{"collection":"philosophy-ethics","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_33141/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_33141","id":"gutenberg_33141","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/33141","summary":null,"tags":["Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine","Category: British Literature","Category: Essays, Letters & Speeches","Category: History - Modern (1750+)","Category: Journals","Category: Philosophy & Ethics","Category: Politics","England -- Periodicals","Scotland -- Periodicals"],"text":"Produced by Brendan OConnor, Jonathan Ingram and the Online\nDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This\nfile was produced from images generously made available\nby The Internet Library of Early Journals.)\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n  BLACKWOOD'S EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.\n\n  NO. CCCLV.   MAY, 1845.   VOL. LVII.\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS.\n\n\n  SISMONDI,                                                    529\n\n  MY FIRST SPEC IN THE BIGGLESWADES,                           549\n\n  GERMAN-AMERICAN ROMANCES. PART THE THIRD,                    561\n\n  THE RECTOR'S DAUGHTER,                                       580\n\n  A GLANCE AT THE PENINSULA,                                   595\n\n  AESTHETICS OF DRESS. NO. III.,                                608\n\n  NORTH'S SPECIMENS OF THE BRITISH CRITICS. NO. IV.--DRYDEN\n  ON CHAUCER,                                                  617\n\n  MAYNOOTH,                                                    647\n\n\n\n  EDINBURGH:\n  WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS, 45, GEORGE STREET;\n  AND 22, PALL-MALL, LONDON.\n  _To whom all Communications (post paid) must be addressed._\n  SOLD BY ALL THE BOOKSELLERS IN THE UNITED KINGDOM.\n\n  PRINTED BY BALLANTYNE AND HUGHES, EDINBURGH.\n\n\n\n\n  BLACKWOOD'S EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.\n\n  NO. CCCLV.   MAY, 1845.   VOL. LVII.\n\n\n\n\nSISMONDI.[1]\n\n\nNever was there a juster observation, than that, in ordinary times, in the\nsame state, genius moves in a circle; originality is lost amidst\nimitation; we breathe thought not less than vital air. This is more\nespecially the case in all those branches of opinion or philosophy which\nrelate to internal economy, or the social concerns of men. There, it is\nnot merely abstract principle, or disinterested reasoning, which have\nstruck their roots into the human mind; interest, prejudice, passion, have\nmoved it yet more deeply, and rendered the change from one set of opinions\nto another still more difficult. Universally it will be found, that in\nregard to the social concerns of men, which are so closely interwoven with\nour habits, interests, and affections, the transition from error to truth\ncan rarely be accomplished by any intellect, how powerful soever, which\nhas not imbibed, in part at least, the maxims of foreign states. New\nideas, like lightning, are produced by the blending of two streams of\nthought, wafted from different ages or parts of the world. The French\npolitical revolution was brought about by the meeting of new-born French\nfervour with long-established English ideas: the Anglomania which\nimmediately preceded that convulsion is the proof of it. The English\nsocial revolution has proceeded from the same cause: it is the junction of\nBritish practical habits with French speculative views which has produced\nthe political economy of modern times: and the whole doctrines of\nfree-trade which Adam Smith matured, and recent times have reduced to\npractice, are to be found in the _Physiocratie_ of Dupont de Nemours, and\nthe political pamphlets of Turgot.\n\nIt was in the year 1775 that these doctrines, imported from France, were\nfirst broached in this country by the publication of the _Wealth of\nNations_; and it took half a century for them to pass from the solitary\nmeditation of the recluse into the cabinets of statesmen and the hustings\nof the populace. Now, however, this transformation of thought is general,\nat least in a considerable part of the mercantile and manufacturing\nportions of the community. Few in the great cities of the empire think of\ndoubting the doctrines of free-trade: fewer still, if they doubt them,\nventure to give publicity to their opinions. The reason of this general\nconcurrence among commercial men, and of this, in social matters, rapid\nconversion of general thought, is to be found in the circumstance, that\nthe new opinions fell in with the interests, or at least the immediate\ninterests, of the leaders and influential men among the mercantile\nclasses. The remainder, not understanding the subject, yielded by degrees\nto what they were told, by their superiors in wealth and intelligence,\nwere incontrovertible propositions. Manufacturers who enjoyed the\nadvantages of coal, ironstone, canals, railroads, and harbours at their\ndoors, very readily embraced the doctrine, that all restrictions on\ncommercial intercourse were contrary to reason; and that all mankind, how\ndestitute soever of these advantages themselves, could do nothing so wise\nas to admit all their goods without any protective duties whatever.\nMerchants widely engaged in mercantile speculations, who were buying and\nselling in all parts of the world, and whose interest it was to purchase\nas largely and as cheaply as possible, and to sell as extensively and as\ndearly as was consistent with that extent, had no difficulty in arriving\nat the conclusion, that commerce should be left perfectly free, that all\nprotective duties for the shelter of native industry should be abolished,\nand that the only charges on the transport of goods should be the cost of\ntransit and their own profits. Every shilling taken from the import duties\nwas so much put in their pockets, either directly by their gaining the\nremitted duty, or by their indirectly feeling the benefit of it, in the\nreduction of price and the widening of the market. Capitalists and\nbankers, who had vast sums to lend, found nothing so reasonable as that\nthey should be permitted, without restraint, to exact any amount of usury\nthey chose from the necessities, the folly, or the cupidity of their\ndebtors. The opinion became general, that a nation could only be made rich\nby the same means as an individual manufacturer, and that the excess of\nthe price obtained for the produce of national labour above the cost of\nproduction, was the measure of national wealth.\n\nUnder the influence of these opinions, prohibitions, restrictions, and\nimport duties gave way on all sides. To the huge mass of the ignorant\nvulgar, the very sound of \"_abolition of restrictions_\" was delightful.\nRestraint was what they hated, exclusive privilege was their abomination,\nliberty of thought and action their supposed elysium. To abolish\nmonopolies, incorporations, crafts, guildries, and statutes of\napprenticeship, seemed a mighty step in the emancipation of the human\nrace. Thus they cordially and universally joined in the cry for liberation\nfrom every sort of restriction, alike in thought, commerce, industry, and\naction, which had been first raised by the philosophers, and afterwards\ngenerally embraced by the capitalists and merchants. Amidst a chorus of\ncongratulations, mutual applauses, and sanguine anticipations, with the\ncordial approbation of the political economists, the general concurrence\nof the merchants, and the loud shouts of the multitude, the doctrines of\nfree-trade were progressively applied to every part of the social body.\nTaxes upon imports have been diminished, till, on all save a few articles,\nthey are now entirely removed; native industry has been exposed, with a\nvery slender protection, to the competition of foreign states; the\nrestraints on the exportation of machinery has been removed, to allow\nforeign nations every advantage in competing with us; punishment has been\nalleