no doubt more skilful mode of management. So backward, in
truth, is the condition of the Irish herring fishery, and those
connected with it, compared with the Scotch and its conductors, that a
very few seasons ago a set of cooper’s tools for the manufacture of
barrels could not be found at any curing-station in all Ireland, and
there had to be sent over from Scotland, at the request of Mr Ffennel,
one of the Irish Inspecting Commissioners, a few skilled artisans, with
the necessary implements, to instruct the establishments of the sister
isle, and aid those concerned in their pursuit of knowledge under
difficulties. Now, we should certainly be very sorry to be assimilated
to anything of that kind, although we can easily conceive that the
assimilation of the Irish fisheries to those of Scotland would be of
great advantage to the former.

We are willing to make every allowance for the difference in the
character and disposition of the Scotch and Irish (although the majority
of the one, so far as _fishers_ are concerned, are as _Celtic_ as the
other), and for many disturbing elements in the Green Isle which do not
so deeply and fatally pervade the social state of our own people; but
still, where we find, on the one hand, a most important branch of
commerce long established and maintained in security, and now on the
increase from year to year, and on the other a desponding if not
decreasing condition of affairs, carried on with little energy and no
success,—there seems nothing unreasonable in the supposition, that
management and methodical regulation, a long-continued course of
instruction, an unceasing supervision, and encouragement both by precept
and example, to work up and attain to a higher standard of excellence
than heretofore, may have produced the most beneficial effect in the
former case; while the absence of such ameliorating causes, and of all
counteractions of apathy and ignorance, may have been injurious in the
latter. The Scotch fishermen and fish-curers have experienced, and still
enjoy, the advantages referred to,—the Irish have not been deprived of
them, because they never had them in possession. The Scotch herring
fishery is by far the greatest and most successful in the world,—the
Irish is unfortunately the smallest and least prosperous on the waters
of the known earth; and why should we seek to assimilate the two by
adding much to nothing, rather than by endeavouring to create something
out of nothing, and thus increasing the previously existing stores of
national wealth? Of course, we know not with certainty what effect would
follow the formation along the still unproductive Irish shores of a
machinery in accordance with the system which has proved so signally
successful along the wild coasts of much more barren and ungenial
Scotland; but we think it would surely be a wiser and more generous
policy to try the experiment of assimilation, rather by endeavouring to
raise up Ireland to what it ought to be, than run the risk of bringing
the two countries into somewhat similar condition, by sacrificing any of
the few advantages which Scotland now enjoys.

If the accurate ascertainment of the statistics of the land is now
deemed of such vital importance, surely that of the sea, to this great
maritime and commercial nation, is no way less so. This brings us to the
consideration of the performance of another important duty of the Board,
the advantages of which we should of course lose on its abolition. Our
marine and fishery statistics have been hitherto collected with great
fulness and accuracy by the officers of the Board, and annually reported
to Parliament. On the demolition of the Board, who are to perform the
same functions in time to come? If the coast-guard is to be so employed,
as it is in Ireland, let us briefly inquire into the well-doing of that
system there.

In reference to the marine statistics of the sister isle, as collected
and transmitted by the coast-guard, the Irish Fishery Commissioners
report as follows:—

  “The doubts which we have expressed in former reports of the accuracy
  of the tabular returns, which are founded upon information furnished
  by the coast-guard department, are, we regret to state, undiminished.
  Several cases in which we have endeavoured to test their correctness,
  have convinced us that _not even an approximate estimate_ can be
  formed of the actual extent and state of the fishing establishment on
  the coast. From any sources within our reach, unaided by anything like
  a responsible staff, _we are unable to obtain the necessary
  information_, or to effect that perfect organisation of the coast
  which would tend to the promotion of the fisheries and the
  preservation of order—an object of vital importance to the
  well-working of the fisheries, as well as to the peace of the country.

  “We have in our department but one clerk, whose duties are sometimes
  necessarily extended to visiting distant stations for the promulgation
  of by-laws, or for other purposes; and on such occasions we have
  required of him to furnish us with a statement of his progress. His
  reports prove how exceedingly valuable the services of qualified
  persons would be, instead of the desultory and unsatisfactory
  information which we are enabled to procure from irresponsible
  persons, who are bound to make our business quite subordinate to their
  more important duties. We subjoin a copy of the circular and queries
  which we issue annually to the coast-guard department; and in most
  cases we find that five out of the seven questions asked are either
  not answered at all, or in a manner not calculated to afford much
  information.”[23]

In a subsequent report the Inspecting Commissioners state, in relation
to the Belmullet district, which extends from Duna Head to Butter Point,
that the diminution in the number of boats and hands is so great as to
seem quite incredible. They attribute this not so much to the actual
decrease, as to the erroneous and exaggerated information formerly
received. “There are no first-class boats, and only 190 second class,
with 676 men and boys, instead of the former establishment, which was
stated to have been 962 vessels, with 3376 men and boys. This clearly
proves the great inaccuracy of former returns.”[24]

In the most recent report of the Irish Commissioners the following is
the conclusion come to:—

  “We cannot conclude this report on the coast fisheries of Ireland
  without expressing our deep regret that we are not furnished with data
  which would enable us to supply accurate statistical information as to
  the physical resources which may be found upon our shores for purposes
  of national defence. The encouragement of our coast fisheries used in
  former times to be considered the most effectual and legitimate means
  of providing for our navy.... In France we are told that the whole
  commercial navy—masters, mates, sailors, and shipboys—are under the
  eye and jurisdiction of the Minister of Marine;—nay, every fisherman,
  waterman, ferryman, oyster-dredger, and boat-builder is registered. We
  very much wish that we had been enabled to establish even a less
  perfect system of organisation, but we find ourselves more deficient
  in means of obtaining accurate information every succeeding year; and
  we entertain little hopes that, until the present plan of registry is
  much improved, we can ever attempt to present returns the accuracy of
  which we could vouch for.”[25]

We do not think that the preceding extracts are encouraging, or hold out
any great inducement to assimilate our established mode of marine
statistical collection to that of Ireland. Far better to abide as we
are, and “let well alone.” It may also be borne in mind, that so far as
the north-west portions of Scotland, with their numerous and
deeply-indented fishing-bays, are concerned, there is actually no
coast-guard in existence.

A single paragraph may suffice in regard to the general marine
superintendence, or police duties, as exercised by the Board of
Fisheries. These duties are chiefly performed by boats’ crews from the
Princess Royal fishery cutter. We may refer to the fact that the Chamber
of Commerce of Wick apply each season to the Board for a boat’s crew to
be stationed at Wick, for the purpose of preserving order in the fleet
of fishing-boats assembled in that overcrowded mart; and that the
results are invariably so successful and satisfactory, that no
complaints of brawling or contention are ever made. On the contrary, the
Chamber of Commerce seems annually to express and record its grateful
acknowledgments to the Board for its efficient services in this
particular matter of the preservation of the peace. The following,
however, is of a somewhat different complexion, in the last Report of
the Irish Commissioners, regarding the state of matters in the Green
Isle:—

  “The fishers and buyers complain greatly of the absence of some
  regulations for the preservation of order among the multitude of boats
  and people that are often assembled; and still more of the absence of
  any summary jurisdiction for enforcing regulations and settling
  disputes between the boatmen themselves, and between them and the
  purchasers; and have agreed upon a memorial to the Lord-Lieutenant
  upon the subject, which, doubtless, will come before the Board in due
  time.”[26] “The inspecting commander at Donaghadee complains that the
  people do not conform to the laws with regard to the size of the
  meshes; and that with poke nets, used in Lough Strangford, great
  quantities of fry of cod, whiting, pollock, blocken, sythes,
  salmon-trout, turbot, golpens, and smelts, from two to three inches
  long, are destroyed.”[27]

We may now say a few words regarding the somewhat disputed subject of
the _brand_. Many of our readers are, no doubt, so innocent as not to
know very precisely what this mysterious symbol indicates. The mark
called the _Full crown Brand_ merely means, that the herrings contained
in the barrel which bears it have been regularly selected and assorted
from the first, as of full size, good quality, and fresh condition; that
they have been gutted and salted immediately after capture; have gone
through various intermediate curative processes not needful to be here
detailed; have lain at least ten days in pickle since their first
presentment in the market-place; and having been then carefully
inspected by the fishery officer of the station, and found in every way
excellent and in sound order, have had the heads and girdings of their
barrels firmly and finally fixed down by the cooper, and so being
entitled to the Government Brand, have accordingly had that distinction
impressed upon them by means of a hot iron which “the likeness of a
queenly crown has on.”

Now, it has been argued by some, who, like Campbell’s sable chieftain of
the Indian forest,—

           “Scorning to wield the hatchet for a bribe,
           ’Gainst Brand himself have gone in battle forth,”

that this is an interference with the freedom of trade, which should be
left open to all competitors, without fear or favour. They maintain that
although it may be convenient and advantageous to dealers, it
practically tends to confine improvement in the mode of cure within the
limits just necessary to secure the brand, and that there is thus no
inducement held out to a fish-curer to surpass his fellows,—the
Government brand, as it were, equalising the value of the article,
although one set of barrels may be much better than another. It is also
asserted that the brand creates an artificial system inconsistent with
proper and prevailing principles, and that the sounder system now
applied to the linen and woollen trade (from both of which the
Government mark has been for some time removed), and all along to the
fisheries of Ireland, should be put in force.

In reply to these objections, it may be mentioned that herrings are of a
very different nature from linen or woollen fabrics, and after being
packed for exportation, cannot have their character and condition
ascertained by either touch or eye-sight, without injury to their future
state. The brand is _not compulsory_, and can scarcely present any
barrier to improvement in the cure of herrings, because if any curer,
more skilful than his neighbours, can find out and put in practice any
better method than that now in use, he is entirely free to do so, and
may thus establish his name, and trust to it, independent of the brand.
Moreover, whatever may be the philosophical value of the principle in
political economy pointed out as deserving of a preference in the
abstract, it must practically (and the gutting and curing of herrings
are very practical operations in their way) be borne in mind, that our
fisheries have grown up rapidly under the present system, which was
found necessary to enable us to compete with the Dutch, whom we have
thereby driven out of whatever markets are open to us without
disadvantageous differential duties, and that our now prosperous
practice is sunk into the very foundations of our foreign trade,
affecting the wellbeing of almost countless thousands, from the forlorn
fisherman to the wealthiest capitalist, or most aspiring speculator.

It is assuredly a strong fact, that the foreign merchants themselves are
unanimous in favour of the continuance of the present system, as
enabling them to transmit their barrels, on the faith of the brand, into
far inland countries, where the names of our native curers, however
familiar to many of ourselves, are necessarily quite unknown, but where
the acknowledged _crown brand_, by its simplicity and certainty,
suffices for every purpose of an agreed-on guarantee. Great derangement
of the foreign trade, and consequent disadvantage, are naturally
apprehended from any sudden departure from the existing long-established
system. The trouble and expense which, in absence of the brand,
necessarily follow the practice of _braken_ (that is, inspection by
opening) would inevitably decrease the profits of both the fishermen and
curers in our own country; because as each party through whose hands the
fish pass from their first capture to their final consumption must reap
some share of profit, whatever increases the difficulties of the
intermediate stages, tends to lower prices in this country. The duties
paid abroad, both of import and transit, and other unavoidable charges,
prevent the exaction of any higher prices in the foreign market, because
any considerable increase would be tantamount to prohibition, and would
thus debar any sales whatever. As the price, then, must remain the same,
or nearly so, to the foreign consumer, a large proportion of the loss
occasioned by increased expense would unavoidably fall upon our own
people. Now, it is well known that, in consequence of the perilous and
uncertain nature of a fisherman’s vocation, and the peculiarities of the
curing trade, the profits to those concerned can in no way stand
reduction, however much they may require increase.

The opinion of the foreign merchants on this matter has been manifested
many times. On the 7th of March 1844, Messrs Robinow & Sons, and
Hudtwalcker & Co., of Hamburg, write as follows:—

  “We believe ourselves entitled to state that we are not merely
  expressing our own individual sentiments, but, at the same time, those
  of the public in general interested in the herring trade of the
  Continent. The official interference of the Board will prove a great
  benefit to the Scotch herring trade. It will, on the one hand, prove
  to the buyers on the Continent that the Board of Fisheries is desirous
  to do all in its power to justify the renowned fame of its brands, and
  in this way give more confidence to the trade. On the other hand, the
  curers of Scotland will be influenced by such steps to pay as much
  attention to the curing and packing as possible, and thus increasing
  confidence on the part of consumers, and increasing vigilance, with a
  view to improve the cure, on the part of the curers and officers, will
  conjointly contribute to increase the consumption of Scotch herrings
  on the Continent, and consequently to increase the exportation.”

Mr Wellmann, of Stettin, a very extensive foreign purchaser of the
Caithness branded herrings, in a letter to Mr George Traill, M.P. for
the county, wrote thus on the 8th of February 1851:—

  “Scotch herrings are only sold in small quantities in this market and
  the neighbourhood; they are chiefly sent great distances of from a
  hundred to eight hundred miles English, into the interior of Germany
  and Poland, either by orders or offers, without the assistance of
  commission merchants, for the great expense of forwarding them does
  not permit any commission to a third party. The great distance
  prevents, likewise, dealers from inspecting the herrings on the spot
  here, who therefore make their purchases solely on their trust in the
  official brand, knowing that the fish must be selected well, and
  properly cured,—that the barrels be of legal size,—and that they
  require to be well and tightly made before the brand can be affixed.
  These herrings are generally forwarded by crafts, which are often six
  or eight weeks on their passage, and it frequently happens that a
  great fall in the market takes place during that time; and should the
  official brand be removed, dealers in the interior might easily take
  advantage of such falls, for it would not be difficult to find
  complaints—such, for instance, that the fish were not properly
  selected or well cured—that they had too much or too little salt—or
  that the barrels were of a smaller size (for no one can there say of
  what size the barrels require to be); and as most herrings are sold on
  credit, they would consequently be often stored at the risk and the
  expense of the shipper, and perhaps in markets where the person who
  purchased them was the only dealer.... The cheapness and the improved
  cure have increased the importation of Scotch herrings into our port
  to a great extent, for there is no port to which more Scotch herrings
  are shipped than Stettin, whilst the importation of Dutch and
  Norwegian fish has diminished.”

A body of Hamburg merchants, too numerous to be here named, stated, on
the 4th of October 1852, that it is by the careful observance of the
regulations established and enforced by the Board of Fisheries, that the
Scotch herring trade has attained to its present magnitude:—

  “It is by the crown full brand,” they observe, “that we enter into
  contracts, make sales and deliveries, without examination. Such
  herrings pass current from hand to hand here, and into the interior,
  some of them reaching the empire of Austria. The many thousand barrels
  of full crown branded herrings arrived this season have given entire
  satisfaction to us and our constituents; but the sale of unbranded
  herrings is frequently the subject of complaint, and threats made by
  customers to return the herrings. We are, therefore, compelled to make
  abatements in the price.”

The partners of four merchant firms of Berlin expressed themselves thus,
on the 7th of October 1852:—“We hereby represent our entire confidence
in the official brand applied to the Scotch herrings by the officers of
the Board of Fisheries, which is our only guarantee for the large
capital we embark in this business.” And the heads of six mercantile
houses of Magdeburg state, within a few days of that time, in respect to
a rumour which had reached them regarding the possible abolition of the
brand: “An alteration in this respect would put us to the greatest
inconvenience, and compel us to adopt another plan of payment, which in
the end would not be agreeable to your merchants and curers.... The
opinion of a body of merchants, importing annually 50,000 to 60,000
barrels of Scotch herrings, will be worth some consideration,
particularly as the object concerns the interests of both parties.”

Mr Thalberg, another Prussian merchant, has recently (in 1855) written
as under:—

  “In order to show how the Scotch herrings had risen in the Dantzic
  market, while in 1841 only from 3000 to 4000 barrels were imported,
  last year there were 35,000, and Scotch herrings were gradually more
  and more taken into the interior, while Norwegian herrings have
  correspondingly decreased. The same was the fact at Königsberg. This
  he attributed to the brand. Some of the herrings were actually sent to
  the Black Sea, being bought at Dantzic on the faith of the brand,
  which was so essential to a continuance and spread of the trade, that
  he did not believe purchasers from the interior would come such a
  distance and examine the barrels for themselves, were the brand
  abolished. Norwegian herrings were sent in small yachts, and each
  parcel was examined with the greatest minuteness before being
  purchased.”

These are the opinions of foreign merchants on this important point. The
following may be taken as expressing the sentiments of those at home. Mr
James Methuen, of Leith, a skilful curer, extensively known as of great
experience, and very largely embarked in the export trade, very recently
wrote as follows:—

  “It is impossible to see each herring in a barrel, therefore
  inspection of them at the time of curing and packing enables an
  officer to brand with knowledge of the article, and gives confidence
  to the purchaser.

  “The official brand has proved the means of exchange by bill of lading
  from hand to hand, and from dealer to dealer, in Scotland,—afloat in
  the middle of the North Sea,—in the Baltic, or in the rivers of
  Germany in their river craft, and up the interior of Germany for
  hundreds of miles,—and been passed and paid for as a good bill of
  exchange—in some cases through half-a-dozen purchasers.

  “I ask those who differ, would it be wise of Parliament to peril the
  industry of so many thousands of our seafaring and industrious
  population, for want of the supervision that has wrought so well as to
  displace the demand for Norwegian and Dutch cured herrings on the
  continent of Europe, and enhanced the value of the Scotch crown
  branded herrings, so that they are now bought and sold without
  inspection by parties who never, and cannot, see them.”[28]

The important fact previously stated by Mr Wellmann, in regard to the
increasing consumption of Scotch herrings in the Baltic, and the
consequently decreased importation from other quarters, is well shown by
the following table:—

    In 1834, barrels of Dutch herrings received at Stettin,   4,546
       „        „    of Norwegian do.,      „         „      53,981
       „        „    of Scotch    do.,      „         „      19,960
                                                            ———————
    In 1850,    „    of Dutch     do.,      „         „         568
       „        „    of Norwegian do.,      „         „      12,507
       „        „    of Scotch    do.,      „         „     116,538

In the year 1849, our exportation to Stettin amounted to 147,103
barrels. That season is well known to have been the most productive of
herrings of any ever “recorded in history,” and so gave us the power,
while Prussia afforded the opportunity, of this most beneficial
exportation. It gives us sincere pleasure to add, that the immediately
preceding season of 1855, although by no means the greatest in respect
of capture, has exceeded all its predecessors in exportation to the
Prussian markets—154,961 barrels having been transmitted to Stettin
during the year now closed. Almost the whole of that vast consignment
was ordered in consequence of the certain guarantee afforded by the
crown brand. Now that peace is ere long, as we trust, about to be
proclaimed, it is pleasant to anticipate the fresh impulse which may be
given to the consumption of our native produce in many inland countries
of the Continent. The disastrous, though, from the cruel necessities of
war, advisable destruction of the great Russian fisheries, will no
doubt, for a time, cause additional recourse to our marine resources;
but the absence of the well-known and long-trusted brand from our
barrels exported to the Baltic, would assuredly tend to check, or render
less likely, that desirable increase.[29]

It is thought by many considerate and well-instructed people, by bankers
and men of business, whether merchants or otherwise, that the power of
obtaining the brand is of great advantage to young men of small means,
and not yet established commercial reputation, who desire to enter into
the export herring trade. By attending carefully to the cure of, it may
be, only a few hundred barrels, they obtain the brand, and can ship
their small stock with as good a prospect of a fair proportional profit
as the most wealthy and best-known exporter. This opens a door to rising
integrity and intelligence which might otherwise be closed, and it
lessens the occasional evils of those engrossing monopolies which the
large command of capital or credit is apt to produce, to the
disadvantage of the poorer though not less trustworthy trader.

In reference to the next head of our discourse—the small annual grant of
£3000 for the erection or enlargement of harbours, piers, and quays,—we
think it cannot be doubted that its administration by the Board of
Fisheries is necessarily attended by numerous and great advantages.
Correspondence and inquiry take place in each particular instance of
application for aid; one of the first practical steps being an accurate
survey by the Board’s engineers, with a report on the practicability and
probable expense of the proposed work. The cost of this preliminary
investigation is shared, half and half, between the applicant and the
Board. The Board, being by this time in possession of all particulars
necessary to be known, determines the proportion which the proprietor or
fishermen (or both, as the case may be) should be made to bear of the
ultimate outlay, while the latter parties also take into consideration
how far they are able to make the required contribution; and so the
agreement is either completed, or does not take place. Of course, the
Board may either reject or entertain an application, while a proprietor
(committed to nothing more than his share of the previous survey) may on
his part accept or refuse to pledge himself to the payment of his fixed
proportion, according to what he knows of his own ways and means. It is
not till these preliminaries have been adjusted that the actual work is
mutually agreed upon, and put in operation. We know that many of these
undertakings, which on their first proposal seemed almost hopeless of
execution, have, by the encouragement and exertion of the Board, been
brought to a successful issue, and are not only now in themselves of
unspeakable advantage to our fishing population, but, by affording a
successful example of the benefits which occur from comparatively small
sums judiciously expended, have been the means of conducing directly to
the erection of similar undertakings elsewhere, of equal benefit, but
not previously taken into contemplation. A great deal more is done by
these quiet and considerate means than can possibly be here detailed;
but it is self-evident that the constant and unconstrained communication
which now and has so long existed between the Commissioners, the great
majority of whom are resident in Edinburgh, and the proprietors as well
as people of the coast districts, where an increase of boat
accommodation is so much required, cannot be otherwise than
advantageous.[30]

Now, if the Board of Fisheries be abolished, how and by whom are these
friendly and encouraging communications to be carried on, and who are to
pay the preliminary expenses? Through what agency are matters to be put
in shape for acceptance by the Treasury, and the recommendation of a
special grant by Parliament, in favour of any particular pier, or other
work, that may be wanted? These preliminary but unavoidable expenses
would in many cases fall upon a body of poor fishermen, who, without any
warning voice on the one hand, or word of encouragement on the other,
must proceed in doubt and darkness as to the chances of ultimate success
with Government; while that Government could not proceed to action in
the proposed matter without ordering some inquiry of their own, with a
view to confirm or confute the opinion of the applicant, and thus
causing, whatever might be the result, _additional if not double
expenditure_,—while the object of the abolition of the Board is _to save
expense_! A detailed explanation to Parliament regarding the special
requirements of each particular case, though safe and salutary in the
instance of great public harbour-works, would prove inconvenient, if not
inoperative, in the administration of the numerous smaller fishing-pier
grants for Scotland, hitherto contributed and administered by the Board.
In what way the local though important circumstances connected with the
expenditure of a few hundred pounds for the erection of a slip at the
far end of Lewis, at Sandseir in Shetland, or Eday in Orkney, can form
the subject of an immediate and judicious parliamentary inquiry, we
cannot well conceive. Probably few proprietors would desire to take
advantage of a grant for some small but desirable improvement in those
wild regions, were all the private and preliminary negotiations
subjected to so cumbrous and uncertain a course as a consideration by
the House of Commons. The communications now made to the Board of
Fisheries by many Highland and other proprietors, are no doubt often to
a certain extent of a confidential nature, involving the exposition of
pecuniary affairs in connection with the proportional sums which
particular proprietors may or may not have it in their power to pay. But
when the main point is proved, to the satisfaction of the Board—to wit,
that a great and general advantage will assuredly accrue to the people,
whether a closely congregated mass, or the forlorn and far-scattered
remnants of some dim and distant island of the sea,—then is the grant
agreed to, and every effort, consistent with enduring efficiency, made
to economise its administration, while every exertion has been
previously put forth to obtain the utmost possible aid from proprietors
and fishermen. It is obvious, from the annual reports made to
Parliament, how much is frequently effected by the Board in this way.
Let the following examples suffice for the exposition of this portion of
our subject. The harbours after-named have not been built by wealthy
proprietors, but by contributions to the Board by working fishermen, out
of the hard-earned savings of their precarious life of labour.

 For the harbour of Cellar-dyke there was lately paid by       £705 18 4
   fishermen,
 Do. Buckhaven,  do.,                                         3,116 19 9
 Do. Coldingham, do.,                                           571  8 0

The grant to the Board commenced in 1828, but was only £2500 per annum
for many years, and often greatly less, the practice appearing to have
long been to require from the Treasury only the sum actually wanted for
each work; and, from some absence of knowledge among both proprietors
and fishermen, and probably inexperience on the part of the
Commissioners of the Board, the grant in certain seasons was not
obtained at all. It never seems to have reached a regular annual payment
of £2500 until the year 1838, nor £3000 until the year 1850. Yet since
its institution it has, by means of the negotiations of the Board, drawn
out from private parties, for the erection of harbours, the sum of

                                                     £27,455
            Of itself, the Board has paid in grants.  59,399
                                                     ———————
            Making a total of                        £86,854

expended on the improvement of our coasts. It ought, moreover, to be
borne in mind, that although, by the Act of Parliament, not less than
one-fourth must be contributed by the private promoters of these
shore-works, yet, through the influential management of the Board, this
required proportion has in a great many cases been raised to one-third,
and in some to one-half, of the estimated sum. So greatly, indeed, have
the benefits of these ameliorations attracted the attention of the poor
fishermen themselves, that they have not seldom of late come forward
with offers of contributions much beyond what could have been
anticipated from men of their class. When we consider the other
advantages necessarily flowing from the increased prudential habits
which must precede this social or domestic saving,—the diminution in the
consumption of ardent spirits, and abstinence from other sensuous
enjoyments,—it seems impossible to overrate the importance of any
existing and well-established condition of affairs, admitted to be
directly influential in the production of so beneficial, we may say so
blessed, a result.

On the most mature and deliberate consideration of the whole matter now
before us, and with large practical experience of the history and habits
of our fishermen, and other coast population, we desire to protest
against the unpatriotic rumour which has reached our ears, that the
Board of Fisheries is about to be abolished, and its beneficial
functions performed by—we know not whom.

We have now no longer any space for special observations on the two
works of which the titles are given at the foot of the first page of
this article. Like all its predecessors, the _Report_ by the
Commissioners of the Board of Fisheries, for 1854, contains a great deal
of valuable statistical and other information, which, if we seek for
elsewhere, we shall fail to find. The author of the treatise on
“Fisheries,” in the current edition of the _Encyclopædia Britannica_,
has presented us with an ample and accurate exposition of his subject,
with which he is no doubt well acquainted. He appears to us to be rather
long-winded on the history and habits of the salmon and its smolts,
whether one year old or two; but this is probably one of his hobbies,
and as it may be also a favourite topic with a numerous class of curious
and inquiring readers, and has recently assumed additional importance in
connection with the artificial breeding of the finest of our fresh-water
fishes, our ingenious author’s time and labour have probably been by no
means misbestowed in its elucidation.




                             SYDNEY SMITH.


The art of criticism is a branch of literature peculiar and separate,
rigidly marked out from all the other branches of this gentle craft. An
author, like a mother, throws all his personal prestige, all his hope,
and all his riches, into that frail rich-freighted argosy, the book,
which is doubtless _his_, but yet a separate entity, and by no means
_him_; and almost in proportion to the power of his genius, and the
elevation of his aim, his book outshines and overtops its maker, and
becomes of the two the more real and tangible existence. It is indeed
the inevitable tendency of art, in all its loftier labours, to glorify
the work rather than the worker. The man perforce moves in a limited
circle, the book goes everywhere. It is true that we are all much in the
habit of saying that the author is better than the book; but this is an
extremely questionable proposition, and one which experience constantly
controverts. Also we all make comments—and on what subject have we been
so unanimously eloquent?—on the wide reception given to the productions,
and the small amount of public acknowledgment bestowed, on the persons,
of English men of literature. Yes, they may do those things better in
France; but it is not all our English conventionalism, nor is the “stony
British stare” with which the man of land petrifies the man of letters
in these realms by any means a primary or even a secondary cause of that
want of social rank and estimation of which we all complain. Instead of
that, it is the normal position of authorhood, the _bonâ fide_ and
genuine condition of a man who has voluntarily transferred his wealth,
his aspirations, and his power, to another existence, even though that
existence is a creation of his own. The writer of a great book is an
abdicated monarch; out of his cloister, discrowned, but triumphant, he
watches the other king whom he has made, going forth gloriously, a youth
and a bridegroom, to take the world by storm. There are other modes of
fame for him who has a mind to enjoy it in his own person; but it is
scarcely to be disputed, to our thinking, that the very first principle
of art is to glorify the book, the picture, or the image, over the mind
that brought them forth.

But criticism does what literature proper does not pretend to do. Happy
the man who first hit upon the brilliant expedient of reviewing! The
works of the critic are of their nature fugitive and ephemeral; but the
same nature gives them innumerable advantages—immediate influence,
instant superiority, a dazzling and unlaborious reputation. The works
are almost nothing in many cases, but the men have leaped upon the
popular platform, and mastered the reins of the popular vehicle in the
twinkling of an eye. From whence it comes that the greater critics of
modern literature are all known to us rather as persons than as writers.
The younger generation, to whom the birth-hour of the _Edinburgh_, that
Pallas Athene, in her buff and blue, is a remote historic epoch, have
known all their lives the names of Jeffrey and of Sydney Smith; but we
venture to say that this knowledge, so far from being based upon the
actual productions of these distinguished and brilliant writers, would
suffer diminution rather than increase from the most careful study of
their several books. It is an entire mistake to send back these
versatile and animated personages into the obscure of authorship; their
reputation stands out a world above and beyond the volumes that bear
their names. _They_ have made no act of abdication in favour of a book;
they are orators, impassioned, eager, partial; they are men, each in his
own person, storming at us with individual opinions, laughter,
indignation, contemptuousness, making splendid blunders, brilliant
successes, and leaving echoes of their own undaunted voices in the
common din of every day. Their reputation is immediate, sudden,
personal—not the fame of a book, but the renown of a man.

And to this cause we may attribute the very evident fact, that some of
the most notable men of the last generation have left little behind them
to justify the extraordinary reputation bestowed on them by their
contemporaries. Even our own St Christopher, the genial giant of Maga,
is not sufficiently represented in the world of books—and his brilliant
rivals of the opposite party have none of them left a _Noctes_. These
men entirely eclipse the published works that bear their name. We know
what their opinions were, much more by the primitive vehicle of oral
tradition, than by the aid of print or publisher. Their position was
that of speakers, not of writers; their periodical address to the public
was a personal and direct address, out of a natural pulpit, where the
audience saw the orator, as well as the orator saw the audience, and the
immediate response was marvellous. But there is compensation in all
things; the author “had up” before this bench of judges, and gloriously
cut to pieces to the triumph and admiration of all beholders, has his
quiet revenge over his old castigators. The critic, like Dives, has all
his good things in his lifetime; it is the nature of his fame to
decrease, and fade into a recollection. The man dies; the book lives on.

The writer of the work before us,[31] brief and modest as is her
execution of her labour of love, is diffident of the reception which it
may meet with at the hands of the public. Lady Holland’s doubts on this
question have been, doubtless, set at rest long ere now; and we are
after date in offering her the comfort of our opinion, so far as that
may go. Yet we cannot help saying, that with such a man as Sydney Smith,
a biography was a necessity—a right belonging to him, and a duty owed to
us. During his own time he was—not a moral essayist, though all the
world crowded to his lectures—not an Edinburgh Reviewer, though he
himself was the Jove from whose brain that armed Minerva sprang—nor,
last and least, a Canon of St Paul’s. He was Sydney Smith—it was enough
distinction—official character would not stick to so manful and mirthful
a personage; it was not possible to seize upon one part of his sunshiny
and genial nature, and make of it a supposititious man. There was no
catching him even in profile; wherever he went, he went with his whole
breadth in full array of errors and excellences, ampler than his
canonicals. It is folly to say that such a life was uneventful, or that
such a person was not a fit subject for biography. In fact, he was the
fittest of subjects; and as the world never before knew him so well, it
is safe to say that, not even in the sudden triumph of his first great
enterprise, not in the excitement of the times of Plymley, nor in the
fury of American repudiation, was the name of Sydney Smith so
distinguished or so popular as now.

This is the doing of his daughter and his wife. Honour to the love which
would not be discouraged! The mother has not been permitted to see how
thoroughly and cordially the world appreciates that honest and noble
Englishman, of whose fame she was the loyal conservator; but to have
carried out so well her mother’s purpose, and to have seen how
completely the public mind adopts and justifies their own loving
estimate of the head of their household, must be, to Lady Holland,
sufficient reward.

Sydney Smith was the son of a gentleman, clever enough and rich enough
to be a somewhat remarkable and “picturesque” personage, but not, so far
as appears, a very influential one, either as regarded the character or
fortune of his sons. The boys were clever beyond precedent; so clever,
that their schoolfellows made solemn protest against the injustice of
being compelled to strive for prizes with “the Smiths,” who were always
sure to win. Sydney, the most distinguished of the brotherhood, was
captain of the school at Winchester, and, in Oxford, a Fellow of New
College. If popular report speaks true, such learned celibates are
always lovers of good cheer; and in those days, according to Lady
Holland, port wine was the prevailing Helicon; for medievalism had not
then come into fashion, and learned leisure hung heavy upon the
colleges. In the thronged world of youth and intelligence, within and
around these ancient walls, it is easy to suppose how great an
influence, had he sought it, must have fallen to such a man as Sydney
Smith—not to say that society was his natural element, and conversation
his special and remarkable gift. Under these circumstances—at an age in
which every one loves to excel, and in a place where he had unusual
opportunities of distinguishing himself—the young Fellow, seeking
neither pleasure nor influence, stoutly turned his back upon temptation,
and lived, like a brave man as he was, upon his hundred pounds a-year.
Sydney was of other mettle than those hapless men of genius whose “light
from heaven” is a light which leads astray; and it is singular to
observe that the prevailing characteristic of this famous wit and man of
society, at this most perilous portion of his life, was steadfast,
honest, self-denying independence. Such an example is rare; and no one
who wishes to form a true estimate of the hero of this story, should
omit to note this triumph of his youth.

From New College, by an abrupt transition, the young man falls into his
fate. Why the most brilliant of Mr Robert Smith’s four sons should be
the sacrifice of the family we are not told; but the elder is destined
for the bar, and the younger for India, and to Sydney remains only the
Church. He does not feel, nor pretend to feel, that this is his natural
vocation; but he feels it “his duty to yield to his father’s wishes, and
sacrifice his own.” Indeed, to take him within his own limited
standing-ground, the life of Sydney Smith seems nearly a perfect
one—duty, frankly accepted and honestly fulfilled, is in every period
and change of his history; and so long as we take it for granted that it
is only one of the learned professions which this good son enters in
obedience to his father’s wishes, we cannot sufficiently admire the
fortitude with which he takes up his lot. However, we warn our readers,
who may entertain notions, old-fashioned or newfangled, that a clergyman
should be something more than a professional man, to discharge all such
fancies from their mind while they discuss this history. Sydney Smith is
only to be dealt with on his own platform, and by the light of his own
motives. For ourselves, we confess that this most honest, kind-hearted,
and benevolent divine, is not by any means our _beau ideal_ of a
clergyman. Granting all his admirable qualities, and with due regard for
the “calm dignity of his eye, mien, and voice,” his “deep earnest
tones,” and “solemn impressive manner,” and also for the unfailing
benevolence and kindliness of his dealings with his parishioners—in all
which we perfectly believe—we still cannot help feeling that the least
satisfactory view which we can have of Sydney Smith is that of his
clerical position. He does not belong to it, nor it to him; he is a wit,
a scholar, a man of letters, a man of politics, but in no sense, except
in the merely arbitrary matter-of-fact one, is he a clergyman. Without
entering into the religious question, or throwing any stigma whatever
upon a man, in his own way, so honest and so admirable, we are obliged
to hold by our opinion,—the common motives of honesty and propriety
which govern men in the commonest of occupations, are all that are
necessary in his profession of clergyman for a true judgment of Sydney
Smith. It is his duty to look after the morals and comforts of his
parishioners, and he does his duty; but to require of him the entire
devotion of an evangelist, would be to require what he does not pretend
to, and indeed disapproves of. To judge him as we judge the primitive
apostles of our faith, or even to judge him as we judge an Evangelical
incumbent or a Puseyite rector—men who, after their different fashions,
live for this laborious business of theirs, and put their whole heart in
it—would be idle and useless. He must be looked on in the light of his
own motives and his own principles, and not according to any special
view of ours.

And in this aspect we can admire the sacrifice which a young man,
conscious of his own great powers, and no doubt conscious that in this
sphere, of all others, were they least likely to do him service, made
“to his father’s wishes.” He was soon put to a severe practical trial,
and with equal fortitude seems to have endured his banishment to the
dreary solitude of his first curacy. It was a cruel experiment. “Sydney
Smith a curate in the midst of Salisbury Plain!” exclaims his
biographer; and certainly the position was dismal enough. “The village
consisted but of a few scattered cottages and farms”—“once a-week a
butcher’s cart came over from Salisbury”—and “his only relaxation, not
being able to keep a horse, was long walks over these interminable
plains.” Under these circumstances one may suppose that a little of the
fervour of that Methodism, at which in after days he aimed his least
successful arrow, might have been the best amelioration possible to this
melancholy state of things; and very sad it is indeed to send a man,
with no apostolic vocation whatever, to a place which nothing but the
vocation of an apostle could render bearable. Nevertheless Sydney,
honest, brave, and manful, did his duty. He remained at his post, though
he did not love it, and did what was required of him, if not like an
apostle, at least like an honest man.

Let us pause to say that this seems to us the really distinct and
predominant feature in the character of Sydney Smith. He is everywhere a
full-developed Englishman, making greater account of the manly virtues
than of the ethereal ones—disposed to take the plain path before him,
and to tread it sturdily—given to discussing everything that comes under
his notice, in its actual and practicable reality rather than its
remoter essential principles—a man given to _doing_ more than to
_speculating_—a mind not matter-of-fact, but actual—a soul of hearty and
thorough honesty. Honesty is one of the most definite principles of our
nature—it leaves no misty debatable land between the false and the true;
and a man who says nothing but what he believes true, and does nothing
but what he believes right, may be many a time wrong, as human creatures
are, yet must always be an estimable man. Sydney Smith is never
quixotic—never goes positively out of his way to seek a duty which does
not specially call upon him. As long as the bishop is propitious, he is
quite content to leave Foston among the Yorkshire clay, without a
parish-priest; but as soon as the duty places itself broad and distinct
before him, he is down upon it without a moment’s pause, builds the ugly
vicarage, takes possession of the unattractive parish, does whatever his
hand findeth to do. In this lies the charm and force of his character;
in spite of all we say ourselves, and all that other people are pleased
to say concerning the sombre and foggy mood of our national mind, we,
for our own part, cannot help regarding Sydney Smith as a very type and
impersonation of that virtue which has the especial admiration of these
islands. For we like tangible worthiness, we British people—we like
something to look at, as well as to hear tell of, and rejoice with our
whole hearts over the man who “goes in” at his foes, and overcomes
them—who makes light of the infinite “bothers” of life, and bears its
serious calamities like a man, and who carries his good cheer and his
cordial heart unclouded over all. This is the national standard and type
of excellence, let them speak of vapours and moroseness who will.

From the dreary probation of this first charge, Sydney was elevated to a
tutorship, and ushered into a new and eventful life. With his pupil, the
son of a Squire, to whom belongs the honour of finding out that this
curate of Netherhaven was no ordinary personage, the young tutor, by a
happy chance, found his way to Edinburgh. War broke out; Germany fell
into trouble—well for Sydney!—and so the Jove came to Athens that the
Minerva might be born. Does anybody remember how it was in those old,
old days? Dearest reader, there was no Maga! there were _Gentleman’s
Magazines_, and _Scots Magazines_, and other _outré_ and antiquated
productions. The broad and comprehensive survey of general events to
which we are now accustomed, the universal criticism of everything and
every person which is common to us all, and the perfect dauntlessness of
modern journalism, were unknown to those times. And those were the days
when our great men were young—when Youth was abroad in the world, with
all his daring and all his eagerness. There is no particular star of
youth in the horizon of this second half of the nineteenth century, but
this brilliant planet was in the ascendant as the old eighteenth ended
its old-fashioned career of dulness. There was Jeffrey, sharp,
sparkling, and versatile; there was Brougham, vehement and impetuous;
there was Sydney, in his English breadth and all-embracing mirthfulness;
and there were others, all young—young, clever, daring, exuberant, full
of that youthful joyous courage which defies the world. They met, they
talked, they argued: strange enough, though there are published _Lives_
of most of them, we have no clear account of those conversations—no
_Dies_ or _Noctes_, disclosing the eager discussions, the boundless
animadversions, the satire, the fun, and the laughter of this brilliant
fraternity in the high and airy habitations which suited their beginning
fortune; but the result we are all very well acquainted with. Something
came of the concussion of these young and eager intellects; they were
all armed and ready for a grand tilt at things in general—a jubilant
attack upon precedent and authority, after the manner of youth. Yes,
some of them remain, ancient men—others of them have passed away in ripe
old age; yet there they stand, the Revolutionists of Nature, the
universal challengers, the fiery Crusaders of youth. It was not
Whiggery, good our reader, though Pallas Athene _is_ buff and blue—it
was the genuine natural impulse, common to all young humankind, of
pulling down the old and setting up the new.

Perhaps it is because we are better accustomed to good writing and
clever speculation in these days—perhaps because there is now a wider
freedom of speech and opinion than there used to be; but there is a most
distinct and woeful difference, beyond dispute, between the beginning of
literary enterprises in this time, and in that brilliant and eventful
period when Maga was born and the _Edinburgh_ was young. Quarterly
Reviews spring up everywhere in these days—grow into little comfortable
private circulations—belong to particular “interests”—are read, and
influential in their sphere; but who takes note of the day or hour of
their appearing, or hails the advent of the new luminary? Then, the
young periodical took the world by storm—now, nobody wots of it. The
difference is notable; and perhaps, after all, we may be justly doubtful
whether it really is better to have a great many people to do a thing
indifferently, than to have one or two who can do it well.

Yes, we were enemies at our outset; we wrestled manfully, sometimes for
fame, sometimes for principle, sometimes “for love;” yet, being foes,
let us rejoice over them, worthy rivals in an honourable field. Jeffrey
and Sydney Smith have gone upon the last journey—Christopher North is
gathered to his fathers—alas and alas! genius and fame and power are
things of a day, as we are; yet it is hard to believe in their decline
and decadence, when we look back upon these days of their youth.

The first idea of the _Edinburgh Review_ originated with Sydney Smith.
His proposal, as he says himself, was received “with acclamation;” and
indeed it is easy to understand the exultation with which these daring
young men must have anticipated possessing an organ of their own. He
himself edited the first number; and though his name is not so entirely
identified with this brilliant and successful enterprise as some of his
colleagues, to him belongs the glory of the beginning. But his
biographer does little justice to this interesting period of his life.
We have glimpses of his history in Edinburgh only by means of sundry
sensible and candid letters written to the father and mother of his
pupil, in which, as might be expected, the said pupil, a respectable and
mediocre Michael Beach, appears at greater length than his instructor.
There is nothing remarkable in these letters, except the good sense and
frankness with which the character of this pupil is exhibited; and this
is as creditable to the young man’s parents as it is to Sydney: but save
for two or three domestic incidents, we see nothing more of the man, nor
how he lived during this period which had so important an influence upon
all his after life. Even Sydney Smith could not make everywhere such a
brilliant little nucleus of society as that which he brightened and
cheered in Edinburgh. We would gladly have seen more of the five years
of his northern residence, and are much disposed to grudge that Lady
Holland should take this time of all others to tell us about his
writings, and to make a survey of all the future succession of his
articles in the _Edinburgh_. These we can find out for ourselves; but we
might surely have had a more articulate sketch of how our hero appeared
among his equals at this beginning of his life.

Shortly after the first appearance of the Review, Sydney Smith left
Edinburgh, whence, having “finished” his pupil, and finding it necessary
to make some more permanent provision for his family, he removed to
London, where he seems—no disparagement to his manly and independent
character—to have lived for some time upon his wits, making strenuous
efforts to improve his condition, and bearing what he could not mend
with the gayest and most light-hearted philosophy. During this time he
delivered his famous lectures upon moral philosophy—about the earliest
example, we suppose, of literary lecturings; a course of popular
instruction which found immense favour in the eyes of a curious and
discerning public. Audiences, crowded, fashionable, and clever, listened
with eagerness to his exposition of the doctrines and history of
metaphysics. Into this Scotchest of sciences, Sydney, who was no
metaphysician, made a rapid and daring leap. We do not pause to inquire
whether his style was the perfect English which some of his friends
assert it to be—at least it was luminous, clear, and flowing, full of
good sense, and bright with lively sparkles of wit and high
intelligence. To these lectures “everybody” went; and very creditable it
seems to everybody, that this unbeneficed and unaristocratic clergyman,
known solely by his great and fearless talents, and as far removed from
a courtier of fashion as it is possible to conceive, should have
congregated together so large and so enthusiastic an audience. The
manner in which the lecturer himself speaks of this popular course of
philosophy, and the reputation he acquired by it, is amusing enough.
Writing to Jeffrey, he says:—

  “My lectures are just now at such an absurd pitch of celebrity, that I
  must lose a good deal of reputation before the public settles into a
  just equilibrium respecting them. I am most heartily ashamed of my own
  fame, because I am conscious I do not deserve it; and that the moment
  men of sense are provoked by the clamour to look into my claims, it
  will be at an end.”

This prediction has not been fulfilled—nor are the lectures themselves
of the brilliant, faulty, and dashing description, which from this
account one might suppose them to be. They are, in fact, as honest and
truthful as everything else which belongs to their author. When we read
them _now_, we cannot quite account for the sensation they made _then_;
yet we do not throw them into the list of undeserved or fallacious
successes. They merited much though not all of their fame; and the
social success and reputation of their author seems to have grown and
progressed from this time. He was a universal favourite in that mystical
region called “Society,” at least in every quarter of it to which his
political opinions gave him access; and this public appearance made him
henceforth a recognisable personage to the universal public eye. He was
still poor and struggling with many difficulties; but he was surrounded
with fit companions, and full of exuberant spirits—an admirable example,
though unfortunately a rare one, of how well a heart at ease can hold
its place against all the cares of life.

Out of this brief but brilliant season of triumph, poverty, and
happiness, it was at last the fortune of Sydney Smith to find
preferment—which means, in other words, he got a living—an unobtrusive
comfortable living, which permitted its incumbent to remain quietly in
town, and, having no parsonage to lodge him in, considerately gave him
no manner of trouble. But this state of things was much too good to
last, and the unfortunate Rector, a year or two after his appointment,
was summoned not only to his post, but to the less obvious duty of
making that post tenable. We cannot, we are afraid, perceive much
hardship in the necessity of residence, even though the parish was a
parish of clay, in Yorkshire, and out of the world; but the building of
the parsonage was certainly quite a different matter, and a grievous
burden upon a man whose hands already were full enough. Yet the story of
this settlement at Foston is the pleasantest of stories—the cheeriest,
brightest, prettiest picture imaginable of a Crusoe family-scene. For
ourselves, we turn from all the other triumphs of his life—and all his
triumphs, so joyfully achieved, are exhilarating to hear of—to dwell
upon this delightful conquest of little ills and vulgar difficulties, of
brick and timber, architecture and carpentry, slow village minds, and
unaccommodating circumstances. Sydney Smith never met his foes
vicariously, but with shout and sound of triumph went forth against
them, an host in his own person, taking everything at first hand, and
trusting to no deputy. The result was, that his work was _done_—briskly,
well, and with satisfaction to everybody; though, supposing Sydney’s
successor in this clayey parish to be a medieval man, to whom gables are
a point of doctrine, and Gothic porches a necessity, we fear this square
box, ugly and comfortable, must have been the good priest’s death. It
was a home of the brightest to its builder and his family. We will not
quote the quaint history, because everybody has quoted it; but of this
we are very sure, that the ugly house at Foston, with all its odd
contrivances—its Immortal, its Jack Robinson, its feminine butler twelve
years old, its good cheer, its comfort, its fun, and all the
hospitalities of “the Rector’s Head”—are pleasanter and more lasting
memorabilia than scores of Plymley letters. We know no tale of honest,
simple, kindly human interest which has attracted us more.

The visitors at “the Rector’s Head” were illustrious people—noble Greys,
Carlisles, and Hollands, and a flood of philosophers and literary folk
as notable in their way. In this book, however, there are but slender
traces of this memorable “run upon the road.” We can perceive the
visitor’s carriage floundering in the ploughed field, but we do not come
to any very distinct perception of the visitor. Let us not grumble; the
noble Whigs and the philosophic heroes are misty and illegible; but the
setting-out of the family chariot, its freight, harness, and history, is
as quaint and clear as anything in the _Vicar of Wakefield_—and, to tell
you the truth, by no means unlike the same.

From Foston our hero, now the author of _Peter Plymley’s Letters_, comes
to greater preferment, and is advanced to Combe Florey, his vale of
flowers—strange type of human successes!—at a time when grievous trouble
had come upon this happy-hearted man—the loss of his eldest son;—and
from this period his course is all prosperous. He does not, it is true,
get his bishopric, but he is Canon of St Paul’s—is able to spend a good
deal of time in his beloved London—keeps up his high reputation in the
world of wit and intelligence—and finally grows rich as he grows an old
man. Sorrowful is this period of old age; and even the wit of Sydney
Smith cannot veil the sadness of that mournful time, when death after
death breaks up the original circle—when children are gone out of the
parental house, and friends vanish out of the social world. Strangest of
all human desires is that universal desire to live long. How melancholy
is the ending of every record of a lengthened life! It is grievous to
linger upon the tale of weaknesses and sorrows. Surely this art of
biography ought to be one of the weightiest of moral teachers; for even
such a joyous heart as this, though everywhere it finds relief and
compensation, does not escape from that lengthened sojourn in the valley
of the shadow. Earl Grey, his old political leader, was upon _his_ last
sick-bed when Sydney Smith, too weak to bear even the thanks of a
grateful man whom he was not too weak to serve, made an end of his
benevolent and upright days; and messages of mutual sympathy and good
wishes passed between these two, who had wished each other well in other
and more exciting warfares. So, after a long day of manly work and
honest exertion, one of the cheeriest and most courageous of lives came
to its conclusion. His contemporaries had been falling around him for
years—his brother died immediately after—his friend Jeffrey did not long
survive him. They are now almost all gone, these old men, who were once
such eloquent and daring leaders of the impetuous genius of youth. The
_Edinburgh Review_ has fallen into respectable matronhood, and no longer
shivers a sparkling lance upon the powers that be. So wears the world
away.

We cannot venture to stray into those painful and elaborate definitions
of wit, which so many people seem constrained to enter upon at the very
name of Sydney Smith. To our humble thinking, there is an
undiscriminated region of _fun_, a lesser and lower world than that in
which Wit and Humour contend for the kingship, to which many of his
triumphs belong. We do not disparage his claims as a wit; we do not deny
to him that more tender and delicate touch of sentiment and kindness
which seems to us the distinguishing characteristic of the humourist; we
acknowledge the acute edge of his satire, and the sweeter power of that
joyous ridicule which did not aim at giving pain, but dealt with its
victim as old Izaak dealt with his frog, “as if he loved it.” But the
general atmosphere through which this occasional flash breaks out so
brilliantly, is an atmosphere of genial and spontaneous mirth, a
universal suffusion of fun and high spirits, bright and natural and
unoppressive. After all, many of Sydney Smith’s recorded witticisms are
not particularly witty; yet it is perfectly easy to understand how, from
his own lips, and in the general current of his own joyous talk, they
must once have been irresistible. These felicitous absurdities will not
be judged by the rule and line of criticism; they by no means fit into
the regulated proportions of orthodox humour. They are not born of a
distinct intellectual faculty, nor do they aim at the perfectness of
individual and separate productions. Instead of that, they are the mere
natural overflowings of natural character, gaiety, and high spirits. We
call them wit because we recognise their author as a man from whom wit
is to be expected. But who does not know that wide happy atmosphere of
_fun_ which brightens many a household circle where nobody pretends to
be witty?—who does not know how contagious and irresistible is this
humbler influence, and how it catches up and inspires the common talk of
all our pleasant meetings, giving to almost every family a little fund
of odd or merry sayings—not witty, yet the source of unfailing
mirthfulness? An acknowledged wit is a man to be pitied; and there is no
more woeful position in society than that of one who, when he opens his
lips, be it to speak the most commonplace, sees everybody around him
preparing for laughter. We can perceive a little of this dire necessity
even in Sydney Smith. No doubt, it was whimsical and odd and pleasant to
hear a merry voice giving such a quaint order as that to “glorify the
room”—yet we are afraid, by-and-by, when people came to hear it every
morning, that some indifferent member of the family circle must have
been disposed to shout forth the commonplace injunction, “Draw up the
blinds!” to the forestalment of Sydney. But the broad lower atmosphere
of fun was full about this genial and gifted man. He speaks nonsense
with the most admirable success. Nonsense is a very important ingredient
in the conversation of all circles which are, or have a right to be,
called brilliant. It is often an appropriate surrounding medium, through
which wit may flash and play; but it is not wit, let us name it ever so
arbitrarily; and for our own part, we frankly confess that an hour of
common and simple fun, with one morsel of genuine wit in it—an
unexpected sparkle—is much more pleasant in our eyes than an hour hard
pressed with sharp and brilliant witticisms, be they the very perfection
of the article—the best that can be made. But we distinctly object to
confound together these two separate and differing things. We say this,
not in depreciation of the acknowledged wit of our hero, but because his
biographer pauses gravely at several periods of this Memoir, to give
examples of the “slow perception of humour” evidenced by various people,
who did not understand the happy extravagances of Sydney. We do not
always agree with Lady Holland in her estimate of her father’s
witticisms Here is one of her instances:—

“Miss —— the other day, walking round the grounds at Combe Florey,
exclaimed, ‘Oh! why do you chain up that fine Newfoundland dog, Mr
Smith?’ ‘Because it has a passion for breakfasting on parish boys.’
‘Parish boys!’ she exclaimed; ‘does he really eat boys, Mr Smith?’ ‘Yes,
he devours them, buttons and all.’ Her face of horror made me die of
laughing.”

Now this is very funny, but everybody must perceive at a glance that it
is neither wit nor humour, properly so called; it is pure nonsense, gay
and extravagant, and in reality requires a dull understanding, receiving
it in the mere literal meaning of the words, to bring out and heighten
its effect. The “sayings” of this book, indeed, are by no means up to
the reputation of the speaker; they are often heavily told, and
sometimes in themselves far from striking. But it does not appear that
the wit of Sydney Smith was of a kind to evaporate in sayings; it was
not so much a thing as an atmosphere—an envelopment of mirth and
sunshine, in which the whole man moved and spoke.

It is not easy to mark out and discriminate the intellectual character
of a man like this; for there are few men so undividable—few with whom
the ordinary separation of mental and physical is so complete an
impossibility. He is one whole individual person, honest and genuine in
all his appearances, and entirely transcending as a man, in natural
force and influence, anything that can be said of him in any special
character as author, politician, or wit. To our own thinking, Sydney
Smith is a complete impersonation of English breadth, manliness, and
reality. He is no diver into things unseen, nor has he a strong wing
skyward; but he walks upon the resounding earth with a sturdy tread, and
has the clearest and most healthful perception of all the actual duties
and common principles of life. This strong realisation of good and evil,
according to the ordinary conditions of humanity—actual, present,
visible benefit or disadvantage—seems the most marked feature of at
least his political writings. The Plymley Letters, for instance, never
touch upon the soul of the question they discuss. So far as they go,
they are admirably clear and pointed—a distinct and powerful exposition
of all the phases of expediency; but there they pause, and go no
farther. The argument touches only things external, inducements and
consequences. These are stated so forcibly and clearly that we do not
wonder at their immediate effect and popularity; for the common mind is
easily swayed by reasoning of this practical and tangible description,
and it is impossible to misunderstand so undeniable a statement of
advantage and disadvantage. But the grand principles on either side of
the question—the old lofty notion of a Christian nation, and the duty it
owed to God, on the one hand, and the rights of conscience and
individual belief upon the other—find no place in the plea. Our native
Scottish tendency to consider things “in the abstract” was a favourite
subject of Sydney’s gleeful and kindly ridicule. It is the last
temptation in the world to which he himself was like to yield; and
indeed it is remarkable to note his entire want of this northern
foible—his strong English bias to the practical and evident. He has no
idea of throwing the whole weight of his cause upon a mere theoretic
right and wrong. His first step is to intrench and fortify his
position—to build himself round with a Torres Vedras of realities,
distinct to touch and vision; and while a preacher of another mind
solemnly denounces what is _wrong_, it is his business to show you what
is foolish—to point out the spot where your enemy can have you at
disadvantage—to appeal to your common experience, your knowledge of men
and of the world. The strain of his argument throughout hangs upon the
external and palpable—the principles of general truth are not in his
way. He takes for granted the first elements of the controversy, and
hurries on to the practical results of it. Peter Plymley has not much to
say upon the Catholic Question; but he has a great deal to say upon the
chronic disaffection of Ireland, and the uncomfortable chances of an
invasion on a coast which discontented Catholics were not likely to make
great efforts to defend. With this view of the subject he is armed and
eloquent. But this is not the highest view of the subject, though it may
be a popular and telling one. In his own life, Sydney Smith held a
nobler creed, and pursued his way with unfailing firmness, though it led
him entirely beyond the warm and wealthy regions of ecclesiastical
preferment; but in his argument the balance which he makes is always a
balance of things positive. Perhaps something of the force and manliness
of his style is owing to this practical species of reasoning. We give
him credit for his “way of putting a thing”—so at least do Dr Doyle and
Lady Holland, without perceiving that the weight and obviousness is in
the _thing_ rather than the _way_. We are tempted to quote the
conversation between the Rev. Romanist and the Rev. Anglican, in
illustration of this irresistible style of argument common to Sydney
Smith:—

He proposed that Government should pay the Catholic priests. “They would
not take it,” said Dr Doyle. “Do you mean to say, that if every priest
in Ireland received to-morrow morning a Government letter with a hundred
pounds, first quarter of their year’s income, that they would refuse
it?” “Ah, Mr Smith,” said Dr Doyle, “you’ve such a way of putting
things!”

This is a very good example of his prevailing tendency. The _argumentum
ad hominem_ is the soul of Sydney’s philosophy. You are sure of a
home-thrust, positive and unevadable, when you enter into discussion
with this most practical of understandings. Perhaps you do not agree
with him; very probably to your thinking there are principles involved
of more importance than these obvious safeties or dangers; but the
nature of his implements gives him force and precision; he never strikes
vaguely; his sword is no visionary sword, but a most English and most
evident weapon—sheer steel.

This habit of reasoning had a singular effect upon his papers on
religious subjects—we mean especially those articles on Methodism and
Missions which appeared many years ago in the _Edinburgh Review_. These
extraordinary productions are already altogether out of date, as indeed
they must have been behind the time in which they were written, and of
right belonged to a less enlightened generation; but it is marvellous to
perceive how far so acute and reasonable a man could go in this grand
blunder, applying his ordinary and limited rule to the immeasurable
principles of truth. It is odd, and it is melancholy; for we confess it
gives us little pleasure to prove over again the old truth that the
schemes of Christianity are often foolishness to the wise and to the
prudent. The paper on Missions is the most wonderful instance of weak
argument and inappropriate reasoning. That so clear an eye did not see
the wretched logic and poor expediences, the complete begging of the
question and strange unworthiness of the argument, is a standing marvel.
On any other subject, Sydney Smith could not have gone so far astray.
His favourite mode of treatment, however effective in other regions, has
no legitimate place in this. We may allow, in spite of our dread of
Popery, and conscientious objection to share the powers of government
with so absolute and unscrupulous an agency, that an emancipated
Catholic is more likely to make a cheerful and patriotic citizen, than a
Catholic bound down under penal laws could possibly be. But we are
staggered to think of restraining the efforts of the evangelist, in
order that we may better secure our supremacy in India over tribes of
pagan weaklings, to whom, for our empire’s sake, freedom and the Gospel
must remain unknown. This is a startling conclusion when plainly stated;
but it is the obvious and unmistakable end of all that this very able
writer, a clergyman and a man of enlightened principles, has to say upon
so difficult and intricate a question. Had any of his political
opponents said it, and had it been Sydney’s part to explode the
fallacious reasoning, what a flood of ridicule he would have poured upon
these self-same sentiments! how triumphantly he must have exposed the
tame and unprofitable argument! how clearly proved that the policy of
doing nothing was a policy as old as human nature, and needed no
advocacy! To leave paganism alone, because caste is the most effectual
means which could be invented for keeping a race in bondage—to put an
end to all injudicious eagerness for conversions, because these happy
idolators are very comfortable as they are, and our benevolence is
thrown away,—if Sydney had not made the argument—had it only by good
luck come from the other side—how Sydney could have scattered it in
pieces!

Perhaps the happiest hit he ever made was that which covered the unhappy
State of Pennsylvania with the shame it was worthy of. No one else could
have done this so well. His indignation and vehemence—his grief at the
disgrace thus brought upon a country where his own opinions were
supreme—are pointed, and brought home, by the keen touch of ridicule,
with a characteristic force and pungency. He is grieved; but still he
has a satisfaction in pulling the stray American to pieces, and making
over his jewellery to afflicted bondholders. He is angry; but still he
can laugh at his proposed uniform, the S. S. for Solvent States, which
he would have the New Yorkers wear upon their collars. We have all a
wicked enjoyment of other people’s castigation; and we are afraid the
public in general—those of them who hold no Pennsylvanian bonds—were
amply consoled by Sydney Smith’s letters for the sins of their brethren.
Lady Holland tells us that the excitement in America was extraordinary,
and that shoals of letters, and occasional homely presents, poured upon
her father from all quarters. It was a fair blow, downright and
unanswerable; and no one could have a better right to assault in full
force a public dishonesty than such a man as this, honest to the bottom
of his heart.

We cannot undertake to predict whether or not the reputation of Sydney
Smith will be a lasting reputation. His published works are not very
remarkable, and they refer so entirely—saving the sketches of
philosophy—to current books and current events—events and books which,
to use his own phrase, have blown over—that it seems very doubtful if
they can last over two or three generations. Admirable good sense, good
English, and good morality, even with the zest of wit to heighten them,
do not make a man immortal. They have already done their part, and
earned their triumph; the future is in other hands. Herein lies the
compensating principle of literature. The critic (and there have been
critics more brilliant than Sydney) has his day. Yes, there he stands
over all our heads, bowling us down like so many ninepins—small matter
to him that in this book lies somebody’s hopes, and heart, and fortune.
Little cares he for the stifled edition, the turned tide of popular
favour. He goes about it coolly: it is his business—practising his
deathstroke upon palpitating young poets and unhappy novel-writers, as
the German executioner practised upon cabbages. We die by the score
under this literary Attila. Our poor bits of laurel, our myrtle-sprigs
and leaves of bay, are crushed to dust beneath his ruthless footsteps.
With a barbarous triumph he rides over us, extinguishes our poor
pretensions, puts us down. Never mind, humiliated brother! The critic
has his day. By-and-by there will only be a distant _sough_ of him in
the curious byways of historic lore. But the Book, oh patient
Lazarus!—the Book will live out a century of reviewers, and be as young
a hundred years hence as it is to-day.

Wherefore we seriously opine that a lasting reputation as a writer is
not to be expected for Sydney Smith. As long as the children’s children
of his contemporaries remain to tell and to remember what they heard in
the days of their youth, so long his influence as a man will live among
us. Had this biography been less a work of love, and more a work of art,
it might have added a longer recollection to this natural memory; for
its hero is so true an example of the kind of man whom British men
delight to honour, that he might well have been singled out for a
popular canonisation. As it is, this simple presentment of Sydney Smith
is enough to place him upon his true standing-ground, and recommend him,
far above all differences of opinion, or strifes of politics, to the
affectionate estimation of every reader. A man honest, courageous, and
truthful, struggling bravely through the ordinary trials of everyday
existence, bearing poverty and neglect, bearing flattery and favour,
coming forth unharmed through more than one fiery ordeal, and with the
lightest heart and kindest temper, skilled in that art of ruling himself
which is greater than taking a city. A little more sentiment, or a
little less practical vigour, might have broken the charm. In his own
person, as he lived, he is the very hero of social success and
prosperity—for under no circumstances could he have appeared an
unappreciated genius or a disappointed man. We are somewhat scornful in
these days of the qualities of success. Indeed, it seems a general
opinion, that the higher a man’s gifts are, the less are his chances.
But many a youth of genius would do well to note the teachings of such a
cordial and manly life as this, and mark how the gayest heart, and the
most brilliant intelligence, are honoured and exalted by such homely
virtues as self-restraint and self-denial. Sydney Smith in Oxford,
living upon his hundred pounds a-year; Sydney Smith in Netherhaven,
honestly enduring his curacy; taking no excuse from his wit; yielding
nothing to his natural love of that society in which he shone;
undisheartened by a profession which he did not love, and duties for
which he had no distinct vocation; honestly, under all circumstances,
maintaining his honour, his independence, and his purity, is a better
moral lesson than all the lecturings of all the societies in the world.

We cannot perceive any closer resemblance, for our own part, much as
they are named together, between Swift and Sydney Smith, than the merely
evident and external one—that both were famous wits, and both somewhat
unclerical clergymen. Sydney has the mightiest advantage in moral
sunshine and sweetness over the redoubtable Dean. The Canon of St Paul’s
broke no hearts and injured no reputations. There is not a cloud upon
his open and bright horizon, except the passing clouds of Providence,
and bitterness was not in his kind and generous heart. There is only one
grand blunder in his life, and that is his profession. In such a matter
the dutifullest of sons is not excusable in “yielding to his father’s
wishes.” We can appreciate the sacrifice, but we cannot approve it. It
was filial, but it was wrong. Sydney Smith is an honest man, a truthful
man, and in ordinary life unblamable. We have no right to criticise the
piety or religiousness of such a person in any private position, but
with a clergyman the circumstances are different—and the veriest sinner
requires something more than professional propriety as the motive and
inspiration of the teachers of the faith.

So strong and usual is this feeling, that we do not doubt this book must
have been an entire revelation to a great majority of its readers. We
knew his great reputation; we knew his wit, and the general tenor of his
opinions; yet we were shy of a man whose position and fame seemed almost
antagonistic, and set up in our own mind a natural opposition between
the sermons of the preacher and the _bon mots_ of the wit. This
biography resolves the puzzle. Full of mirth, spontaneous and
unlaboured, full of honest consistency and good-will, we accept Sydney
Smith as he was, and judge of him by his own principles and actions—his
own standard of perfection. Who does not lack some crowning charm to add
a fuller and a sweeter excellence to all the lesser virtues? This man
was distinguished in all social qualities—virtuous, conscientious,
incorruptible, doing bravely every duty which he perceived in his way;
and we can point to no truer type of an upright and open-hearted
Englishman, than the bright portrait of this modest volume, the true
monument and effigies of Sydney Smith.




                           PEERAGES FOR LIFE.

[We rarely have two articles upon one subject in the same Number of the
Magazine, but we have no hesitation in publishing the two following
short papers upon the unhappy and singularly ill-timed attempt to
destroy the hereditary character of one branch of the Legislature. The
first paper is by an English, and the second by a Scotch lawyer.]


It is not, we hope, from any party feeling (though party feelings are,
as our readers know, entitled, in our view of things, to grave and deep
consideration), that we enter our protest against the measure of
creating peers for life,—a measure which its authors, unless they are
the most shortsighted men that ever presumed to meddle with great
questions, must know will end by changing the character of the House of
Lords, and which we really believe to be an attempt as rash as it is
uncalled for, and as little likely to conciliate the favour of any but
those who dislike a government by King, Lords, and Commons, as it is to
produce any one solid or permanent advantage. To those who think that
the English constitution—a constitution which has floated like an ark
over the waves which have swallowed up so many of those baseless fabrics
that were hailed by sciolists as the proudest efforts of
legislation—should be, we do not say repaired, and improved, and
fortified, but _overthrown_, to make room for “some gay creature of the
element” to people the sunbeam for a moment and then to disappear—we do
not address ourselves; for we could not hope to produce any effect by
reasoning upon those on whom the evidence of their senses is thrown
away. But we would ask such of our readers as do not belong to the class
we have just mentioned, calmly and dispassionately to examine with us
this important question—premising only that the Reform Bill was by no
means so serious and menacing a change in the constitution of the Lower,
as the creation of peers for life (if that disastrous measure is really
to be accomplished), will produce in the Upper House of Parliament. The
Reform Bill shuffled the cards; this measure will change the pack. It is
at once exotic and obsolete.

The question may be considered in two ways. First, Has the Crown the
power to make such a creation? Secondly, Supposing it to possess the
power, is such an exercise of it constitutional? With regard to the
first question, it is, even on the showing of its supporters, an
extremely doubtful one. “Rectissime illud receptum est, ut leges non
solum suffragio legislatoris sed etiam tacito consensu omnium per
desuetudinem abrogantur,” is a maxim embodied in the works of those
masters of jurisprudence, to whom alone, to use the words of one of
their most illustrious scholars, reason seems to have unveiled her
mysteries. Nor is the principle unknown to our municipal jurisprudence.
It was a law that every member of a city or borough should be chosen
from among the inhabitants of the place which he was selected to
represent. This law was abrogated by desuetude only. Many similar
instances might probably be found by any one who would examine our
ancient statutes. That custom is the best interpreter of written law is
an axiom of jurisprudence; and how much more forcibly does the argument
apply to unwritten law, to an obsolete prerogative raked from the dust
and cobwebs of feudal barbarity, and dragged forth “in luce asiæ” into
the meridian blaze of civilisation, to act upon the destinies of living
men. The revival of obsolete prerogatives was one great and just
complaint against the Government of Charles I. Lord Clarendon, his
ablest advocate, bewails the injudicious and violent measures that
unhappy monarch took in reviving the Forest Laws, and obliging gentlemen
of certain incomes to compound for knighthood. Had he attempted to strip
the peerage of its hereditary character, the outcry would have been
louder and more reasonable; for of course our argument applies only to
the case of conferring, by a peerage for life, a voice or seat in
Parliament. “The common law of England,” says a great lawyer and a great
thinker, “is nothing else but the common custom of the realm, and a
custom which has obtained the force of a law is always said to be ‘Jus
non scriptum.’ ... Being only matter of fact, and consisting in use and
practice, it can be RECORDED AND REGISTERED NOWHERE BUT IN THE MEMORY OF
THE PEOPLE.” Again the same eloquent writer says:—“A custom takes
beginning, and grows to perfection in this manner: When a reasonable act
once done is found to be good and beneficial to the people, and
agreeable to their nature and disposition, then do they use and practise
it again and again—and so, by often iteration and multiplication of the
act it becomes a custom; and being continued without interruption time
out of mind, it obtains the force of a law.” This is exactly the basis
on which the “rerum perpetuo similiter judicatarum auctoritas” must
rest, and exactly the reverse of that prerogative, by the sudden
exertion of which, after a lapse of four centuries, it is proposed to
give to any minister the power of swamping the House of Peers. What
would be said now if any one were to attempt to put on “the statute of
uses” the meaning which those by whom it was enacted undoubtedly meant
that it should have, and which was frustrated by the narrow decision, as
Mr Hallam calls it, of the Judges? If any man were insane enough to
attempt such an argument, would he not be silenced at once, and forfeit,
for the remainder of his life, all claim to the character of a rational
being? Would he not be told that, after the current of precedent had run
for centuries in one direction, after all the Estates in England had
been settled and disposed of on the faith of those precedents, it was
mere mischievous pedantry to question the validity of the original
interpretation? Now, the last time when the Crown gave the right of
voting in the House of Lords to any one who would not transmit the same
right to his children, to any one whose blood was not ennobled, was long
before the period when the statute of uses passed into a law. The four
or five cases cited to justify such a stretch of authority are taken
from times when the boundaries of the constitution fluctuated
incessantly,—when sometimes the king oppressed the barons, and sometimes
the barons destroyed the king,—when one encroached upon the other, as he
or they were uppermost in a series of victories and defeats equally
oppressive to the people, and equally inconsistent with all regular
government,—when the soil of England was drenched with the blood of the
yeoman, and the axe of the executioner was red with the blood of the
noble,—“in stormy and tempestuous times,” to use the language of a great
and upright magistrate, Chief-Justice Crew, “when the government was
unsettled, and the kingdom in competition,”—when Bohun, and Mowbray, and
Mortimer passed away—nay, when Plantagenet himself became a shadow and a
dream. Will any man say that this was a period when our constitution was
understood? that this is the time when its parts were adjusted to each
other?—when, though the noble outline of it might be discernible, its
lineaments were complete? At that time the Crown granted or withheld
writs to boroughs at its pleasure, and so moulded the House of Commons.
It summoned a man to take his seat in one Parliament and not in another,
and so modelled the House of Lords. But even of these cases, drawn from
those times of turbulence and confusion, while the elements of our
constitution were at war with each other, predominating or subsiding
with every capricious turn of fortune, one only has any bearing on the
question. For, as has been said before, the question is not one of
compliment or precedence; it does not relate to the power of the
sovereign to gratify a morbid and spurious appetite for vulgar notoriety
by a mongrel title, or to reward vice by flattering the abject vanity of
some frivolous prostitute; it relates to his power of giving a share in
the legislation of England without that guarantee for independence
which, during four hundred years, has been thought essential to its
exercise. Now, in the case of Sir John Cornewall, who was created Lord
Fauchope for life, the prerogative was exercised with the assent of the
House of Lords. There remains, therefore, the solitary case of Lord
Berners, in the reign of Henry VI.—a case that is extremely doubtful—to
justify this exercise of the prerogative in the year of grace 1856. If,
then, law is to be controlled or modified by usage—if the “lex et
consuetudo Parliamenti” are not to be put aside—it must be admitted
that, even in the absence of any negative argument, the right of the
Crown is extremely questionable, in spite of the dictum of Lord Coke,
and of the writers by whom he has been copied. Lord Coke, it may be
remembered, has fallen into acknowledged errors. He was wrong in
asserting that a justice of peace had no power of holding a person
accused of felony to bail. He was wrong in asserting that common law
ought to prevail against the express words of an Act of Parliament. But
there _are_ strong negative arguments. In Lord Purbeck’s case, which was
argued before the celebrated Lord Shaftesbury, who was certainly not
ignorant of the principles of the constitution, it was stated by the
Attorney-general that the king could create a peer for life. This
doctrine was at once questioned by Lord Shaftesbury; and in that opinion
Lord Nottingham, the creator of equity, though differing with him as to
the case immediately before him, acquiesced.

It is difficult for any one who weighs these arguments to resist the
conclusion at which Lord Lyndhurst and Lord Campbell, Lord St Leonard’s
and Lord Brougham—laying by on an occasion of such vast importance all
party differences and political hostility—have arrived, that an
instrument made four hundred years ago, before the constitution had been
made, before the disposition, occasions, circumstances, the moral,
civil, and social habits to which that noble fabric owes its existence
had disclosed themselves, cannot in the eye of reason justify a violent
change in the long-established, the peculiar, and the distinguishing
character of the House of Lords.

There is (_Parl. Hist._, vol. i. page 890) a remarkable case which has
never been cited, we believe, and which shows that the House of Lords
exercised the right of excluding an unworthy member from its
deliberations. It is the case of Lord De la Ware in the reign of Edward
VI. “He had attempted to poison his uncle, and was by an _order of
Parliament_ excluded from any estate or honour that might come to him
after his uncle’s death.” The precedent in favour of the Crown dates
from a period far more remote than this. If the Crown quote the
fifteenth century, why may not the House of Lords quote the sixteenth?
And it should be remarked that this is a prerogative which there must
have been constant motives for using, and the non-exertion of which,
therefore, furnishes a very cogent argument against its existence.
Harrington, in his _Oceana_, particularly censures Richard II. under the
name of Adoxus, for creating peers “who had hands to dip in the royal
purse, but no shoulders to support the throne.” We know what became of
that prince and his newly-made Caryatides. Our peers are not to perform
the functions Virgil assigned to our fathers—

               “Purpurea intexti tollant aulæa Britanni.”

They are not to be courtiers, or geologists, or engineers, or builders
of crystal palaces, or presidents of councils of art, or even judges,
but _legislators_, mediators between the Crown and the people—an office
that may dignify the greatest abilities, and satisfy the most generous
ambition.

We come now to the second branch of the question, how far such a measure
can be considered constitutional,—meaning by that, how far it is in
conformity with the spirit and genius of that form of government to
which we owe, during so many ages, and during so many vicissitudes, the
tranquil possession of political freedom. Certainly the time chosen to
cut one of the strands of the cable of our anchor is a singular one.
Freedom, with the exception of the countries governed by the King of
Sardinia, has been overthrown or undermined in every part of the
continent of Europe. Nobody can doubt that a main cause to which the
present condition of France is to be attributed, is the want of a body
of hereditary legislators; the want, that is, of a powerful
aristocracy,—in other words, of a House of Lords. Nobody can doubt that
the forlorn troop of servile beggars distinguished throughout Germany by
the titles of Earl, and Baron, and Freihern, is a main reason why all
attempts to establish constitutional freedom in that country have only
served to illustrate the most ludicrous ignorance of human affairs,
coupled with the most abject tergiversation, and to drag to light
projects, compared with which the principles by which the Caffres are
governed may be considered luminous, and the whims of the politicians of
Laputa may pass for reasonable. We object to any scheme for Germanising
England. We should be sorry to see the influence of the Court, where we
now see other hopes and objects. We should be sorry to see the varied
elements of our social state crushed into one undistinguished mass of
servitude. Our universities have been tampered with; the next attempt is
on the House of Lords. It is the fashion to speak lightly of
representative government. “A weak man doth not well consider this, and
a fool doth not understand it.” The disgust and contempt felt throughout
France for the corruption and time-serving of the mongrel House of
Peers, consisting of misplaced men of letters, venal courtiers, affected
artists, hireling writers in the daily press, shallow coxcombs, and a
few besides of illustrious names—the last scattered like the nails in a
wall over a wide blank surface—account for the sympathy with which all
reasonable men hailed its annihilation. Such an institution as our House
of Lords may be destroyed, but cannot be created; and with these
examples staring us in the face, and loudly forbidding the attempt, in
defiance of reason and of experience, in contradiction to the sound
feelings of the nation, an old prerogative that has, “like unscoured
armour, hung by the wall so long,” that the announcement of its
existence may furnish a question perhaps for the amusement of
antiquaries of much leisure and little thought, but which, to all real
purposes, has become as obsolete as writing pure English—is made the
instrument of changing, at the will of the Sovereign, a fundamental part
of our constitution. This is done, too, during a war, when great
political alterations are usually suspended, as if it were the merest
trifle, not worth attention or debate, amounting to nothing more than,
and quite as much of course as, the appointment of some commission to
recommend the maintenance of all the wretched chicane by which the
course of justice in England has been so long impeded. Some knowledge of
the constitution which he proposes so presumptuously to violate, some
little acquaintance with the great writers who have dwelt upon its
excellences, and held them up to the gratitude of posterity, would be a
useful ingredient in the composition of a Chancellor. Some knowledge of
history (we mean of course English history) might, on the eve of so
perilous an undertaking, be found serviceable to the lawyer who
(whatever be the mysterious influence under which he acts, and no doubt
in perfect unconsciousness) sets himself to work to pull down in cold
blood, and with the blandest countenance, one of the safeguards of our
liberties. For, with deference to such authority, we look upon the
privileges of the Peers as conferred upon them for the public good. To
suppose them given or kept for any other purpose, would be a narrow and
unworthy view. If they are inconsistent with that object, they cannot be
swept away too soon. If they contribute to it, they cannot be too
religiously preserved. For four hundred years, during which the parts of
our balanced government have been made to harmonise with and give mutual
aid to each other, the deliberate opinion of ages and generations in
this country has been in favour of their existence. It is a fair
inference that all these writers, historians, and statesmen, have not
been wholly destitute of political sagacity, or in a conspiracy to
promote abuse. It is a fair inference that a measure which Lord Grey
repudiated, which Mr Pitt would not hear of, which Mr Fox would have
scouted with every expression of scorn that his vehement nature could
have found in his copious vocabulary, is a rash and unconstitutional
experiment. But we know what the class (unfortunately it is a numerous
one) is who “rush in where angels fear to tread;” we know, too, that the
gloom which enveloped these great statesmen has been dissipated by the
light which has flashed with such marvellous lustre upon my Lord
Cranworth. It is hard upon this land that admitted mediocrity should be
no safeguard against reckless extravagance. If, in the days when the
wild hurricane of Reform was sweeping over us, some man of an irregular
but powerful intellect had, in a moment of irritation and
disappointment, suggested such a measure, we should have consoled
ourselves by reflecting that inundations atone for the mischief they
inflict by the fertility they occasion. We should have accepted the
benefit, and been on our guard against the evil. But when a grave
commonplace sober gentleman, decent to a fault, by no means of an ardent
or romantic disposition, misled by no passions, carried astray by no
impetuosity, not intoxicated by learning, carefully and effectually
guarded by provident nature against the dangers to which genius is
exposed when such a person reverses the famous line, and in a paroxysm
of impotence, raging without strength, and overflowing without
fulness—“precipitately dull” and dispassionately mischievous—mimics the
freaks and caprices for which inspiration only can atone, Heraclitus
might laugh at his distempered activity, and Democritus weep for the
fate of the country in which he legislates. The line—

         “Ut lethargicus hic, cum fit pugil et medicum urget,”

describes him. There is no hope, says an acute writer, for the lover of
an ugly woman. There is as little for those who suffer by the
absurdities of a commonplace man. “Whenever you commit an error, Mr
Foresight,” says the wit in _Love for Love_, “you do it with a great
deal of prudence and discretion, and consideration.”

It should be recollected that there are many prerogatives of the Crown
which, if exercised injudiciously—that is, unconstitutionally—would soon
become intolerable. The Crown has the undoubted power of making peace or
war; but if Ministers were to agree that York should be occupied by a
Russian garrison for ten years, or that we should pay a tribute to
Russia for that time, would it be any argument in favour of such clauses
that the Crown had only exercised its undoubted prerogative? The Crown
has the power of pardoning offenders; would that justify the pardon of
every offender as soon as he is convicted? Many persons think that the
Crown has never lost the power which it once most unquestionably
possessed, of raising the denomination of the coin; is there any maniac,
even among the worshippers of Ruskin, who would counsel such an
experiment? The prerogatives of the Crown, even when most
unquestionable, must be exercised in conformity with the spirit of the
constitution. It is the peculiar character of our constitution that it
contains within it the three great principles of monarchy, aristocracy,
and democracy, blended together so intimately, yet perhaps so
inexplicably, that the Crown has no strength, except in connection with
the aristocracy and the people: the aristocracy is nothing when opposed
to the Crown and the people; and the people have little power, if
abandoned by the aristocracy and the Crown. Fortunate indeed have been
the circumstances which enabled our fathers to complete this mysterious
union. The strength of our system is its harmony. Take away the beauty
of its proportions, and its energies are at an end. That amazing system,
the work not of giddy choice and tumultuous violence, but of the “author
of authors,” Time, with enough military vigour for war, with enough
civil influence to make military power in time of peace impracticable,
with the checks apparently so hostile, in reality so much in unison, as
to make it the most perfect moral machine that ever was contrived to
perpetuate freedom among a people—would be violated and destroyed by any
such organic innovation.

What promises can exceed its performance? And it is this which, for the
sake of putting a special pleader among the Law Lords, or of satisfying
the vulgar ambition of a few discontented men, ignorant of their proper
sphere, we are about to put in jeopardy. Does any man think that the
power of the Crown is too little in the House of Lords? Is not the
reverse notoriously the truth? Is not the influence of the Crown over
the Bishops, who are not Peers but Lords of Parliament, matter of just
complaint? Would not the power of the Crown be increased by creating
Peers for life? Would it not, especially in a country where a vulgar
appetite for technical rank is but too conspicuous, increase the number
of those who would gain by subserviency to the Crown in that assembly?
If you suddenly shift the ballast, your vessel will soon be under water—

                   “Quamvis pontica pinus
                   Sylvæ, filia nobilis
                   Jactes et genus et nomen inutile.”

On the other hand, if the creation of life-peers would give too much
influence to the Crown, beyond all doubt it would give a most invidious
distinction to those already ennobled families, among whom the son of
the mechanic may now hope to take his place. It would tend to make them
a separate caste, cut off (we speak of what must happen in less than a
century) from the sympathies of their fellow-citizens. Such a state of
things could not long continue.

It is but too deeply rooted in the nature of man to press social
distinctions too far, and insist on them too much. And could anything be
devised to swell the pride of a hereditary Peer more effectually than
the sight of upstart counterfeits, bearing the same title with himself,
but distinguished, nevertheless, by an everlasting badge of inferiority?
The classes and professions from which such peers were taken would share
in their degradation, and in the hostility which it would inspire—

                   “Touch them with several fortunes,
             The greater scorns the lesser....
             Raise me this beggar, and deny’t that lord—
             The senator shall bear _contempt hereditary_.”

Much, no doubt, may be said about the dangers and evils of unworthy
successors to great names. Taken separately, such arguments are
powerful; taken with reference to a collective body, they are weak. The
question is—on which side does the balance of good preponderate? Along
with many evils, and great tendencies to abuse, there are many
advantages in hereditary honour. A true natural aristocracy is an
essential part of any large body rightly constituted. “It is formed out
of a class of legitimate presumptions, which, taken as generalities,
must be admitted for actual truths. To be bred in a place of estimation;
to see nothing low or sordid from one’s infancy; to be taught to respect
one’s self; to be habituated to the censorial inspection of the public
eye; to look early to public opinion; to stand upon such elevated ground
as to be enabled to take a large view of the widespread and infinitely
diversified combinations of men and affairs in a large society; to have
leisure to read, to reflect, to converse; to be enabled to draw the
court and attention of the wise and learned wherever they are to be
found; to be habituated in armies to command and obey; to be taught to
despise danger in pursuit of honour and of duty; to be formed to the
greater degree of vigilance, foresight, and circumspection in a state of
things where no fault is committed with impunity, and the slightest
mistakes draw on the most ruinous consequences; to be led to a guarded
and regulated conduct from a sense that you are considered an instructor
of your fellow-citizens in their highest concerns; to be employed as an
administrator of law and justice, and to be thereby among the first
benefactors, to mankind;”—such is Mr Burke’s argument in favour of a
hereditary aristocracy. As a sole or even a predominating element, it
degenerates into an insolent domination; as an ingredient, tempered,
controlled, and subdued by others, it has, in our opinion, a dignified
and refining influence. And here we may remark, that almost the sole
barrier to despotic power in France for many years was the firmness and
integrity of its parliaments, which were in fact, though not in name, an
hereditary aristocracy. Let any one compare the proceedings of that body
with those of Louis Philippe’s peers, and then say on which side the
balance of good predominates. The cautious and traditional wisdom of
those great bodies interposed often between the people and their
oppressors. Machiavelli speaks of them with admiration and respect; and
their functions were well expressed by a First President of the
parliament of Provence, when he said to the king, whom he
resisted—“Souffrez, sire, qu’ avec peine, haine, et envie nous
défendions votre autorité.” One of the worst acts of a bad reign was to
substitute for this great aristocracy, which, with all its faults, had
done great services to its country—holding the mean “inter abruptam
contumaciam et deforme obsequium” with singular judgment—a set of
political adventurers, called the Parliament Maupeou, many of them the
mere creatures of the court and Madame Dubarri, and nevertheless
welcomed to their new office by the approbation of the shallow conceited
writers of the day. The pretext was a better administration of
justice—“Le préambule s’exprimait dans un langage que n’eussent pas
désavoué les philosophes sur la nécessité de _réformer les abus dans
l’administration de la justice_.” “Absit omen!” Then purity of justice
was the pretext of a tyrant; now it is that of a few sottish and
purblind democrats. The result in France is known to every one who has
read Beaumarchais, who in his celebrated Mémoires branded the turpitude
and gross corruption of this newly constituted body with ineffaceable
infamy. Then France began to see the difference between the minions of a
court and a hereditary assembly, between the d’Aguesseaus, and the
Goezmans, who were in their place; and in spite of Voltaire, they agreed
with Mabli, that the old parliament was better than the “Parlement
Postiche.” To this fact we will add the prophetic remark of Montesquieu,
“Le pouvoir intermédiaire subordonné le plus naturel est celui de la
noblesse; elle entre en quelque façon dans l’essence de la monarchie,
dont la maxime fondamentale est, Point de monarque, point de
noblesse—point de noblesse, point de monarque—_mais on a un despote_!”
Is there no danger that, if the House of Lords is lowered, the House of
Commons may ruin itself by its own excessive power?

The question, however, now is, not whether you will establish a
hereditary peerage, but whether you will take away from it its
stability?—it is not, whether you will abolish the House of Lords, but
whether you will run the risk of polluting it by time-servers? Have
there been no times in our history when the exercise of such a
prerogative as is now claimed for the Crown would have been most
dangerous? If James II. had imagined that such authority belonged to
him, can any man doubt that he would have filled the House of Lords, as
he did the bench of justice, with his Roman Catholic dependants? Is
there not reason to believe that, as each party predominates, it will
flood the House of Lords with these creatures of a day, to confirm its
own ascendancy? Would the minister who created at once twelve peers to
ratify the Peace of Utrecht have been satisfied with so limited a
number, if so convenient a method as has now been discovered had
presented itself to him? If peerage for life had been created, or even
if the Lords had been menaced with such a measure, the motion for taking
the Address into consideration, on the 23d Nov. 1685, would never have
been carried without a division; nor would the dignified and manly
language held in that House have offered so striking a contrast to the
pitiful and abject tone and demeanour of the subservient House of
Commons. As it was, Lord Sunderland is reported to have said that, to
carry the measures of the Court, he would make Lord Churchill’s troop of
guards peers. But he recoiled, base as he was, from such an attempt; and
are we to legislate on the conviction that we shall never again have a
bad king and an unscrupulous ministry, and that the firmness and
independence of the House of Lords can never again be of any service to
the constitution? Can we foretell that there may not be other battles to
be fought, and other victories to be won? The attempt to make the
hereditary peers a caste by another Lord Sunderland, was baffled in the
reign of George the First; we trust that an attempt, which must have the
same effect if it succeeds, and which must, moreover, strengthen the
influence of the Crown, among a body where it needs no strengthening,
will not prosper in the reign of Queen Victoria. To change the relations
of the several parts of the constitution to each other, is to make the
lessons of history, purchased as they have been with the best blood of
our fathers, unavailing. The character of the House of Lords is, that
the honours of those who sit and vote in it are hereditary. It is so
described by Whigs and Tories, by lawyers and historians. It is in
consequence of that character that it has filled a wide space in
history, and that it is supported by a thousand time-hallowed
associations. Fill it with the nominees of a minister, it will no longer
serve to interpose any obstacle to the inconsiderate legislation which
an impetuous democracy is sometimes rash enough to insist upon. It may
serve to gratify the vanity of women, or of men as little fitted as
women to control the destinies of nations; it may provoke hostility by
distinctions, invidious when they are manifestly useless; it may even
register the edicts which it will be unable to dispute: but its genuine
functions will be gone for ever; and if ever the time should come when
its energies are required to serve either Crown or people, they will be
of as little account as those of the French Chamber of Peers in the hour
of trial, and of as little benefit to themselves and to their country.

Why, then, should we unhinge the state, ruin the House of Lords, and
pursue confusion, to guard against an evil which, if it exists at all,
may be encountered by a far more specific and appropriate remedy? Wise,
indeed, should he be who should endeavour to recast a constitution which
has defended us alike from the unjust aggression of power, and the
capricious tyranny of the multitude. But if our rulers are weak, and our
councils infatuated, in the words of an old writer, we can only pray
that the Lord will enable us to suffer, what He by miracle only can
prevent.




                       THE WENSLEYDALE CREATION.


At a time when the attention of the nation is almost exclusively
directed to the colossal struggle in which Great Britain has taken so
conspicuous a part—when the deepest anxiety is felt regarding the issue
of the conferences at Paris, which must have the effect either of
restoring peace to Europe, or of rendering the contest more desperate in
its character than before—we were surely entitled to expect that no
attempts would be made, at least by Her Majesty’s advisers, to alter or
innovate any acknowledged part of the fundamental constitution of the
realm. It is with great pain that we feel ourselves called upon to
denounce such an attempt, which appears to us not the less dangerous
because furtively made, and seemingly insignificant of its kind. All
permanent innovations, all great changes and revolutions, may be traced
to a very trifling source. The whole constitution of a country may be
overthrown in consequence of some narrow departure from its fundamental
rules—a departure which possibly may appear at the time too trivial to
demand remonstrance, but which, being drawn into a precedent, may, in
the course of years, be the means of producing the most serious and
disastrous effects. The tree that could have withstood the blast of the
wildest hurricane, will become rotten at the core, if the rain can
penetrate to its bole, even through a miserable crevice. The dykes of
Holland, which defy the winter storms, have, ere now, yielded to the
mining of that stealthy engineer, the rat, and provinces have been
inundated in consequence. And, therefore, it well becomes us to be
jealous of any attempt, however trivial, or however specious—for
plausible reasons can always be adduced on behalf of any kind of
innovation—to alter the recognised principles of our constitution, or to
introduce a totally new element into its framework.

We allude, of course, to the attempt which Her Majesty’s advisers have
thought proper to make, at altering the hereditary constitution of the
House of Lords, by the introduction of Life-Peers into that body. The
question is now being tried in the case of Mr Baron Parke, who has been
created Baron Wensleydale, without remainder to heirs; and it is
impossible, looking to the attendant circumstances, to avoid the
conclusion that this creation has been deliberately made, for the
purpose of establishing a precedent for opening the doors of the highest
deliberative assembly to a new order of nobles, who are not to have the
privilege of transmitting their rank and titles to posterity. For, if
the only object had been, as is alleged, to recruit the numbers of life
Lords upon whom the task of hearing and deciding appeals from the
inferior courts of the country must devolve, there was obviously no
necessity, nor even reason in this instance, for departing from the
usual conditions of the peerage. Lord Wensleydale (for so we are bound
to call him, in virtue of his patent of nobility from the Queen) is a
man of advanced years, and has no son. In all human probability,
therefore, the title, even though it had been destined to heirs-male, as
is the common form, would become extinct at his death. Want of fortune,
as the means of sustaining, in the future time, the social position
which a peer ought to occupy, has often been alleged, and with reason,
as a sufficient obstacle in the way of the elevation of commoners,
distinguished for their acquirements and genius, to the Peerage. It has
been said, and with great truth, that the present and fleeting gain is
more than counterbalanced by the future and permanent disadvantage. For
the acquirements and genius of the man so elevated are but personal, and
perish with him—the heirs remain as pauper peers, no ornament to their
order, and may, for a seemingly inadequate consideration, be willing to
surrender their independence, and use their legislative powers at the
bidding of an unscrupulous minister. But, in the present case, where the
chance of succession was so small, there could be little room for such
an objection; perhaps there was none, for the fortune of Lord
Wensleydale may be, for anything we know to the contrary, quite adequate
to the maintenance of a peerage; therefore we must hold that this case
was selected purposely to try the question. Indeed, supposing that Her
Majesty’s advisers were justified in making the attempt to alter the
constitution of the House of Lords by the introduction of Peers for
life, they could hardly have selected a better instance. For, if it
should be decided or declared that there is a limit to the prerogative
of the Crown, and that the creation of a peer for life, like Lord
Wensleydale, is simply a personal honour, but does not carry along with
it the privilege of a seat in the House of Lords, all unseemly questions
of precedency will be avoided. In that case it is not likely that the
experiment will be renewed; for we may safely conclude that the object
of Her Majesty’s advisers in issuing this singular patent was not to
gratify Lord Wensleydale by the gift of a barren honour, but to make him
a member of the House of Peers, entitled to speak and to vote; and
thereby to establish a precedent for the future creation of a
non-hereditary peerage.

Before entering into the questions of privilege and prerogative, it may
be as well to consider the reasons founded on expediency which have been
advanced in behalf of the creation of peerages for life. Such of her
Majesty’s ministers as have spoken upon the subject have been
exceedingly cautious and guarded in their language. None of them have
ventured to assert an opinion that, for the future, it would be
advisable to multiply this kind of peerages. Their arguments go little
beyond this—that whereas the appellate jurisdiction of the House of
Peers renders it necessary that at all times there should be among that
body persons intimately acquainted with the law, and qualified to act as
judges, it is for the advantage of the country that such creations
should be not permanent but temporary, not hereditary but personal. In
this there is not only some, but much plausibility. It is of the utmost
importance to the country that the highest legal talent should be
engaged for the last Court of Appeal; and we are not of the number of
those who consider that a court of appeal might be dispensed with. We
believe that the consciousness that there exists a tribunal which has
the power of reversing or altering their judgments, has conduced more
than anything else to stimulate the zeal, activity, and attention of the
judges in the ordinary courts of law; and it would be a very hazardous
experiment to give an irresponsible character to their decisions. We
think also, and we make this admission freely, that some decided steps
should be taken for the better regulation of the ultimate Court of
Appeal. The House of Peers, as a body, has long since abdicated its
right of sitting in judgment, except in some cases peculiar to the
peerage. The judicial duties are now invariably devolved upon judicial
Peers, that is to say, upon those who have either occupied or occupy the
highest judicial offices; and although the form of putting the question
to the House, after the opinion of the legal Peers has been delivered,
is still observed, no instance of any attempt on the part of other peers
to vote, has taken place for a long series of years. Thus the appellate
jurisdiction of the House has been confided to a small and fluctuating
committee, on whom attendance at the hearing of causes is not
compulsory; and although hitherto, as we verily believe to be the case,
the judgments have been such as to give general satisfaction, there is
no security for the continuance of a sufficiently qualified number of
adequate Judges. We think that some other arrangement for establishing
and securing a permanent tribunal of appeals should be adopted; but we
demur greatly to the plan now proposed of creating life-peerages for the
purpose of keeping the jurisdiction within the House of Lords. Very
wisely, we think, has it been provided that Judges shall not be eligible
to sit in the House of Commons. Their functions being of the utmost
importance to the wellbeing and safety of the community, it is above all
things desirable that they should not be allowed to mingle actively in
that strife of parties, which must, to a certain extent, in very many
cases, warp the judgment, or at least give a strong political bias. The
judicial atmosphere ought to be not only pure but calm, for so
constituted are the human frame and mind, that excitement of any kind is
apt to disturb the equilibrium of the judgment, and often suggests hasty
views, which will not bear the test of severe and dispassionate
investigation. Neither should the attention of a Judge be too much
directed to objects alien to his function. Undoubtedly there are minds
so active and capacious that they rebel against any restriction of their
powers, and go beyond their proper sphere, led away by a craving for
intellectual exercise, or under the influence of overpowering ambition.
But these constitute the exception, not the rule; and we humbly venture
to think that the best judges are to be found among the men who deviate
least from the tenor of their way, and who do not devote themselves
ardently to other occupations or pursuits. Therefore we have great
doubts as to the propriety of the system which would necessarily, to
some extent, expose the judge to the influences of the politician, or,
at any rate, distract his attention from what is or ought to be the main
object and purpose of his life. Besides this, it is not convenient or
decorous that there should be anywhere an unpaid tribunal upon which
such serious responsibilities devolve. Judges receive salaries in order
that they may be compelled to do their work, and overcome that tendency
towards indolence from which very few of the human race are altogether
free. The salaried Judge must act: he must attend to every case which is
brought before him, unless he can allege occasional failure of health,
or unless he declines on account of interest or affinity. But a
voluntary and unpaid Judge may absent himself at pleasure, and without
responsibility—a very serious matter to suitors, and, as we think,
inconsistent with the proper administration of justice. For many
reasons, therefore, it appears to us that the time has arrived when the
supreme appeal court of the realm should be placed upon a footing
different from that which has hitherto existed, and that it should be so
remodelled as to give it a permanent and responsible character. We have
already observed that, as regards the great body of the Peers, their
appellate jurisdiction and power is merely a name; and surely it is not
worth retaining the shadow when the substance has passed away. There are
evidently many deficiencies in the present system. The bulk of appeals
are from the Scottish courts; and as the Scotch law differs materially
from that of England, being based altogether upon a separate foundation,
it is important that at least one Judge, intimately acquainted with the
system, and trained to its technicalities, should be a member of the
court of last resort. Looking to the present state of the Scottish bar
and bench, we must confess that we entertain grave doubts whether any
competent lawyer could be found to undertake such a duty for the
unsubstantial reward of a life peerage; and we apprehend that no
satisfactory or thoroughly efficient arrangement for the determination
of appeals from the courts of England, Scotland, and Ireland can be
effected, unless based upon the principle of delegating the appellate
jurisdiction of the House of Peers to a court, holding its sittings in
London, comprising the highest legal talent which can be drawn from the
three kingdoms, but not necessarily, in so far as its members are
concerned, directly connected with the peerage. Of course, the Judges in
such a court of appeal should be, like all other Judges, the paid
servants of the State; and we are confident that such a measure, the
details of which would be matter of grave consideration, could not fail
to be acceptable, and must prove highly beneficial to the country at
large. Indeed, it is manifest that some such alteration of the law is
now peremptorily required; as it is upon the inconvenience and
insecurity of the working of the present system of appellate
jurisdiction, as vested nominally in the whole body of the House of
Peers, that the main arguments in favour of what we must consider as a
dangerous attempt to destroy the hereditary constitution of the Upper
House have been founded.

These observations of ours have not been made at random. We know that
many of the highest and best legal authorities of our time have regarded
the uncertain state of the constitution of the last court of appeal with
considerable misgivings as to the future, and that they have entertained
a deep anxiety as to the possible result, if no definite arrangement
should be made. The establishment of a responsible tribunal, such as we
have hinted at, would, in any case, have deprived the inventors and
advocates of the creation of life-peerages of their only plausible plea;
because, as we have already remarked, none of them have ventured to
express their unqualified approval of the institution of life-peers, as
giving new blood to the Legislature—they merely take their stand upon
the judicial advantages which might result from the new method of
creation. But if the same advantages, or, as it appears to us,
advantages much more important and even precious to the public interest,
could be derived from the institution of a new court, framed in
accordance and consonance with the legal practice of the realm, and
calculated to give universal satisfaction and security, we apprehend
that the House of Lords would lose nothing if it renounced what, to the
great bulk of its members, is a pure fiction of authority. The
pretext—for it is nothing more—for the introduction of life-peerages,
has been rested upon a very narrow ground; namely, the necessity of
providing for the adequate discharge of the appellate jurisdiction of
the House. By consent of Queen, Lords, and Commons, to the erection of
an independent and responsible tribunal of appeal, of which the Law
Lords of Parliament might be members, the difficulty could be obviated
at once; and then—if it should still be proposed to make a radical
change in the constitution of the Upper House—the question may be argued
upon broad and general grounds. If in any quarter—we care not how high
it be—it is deemed advisable, or expedient, or creditable, or conducive
to the maintenance of the present constitution of the realm, that
life-peerages should hereafter be copiously introduced, let the subject
be ventilated and discussed with all imaginable freedom and latitude.
But this back-blow—this poor attempt, as we must needs think it to be,
of endeavouring to gain a precedent and an example by insidious means,
without the co-operation of Parliament—strikes us as peculiarly shabby;
and is anything but wise, inasmuch as it indicates a desire to push the
prerogative of the Crown beyond the point which has been held as
constitutional since the union of the three kingdoms. In a matter such
as this is, we need hardly repeat the words of Lord Lyndhurst, that we
do not speak of the Sovereign personally, but of the advisers of the
Sovereign.

All that we have hitherto said relates to the _expediency_ of creating
life-peerages for the purpose of supplying possible deficiencies in the
number of Law Lords who now exercise the whole appellate jurisdiction of
the House of Peers. But the greater question is behind; and although we
approach the subject with considerable diffidence, we are constrained to
express our opinion that, in the case of Lord Wensleydale, the
prerogative of the Crown has been stretched beyond its proper limit. We
do not mean as to the title. The Crown is the fountain of honour; and
there seems to be little doubt that the Crown may create titles at
pleasure, without any violation of the constitution. The old orders of
Thanes and Vavasors may be resuscitated, or new orders of knighthood,
with extraordinary rank of precedence, may be formed. All that, and even
more than that, lies within the power of the Sovereign. But the
institution of a new estate, or a new order, or a new tenure of
nobility, which shall have the effect of augmenting or decreasing the
power of either of the two other recognised and established estates of
the realm, the Lords or the Commons, is an assumption or exercise of
power beyond the prerogative of the Crown; and we, who certainly do not
lean to the side of democracy, must oppose any such innovation, as
strongly and strenuously as we would do were the true privileges of the
Crown assailed. We deny not the right of the Queen to bestow honours and
titles, and to give rank and precedence; but the case is very different
when we find the Queen—or, to speak more accurately and properly, the
Queen’s advisers—attempting to alter the recognised hereditary character
of one of the legislative chambers.

Let us then consider what is the constitution of the House of Lords.
Diligent search has been made for precedents to show that, at an early
period of English history, the Crown was in the use of granting peerages
for life only; and we are bound to allow that sufficient evidence has
been brought to establish the fact that, in the reign of Richard II., at
least one peerage of that nature was created. But those who will take
the trouble to peruse the elaborate reports upon the dignity of the
Peerage, issued in 1820, 1822, and 1825, will find that in those early
times the Crown assumed and exercised most arbitrary powers. Peers were
summoned or not summoned to Parliament according to the will of the
sovereign, and the right to exclude from Parliament a peer who had once
taken his seat, was exercised by the Crown in repeated instances. If
precedents drawn from the early history of England are to be accepted as
rules for interpreting the existing measure of the prerogative of the
Crown, we must necessarily conclude that the Crown has the power,
without trial or forfeiture, to suspend or take away the privileges of
any peer, and that this can be done simply by withholding a writ at the
time when Parliament is summoned. We doubt greatly whether even the
strongest stickler for prerogative would maintain that such a course
would be justifiable at the present day. But in truth we set very little
value upon such precedents, beyond what attaches to them as mere
antiquarian inquiries; and for this reason, that the ancient usage of
England in regard to peerages is of no value in determining the rights,
privileges, or position of members of the present House of Lords. It
seems to be forgotten that there is now no English House, nor are there
any Peers of England. The unions with Scotland and Ireland entirely
altered the character of the existing Peerage. To borrow the language of
the Third Report upon the Dignity;—

  “When the union of England and Scotland was accomplished in the reign
  of Queen Anne, all the adult peers of the realm of England were
  entitled to writs of summons in the characters of temporal Lords of
  the Parliament of England, as that Parliament was then constituted;
  _but there are now no longer any peers of the realm of England_. By
  the union with Scotland, England as well as Scotland ceased to be
  distinct realms; and all the peers of the realm of England, and all
  the peers of the realm of Scotland, became, by the terms of the Treaty
  of Union, _peers of the new kingdom of Great Britain_.”

In like manner the union of Great Britain and Ireland produced a change
in the character of the Peerage:—

  “All the peers of Ireland, and all the Peers of Great Britain, and all
  the peers of the United Kingdom since created, form, in some degree,
  the second estate of the realm of the United Kingdom, qualified by the
  power given to the peers of Ireland to divest themselves of their
  privileges as such, under certain circumstances; but twenty-eight only
  of the peers of Ireland are Lords of Parliament, being elected to
  represent the rest of the peers of Ireland in Parliament, and their
  election being for life. A power is also reserved to the Crown to
  create new peers of Ireland, under certain circumstances; and the
  peers so created become also part of the whole body of peers of the
  United Kingdom, though not by their creation Lords of Parliament, and
  though, by the terms of their creation, made peers of Ireland only.

  “It seems manifest, therefore, that not only the peers of the realm of
  the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland at the present day,
  but all the members of the legislative assemblies of the United
  Kingdom, both as bodies, and as individual members of different
  bodies, and in their several different and respective rights and
  capacities, bear little resemblance to any of the members of the
  legislative assemblies of the realm of England from the Conquest,
  before and to the reign of John; and the peers of the realm of the
  United Kingdom, both as a body and individually, are very different
  from the peers of the realm of England, before the Union of England
  and Scotland in the reign of Queen Anne, _and especially as many of
  them are not Lords of Parliament_; and such of them as are elected to
  represent the peers of Scotland, and such of them as are elected to
  represent the peers of Ireland, are Lords of Parliament by election,
  and not by virtue of their respective dignities, though the possession
  of those dignities is a necessary qualification to warrant their
  election.”—_Third Report on the Dignity of the Peerage_, pp. 34, 35.

It is manifest, therefore, that such a question as this, affecting the
status and privileges of the Peerage of the United Kingdom, cannot be
settled by reference to early English precedents. There is no longer an
English peerage, neither is there an English Sovereign. The Acts of
Union have quite altered the character of the Peerage, for they have
established a clear and intelligible distinction between Peers of the
United Kingdom and Lords of Parliament. The mere possession of the
dignity by no means implies the right to sit in the House of Lords. With
the exception of sixteen who are elected to serve in each Parliament,
the whole body of what were the peers of Scotland, but who now are peers
of the United Kingdom, are excluded from the House of Lords, unless
qualified to sit in virtue of a new patent; and that portion of the
Peerage of the United Kingdom whose ancestors were peers of Ireland, are
represented in Parliament by twenty-eight of their number. It is
important that this distinction should be borne in mind; the more
especially because, by a loose and inaccurate mode of expression, many
people are led to think that the descendants of the old Scottish and
Irish peers are not peers of the United Kingdom. Yet such unquestionably
is their character; but though peers of the United Kingdom, they are not
necessarily members of the House of Lords.

If, therefore, precedent is to be regarded as affording any rule for
ascertaining the extent of the Sovereign’s prerogative, it humbly
appears to us that no instance from the history of England previous to
the unions with Scotland and Ireland, can be accepted as satisfactory.
The laws of England, as a province or component part of the realm, may
have remained intact; but the character of the Peerage was entirely
altered. The question is not now, What were the powers or extent of the
prerogative of the monarchs of England? It is simply this, What are the
powers, and what is the prerogative of the Sovereign of the United
Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland? For otherwise, be it observed, the
search for precedents must be extended both to Scotland and Ireland, and
we apprehend that investigation so directed might lead to some curious
results. We know that King James, who succeeded to the throne of
England, had such an exalted notion of his prerogative, that in his
progress southward he actually tried in person, and condemned to death,
an unfortunate footpad, who in all probability would have received a
milder sentence from a less august tribunal. As to creations of the
peerage in Scotland, take the case of the Barony of Rutherford. That
peerage was created by Charles II., in 1661; a much more recent
authority than Richard II.; and the destination was to Andrew
Rutherford, and the heirs-male of his body, “quibus deficientibus,
quamcumque aliam personam seu personas quas sibi quoad vixerit,
quinetiam in articulo mortis, ad ei succedendum, ac fore ejus hæredes
talliæ et provisionis in eadem dignitate, nominare et designare
placuerit, secundum nominationem et designationem manu ejus
subscribendam, subque provisionibus restrictionibus et conditionibus a
dicto Andrea, pro ejus arbitrio, in dicta designatione experimendis.” In
short, if the first Lord Rutherford had no heirs-male, he was entitled
by this patent to assign the dignity, even on death-bed, to any person
whom he might choose to name; and there was nothing to prevent him, if
so disposed, from having nominated his footman to succeed him in the
peerage! Here is a precedent to which we respectfully request the
attention of those who are bent upon asserting the unlimited nature of
the royal prerogative; and we should like to know whether they are
prepared to maintain that such a patent, if granted now, would be
regarded as constitutional, and would be held sufficient to entitle _the
assignee_, not the heir, of the originally created peer to sit in the
House of Lords? Certainly we are entitled to demand, if this case of
Lord Wensleydale is to be decided upon precedents, a distinct answer to
the foregoing question. For, as we have already shown—we trust
distinctly, and we know incontrovertibly—the interest now at stake
concerns not the Peerage of England, which has long since ceased to
exist, but the interest of the Peerage of the United Kingdom; and
therefore precedents drawn from the history of England can have no more
weight than precedents drawn from the histories or records of Scotland
or of Ireland.

We think that no weight whatever is to be given to such precedents. No
sovereign of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland has, till
now, attempted to alter the hereditary character of the Peerage. This is
the very first instance of a peerage for life granted in the monarchy
under which we live, and it cannot be considered otherwise than as an
innovation. We use that term in its most innocuous sense; not meaning
thereby to challenge the right of the Crown to confer a new description
of dignity, but simply marking the fact that the dignity, as granted, is
new. But the creation of such a dignity by no means carries with it the
right to a seat in the House of Lords. As we have already shown, many of
the Peers of the United Kingdom, all of whom are hereditary, are
expressly excluded from that House, not by will of the Sovereign alone,
but by express statute, bearing the authority of the Three Estates of
the realm. If there be any meaning whatever in the phrase that this is a
“limited monarchy,” it must be held to signify that the Crown cannot,
_ex proprio motu_, interfere with the constitution of the other two
Estates. It cannot, we know well, interfere arbitrarily with the
constitution of the House of Commons; but is it not an interference with
the constitution of the House of Lords, when we find a new kind of
peerage created, for the purpose of giving the party so created a voice
in the Legislature? Is that not directly contrary to constitutional
usage—to the “lex et consuetudo Parliamenti,” which has been justly held
as the great bulwark of our national freedom? On this point we invite
consideration; and the more deeply it is considered, the stronger, we
are assured, will be the conviction that the present attempt, if
successful, would be highly dangerous to the liberties of the country.

All must agree with us that it is of the most vital importance that the
independence of the two national chambers should be maintained. The
House of Commons cannot be otherwise than independent, because it is
strictly electoral. All proposals which have hitherto been made to place
a certain number of seats at the disposal of ministers, or rather to
allow ministers to sit and vote without representing a constituency,
have been scouted; and although very plausible arguments have from time
to time been advanced to prove the expediency of such an arrangement,
these have failed to convince the people of this country that it would
be safe to depart, in any case, from the electoral system of return. The
House of Peers hitherto has been independent, because, though the Crown
has the right of creating new peers, that right has only been exercised
according to the existing and understood conditions; and the hereditary
constitution of the House renders it impossible to suppose that any
undue or exorbitant exercise of the power of the Crown, in creating new
peers, can permanently affect its independence. It by no means follows
that the successor of the original peer is to be swayed by the same
motives which affected his father, or that he will tread implicitly in
his footsteps; and therefore, even in times of great excitement, the
power of creation has been exercised within limits by the advisers of
the Crown. Lord Brougham, who, in the days of the Reform Bill, was not
very scrupulous, intended, as he tells us himself, to advise his
sovereign, William IV., to exercise his prerogative to an extent which
never had been attempted before, and which, we devoutly trust, will
never be attempted again. He says, “When I went to Windsor with Lord
Grey, I had a list of EIGHTY creations, framed upon the principle of
making the least possible permanent addition to our House, and to the
aristocracy, by calling up peers’ eldest sons—by choosing men without
families—by taking Scotch and Irish peers.” It is of no avail now to
revert to the past, or to enter into any discussion whether or not the
proposed measure was justifiable; more especially as Lord Brougham adds,
“But such was my deep sense of the dreadful consequences of the act,
that I much question whether I should not have preferred running the
risk of confusion that attended the loss of the bill as it then stood.”
Under the present hereditary system, there is little danger that the
House of Peers will lose its independent character; nor could it be so
affected, even for a short period, save by some such exorbitant exercise
of the power of the Crown, by creating simultaneously an undue and
unconstitutional number of peers. But the case would be widely different
if life-peerages were to be allowed, and recognised as conferring a
right to sit in the House of Lords. Peerages in the ordinary course of
succession become rapidly extinct. In 1707, when the Union Roll of
Scotland was made up, the number of the Peerage amounted to 154; and
since then six, having proved their claims, have been added, thus
swelling the number to 160. At present there are only 82 members of that
Peerage, showing a diminution of nearly _one-half_ in the course of 150
years. If, then, the lapse of hereditary peerages is to be supplied—as
no doubt it will be supplied, should the claim of Lord Wensleydale to
take his seat in the House of Peers be allowed—by peers created for life
only, who can fail to see that, in the course of time, the independence
of the Upper House must be entirely extinguished? In the natural course
of events, that Chamber must become an appanage of the Crown, very much
indeed in the condition of the old English Chamber of Peers, when the
Crown exercised its discretion in issuing or withholding writs of
summons to Parliament. Therein, we conclude, lies the real danger. We
speak of “the constitution of the country,” and men regard the term as
vague because so much is implied. But it is different when we consider
separately the constitution of each branch of the Legislature. Then we
are dealing, not with generalities, but with facts; and we appeal, not
only to the antiquarian and the genealogist, but to the understanding of
all educated men, whether, until now, they ever conceived the
possibility of a non-hereditary House of Lords? Surely, in 1832, when a
design for swamping that House was seriously entertained, the legality
of creating peerages for life must have occurred to some of the men of
acute and daring intellect who were willing to peril so much for the
success of their favourite measure, and yet no proposal of the kind was
put forward. It is in the “ennoblement of the blood” which, once
bestowed, the sovereign cannot recall, that the essential privilege and
pre-eminence of the Peerage lies. Take that away, and the whole
character of the dignity is altered.

Some kind of argument has been attempted to be drawn in favour of
life-peerages, from the patent fact that bishops have seats in the House
of Lords. To that we answer that the “Spiritual Lords,” as they are
termed, sit there partly by consuetude, and partly by statute; and
Blackstone thus explains the reason of their sitting: “These” (_i.e._
the Spiritual Lords) “hold, or are supposed to hold, certain ancient
baronies under the Queen; for William the Conqueror thought proper to
change the spiritual tenure of frankalmoign, or free alms, under which
the bishops held their lands during the Saxon government, into the
feodal or Norman tenure by barony, which subjected their estates to all
civil charges and assessments, from which they were before exempt; and
in right of succession to those baronies which were unalienable from
their respective dignities, the bishops and abbots were allowed their
seats in the House of Lords.” And let it be specially remarked, that the
Crown has no power to call a newly-created bishop, in virtue of his
bishopric, to sit in the House of Lords. This is distinctly asserted by
the statute 10 and 11 Vict. cap. 108, which provides that the number of
English Lords Spiritual shall not be increased by the creation of any
new bishopric. So here is a precedent, if precedents are to be sought
for, limiting the power of the Crown as to new dignities, and debarring
it from interfering with the constituted rights of another estate of the
realm.

In the course of this discussion upon a subject not only interesting,
but of the highest importance, we have studiously avoided mixing up the
question of the right of the Crown to confer titles of honour at
pleasure, with that of the exercise of the prerogative to create,
contrary to consuetude, a new kind of nobility to sit in the House of
Lords. They are indeed totally separate questions, and must so be
considered in order to arrive at a proper understanding of the point at
issue. We submit that this much is clear and evident—1st, That the right
of sitting in the House of Lords is not the necessary consequence of the
possession of a British peerage; 2d, That, with the exception of the
Bishops or Lords Spiritual, who sit in the character of holders of
ancient baronies under the Queen, all the members of the House of Lords
are hereditary peers; 3d, That since the union of England and Scotland,
which merged the two ancient kingdoms into one monarchy under the name
of Great Britain, and made all the existing peers, without any
exception, peers of Great Britain, there has been no instance of any
attempt on the part of the Crown to create peerages without remainder;
4th, That the same observation applies to the United Kingdom of Great
Britain and Ireland, which was established by the Act of Union with
Ireland, and which made all existing peers, peers of the United Kingdom.

The present is the first instance in which a title of nobility, without
remainder, has been conferred by patent, and the mere title, as a
personal honour, may be unimpeachable. But it is a very different thing
when it is attempted to give the holder of that title a seat in the
House of Lords, which, we humbly venture to think, is beyond the power
of the Crown, because it is contrary to the acknowledged constitution
and hereditary character of the House of Lords. That there must be some
limit to the exercise of the prerogative is certain; and we shall put a
case for the solution of those who take the opposite view. It is this:
Would the Crown be entitled to issue a writ of summons to any peer of
the United Kingdom, who is such in virtue of his representing an old
Scottish or Irish peerage; and would such peer be entitled, in respect
of that writ, to take his seat in the House of Lords? We apprehend that
there can be but one answer to that. Such an attempt would be directly
contrary to and in violation of the terms of the Acts of Union. No man
surely will maintain that Queen Anne could have evaded the express
conditions of the Treaty of Union, by creating all the former peers of
Scotland who became peers of Great Britain (with the exception of the
sixteen representatives), peers for life, without remainder, and so have
effected an absolute revolution in the character of the then existing
House of Lords. It was not until the year 1782, seventy years after the
Union, that a writ of summons was allowed to be issued to Douglas Duke
of Hamilton, in the character of Duke of Brandon, a dignity which had
been given to his ancestor in 1711. Previous to that decision, it seems
to have been maintained that no subsequent patent to a peer, who
originally was a peer of Scotland, could entitle him to a writ of
summons to sit in the House of Lords; and the point was twice
adjudicated upon in the House of Lords: first in the case of the Duke of
Hamilton, already mentioned; and, secondly, in that of the Duke of
Queensberry, who, 1719, asserted his right to a writ of summons in his
character of Duke of Dover. In both instances the decision was hostile
to the claim; but the point was finally set at rest by the admission of
the Duke of Hamilton to sit as Duke of Brandon under that patent.

If the Crown can now create a peer for life, so as to entitle him to a
seat in Parliament, it must necessarily have possessed that power 150
years ago; and, if so, every one of the Scottish peers might have been
called to the Upper House by the simple expedient of giving them new
patents for life. Such an attempt would undoubtedly have been considered
illegal, unconstitutional, and utterly subversive of the Union; and yet
we cannot see wherein such an attempt would have differed in principle
from that which is now made to introduce Lord Wensleydale to the House
of Lords. It is only by the consent of Queen, Lords, and Commons, that
the fundamental character of any of the three great Estates of the realm
can be altered; and the attempt to destroy or impair the independence of
one of them is ominous for the stability of the others.


          _Printed by William Blackwood and Sons, Edinburgh._

-----

Footnote 1:

  _A History of Rome from the Earliest Times to the Establishment of the
  Empire._ By HENRY G. LIDDELL, D.D., Dean of Christchurch, Oxford, late
  Head Master of Westminster School.

Footnote 2:

  This was a law, passed after the battle of Cannæ, at the instance of
  the tribune Oppius, “by which it was forbidden that any woman should
  wear a gay-coloured dress, or have more than half an ounce of gold to
  ornament her person, and that none should approach within a mile of
  any city or town in a car drawn by horses.”—Vol. i. p. 363.

Footnote 3:

  He had caused a fugitive and suppliant Gaul to be assassinated in his
  own tent, where he was feasting with a favourite youth, in order that
  the dying agonies of the man might afford an amusement to his unworthy
  minion.—Vol. ii. p. 61.

Footnote 4:

  _Histoire des Français des Divers Etats._ Victor Lecou, Libraire.
  Paris, 1853.

Footnote 5:

  One curious example of this kind of thing we remember to have seen in
  the preface to the new edition of a work of some reputation. The
  devout author, alluding to the success of his performance, offers his
  grateful thanks to Providence and the Periodical Press.

Footnote 6:

  Like some people nearer home, each of them (and many another besides
  them) avers that his paper has the largest circulation of any journal
  not only in America, but _in the world_. Of all statistics, the least
  credible are those of newspaper proprietors.

Footnote 7:

  We are fully prepared to find Mr Bennett attributing our unfavourable
  remarks to a great “conspiracy” among the “aristocratic cliques” of
  England against American institutions in general, and the _New York
  Herald_ in particular. This is an old trick, but the American public
  is too sensible any longer to be taken in by such nonsense. Mr
  Bennett’s pretensions to represent the general sentiments of the
  United States, have nowhere been more indignantly repudiated than in
  New York. If we imagined that any American whose opinion is worth
  considering, would interpret our criticism as implying any unkindly
  feeling to his country, these pages should never have seen the light.
  The objects of our criticism are individual men.

Footnote 8:

  The _North American Review_ thanks Mr Parton warmly for his brave—his
  noble book. Was the orthodox Grannie dozing when she read it?

Footnote 9:

  The meaning of the words “Whig,” “Democrat,” &c., and the combination
  in the same individuals of Whig and Protectionist, Conservative and
  Democrat, are somewhat puzzling to those who have not studied the
  complicated subject of American politics.

Footnote 10:

  Of the printing-office and editorial rooms Mr Parton gives a minute
  account, not failing to give us the names and describe the personal
  attractions of all the leading officials, including the distinguished
  foreman, Mr T. Rooker, who warns “_gentlemen_ desiring to wash and
  soak their distributing matter,” to use the “metal galleys” he has
  cast for that purpose! “It took the world,” says Mr P., “an unknown
  number of thousand years to arrive at that word GENTLEMEN.” What a
  pity that some smart man does not write a little book on “The
  Flunkeyism of Democracy.”

Footnote 11:

  On this subject the biography maintains, with one or two exceptions, a
  prudent reserve. One pathetic description is attempted of the old
  sinner, “as he stood in his editorial rooms in Nassau Street, _while
  from his head was washed the blood that incarnadined the snows of
  fifty winters_.” After the washing of his headpiece, the invincible
  editor coolly sat down to narrate the “assassination” in his own
  choice style for the benefit of his readers. The following may pass as
  a specimen of his manner. “James Watson Webb,” editor of the _Courier
  and Enquirer_, was an old comrade of the writer’s.

  “As I was leisurely pursuing my business yesterday, in Wall Street,
  collecting the information which is daily disseminated in the
  _Herald_, James Watson Webb came up to me on the northern side of the
  street—said something which I could not hear distinctly, then pushed
  me down the stone steps leading to one of the broker’s offices, and
  commenced fighting with a species of brutal and demoniac desperation
  characteristic of a fury.

  “My damage is a scratch, about three-quarters of an inch in length, on
  the third finger of the left hand, which I received from the iron
  railing I was forced against, and three buttons torn from my vest,
  which any tailor will reinstate for a sixpence. His loss is a rent
  from top to bottom of a very beautiful black coat, which cost the
  ruffian 40 dollars, and a blow in the face, which may have knocked
  down his throat some of his infernal teeth for anything I know.
  Balance in my favour, 39 dollars, 94 cents.”

Footnote 12:

  Mr Bennett, it would appear, is not indeed utterly free from the human
  feeling of “love of approbation”—the approbation, however, of
  “peculiar” characters. Mr O’Connell insulted him at a great Repeal
  gathering in Dublin, by saying, when his card was presented, “We don’t
  want him here. He is one of the conductors of one of the vilest
  Gazettes ever published by infamous publishers.” Poor Bennett was “ill
  for some days in Scotland”—probably, thinks the tender biographer, in
  consequence of this unexpected repulse from a brother demagogue.

Footnote 13:

  Gibbon.

Footnote 14:

  _Report by the Commissioners for the British Fisheries of their
  Proceedings in the Year ended 31st December 1854; being Fishing 1854._
  Edinburgh, 1855.

  Article “FISHERIES” in the current edition of the _Encyclopædia
  Britannica_, vol. ix. Edinburgh, 1855.

Footnote 15:

  This fearful loss, it may be borne in mind, fell not upon fishermen
  and merchants, but upon the poor fishermen alone—most of the survivors
  being thereby rendered destitute. “Of those who perished at Wick, 17
  left widows and 60 children; at Helmsdale, the 13 drowned have left 9
  widows and 25 children; of the 26 men belonging to Port Gordon and
  Buckie, who perished at Peterhead, 8 have left widows and 22 children;
  and, including the 13 widows and 54 children of the 19 men lost
  belonging to Stonehaven and Johnshaven, there will be left 47 widows
  and 161 children totally unprovided for—a calamity without precedent
  in the annals of the British fisheries.”—CAPTAIN WASHINGTON’S
  _Report_, p. xvii.

Footnote 16:

  _Report—Fishing Boats_ (Scotland). Ordered by the House of Commons to
  be printed, 28th July 1849.

Footnote 17:

  The year above referred to was that of 1848. Still larger captures and
  comparative increase in the quantity cured have since occurred. Thus,
  in 1849, there were cured at Wick 140,505 barrels.

Footnote 18:

  _Essays on the Trade, Commerce, Manufactures, and Fisheries of
  Scotland_, vol. iii. p. 197. Edinburgh, 1778.

Footnote 19:

  _Eighth Annual Report of the Board of Supervision for the Relief of
  the Poor in Scotland._ Edinburgh, 1853.

Footnote 20:

           Value of boats employed in the fisheries, £225,830
           Do. of nets       „             „          303,666
           Do. of lines      „             „           57,924
                                                         ————
                                   Total (for 1854), £587,420

Footnote 21:

  The above numbers are exclusive of between _four and five thousand
  men_ engaged in the _export_ fishing trade.

Footnote 22:

  The following is the present constitution of the Board:
  _Commissioners_—Lord Murray; Earl of Caithness; George Traill, M.P.;
  James Wilson; Rear-Admiral Henry Dundas; Andrew Coventry; James T.
  Gibson-Craig; Professor Traill; William Mitchell Innes; Lord Elcho,
  M.P.; Sir James Matheson, M.P.; John Thomson Gordon; George Loch; with
  Lord Advocate Moncreiff, and Solicitor-General Maitland, _Ex
  officiis_.—Secretary, Hon. B. F. Primrose.

Footnote 23:

  _Twentieth Report from the Board of Public Works, Ireland_, p. 236.
  London, 1852.

Footnote 24:

  _Report of the Commissioners of Fisheries, Ireland, for 1853._ Dublin,
  1854.

Footnote 25:

  Ibid. 1854. Dublin, 1855.

Footnote 26:

  _Report of the Commissioners of Fisheries, Ireland, for 1854_, p. 12.
  The above quotation refers to the herring fishery carried on at Howth.
  We think it right to state that the schedules appended to the report
  bear testimony “to the peaceable and orderly habits of the fishermen,
  and to the total absence of any conflicts or disturbance of any kind.”
  It is, unfortunately, added, that “it is much to be deplored that
  nearly all agree in describing an unexampled state of depression as
  extending to all parts of the coast.”—_Ibid._, p. 6.

Footnote 27:

  _Ibid._, p. 6. As the law now stands, there is no regulation in
  respect to the size of the mesh of nets used in Ireland for the
  capture of fish other than of the salmon species.

Footnote 28:

  Letter from Mr Methuen to the Lord Advocate; _Edinburgh Evening
  Courant_, February 6, 1856.

Footnote 29:

  We have recently received the _Commercial Circular_ of Messrs
  Plüddeman and Kirstein of Stettin, of date the 20th January 1856.
  Referring to the increased consumption of our herrings in the
  Continental markets during the last season, they attributed it chiefly
  to the high prices of all descriptions of _meat_, as a consequence of
  the high value of rye, and all other grains, caused by the blockade of
  the Russian ports, and the failure of the Continental crops. The
  following is their summary of the importation of Scotch herrings, into
  their own and neighbouring districts, during the last four years:—

  ┌──────────┬──────────┬──────────┬──────────┬──────────┬───────────┐
  │  Years.  │ Stettin. │ Harburg. │ Hamburg. │ Dantzic. │Königsberg.│
  ├──────────┼──────────┼──────────┼──────────┼──────────┼───────────┤
  │          │ Barrels. │ Barrels. │ Barrels. │ Barrels. │ Barrels.  │
  │      1852│   121,290│    10,000│    44,000│    22,146│ about 4000│
  │      1853│   123,537│    26,000│    22,000│    44,272│ about 5000│
  │      1854│   118,800│    52,400│    25,550│    28,009│       2758│
  │      1855│   154,961│    59,769│    26,500│    66,122│     15,070│
  └──────────┴──────────┴──────────┴──────────┴──────────┴───────────┘

  The above transmissions for 1855 give a total of 322,422 barrels of
  Scotch herrings, of which the price to our curers, for such as were
  full crown branded, varied from L.1, 1s. to L.1, 4s. each, producing,
  with such as were of a somewhat inferior quality and price, an
  enormous aggregate of income from the Prussian ports alone.

  We may here add, that there is an immediate prospect of the duty on
  our herrings being greatly reduced in Belgium. It is at present 13
  francs (or about 11s.) per barrel—a tax which quite prohibits
  importation. When the great cities of Brussels, Ghent, Liège, Louvain,
  Antwerp, Bruges, Mons, Namur, Malines, &c., are open to our produce,
  what may we not hope for from the appetites of a Catholic and
  therefore fish-eating population?

Footnote 30:

  We have reason to believe that petitions to the Treasury for the
  maintenance of the Board of Fisheries and its official brand, have
  been presented or are in course of transmission from the following
  twenty-one ports in this country, viz.:—Wick Town-Council, Wick
  Chamber of Commerce, Helmsdale, Burghhead, Lossiemouth, Macduff,
  Banff, Gardenstown, Whitehills, Portsoy, Fraserburgh, Peterhead,
  Montrose, Anstruther, Leith Chamber of Commerce, Eyemouth, Burnmouth,
  Coldingham, Berwick-upon-Tweed, &c., Glasgow, Greenock, Bute. The
  following places on the Continent have sent in corresponding
  petitions, viz.:—Stettin, Königsberg, Dantzic, Berlin, Breslau,
  Dresden, Magdeburg, Harburg, Hamburg.

Footnote 31:

  _Memoir of the Rev. Sydney Smith._ By his Daughter, LADY HOLLAND.

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                          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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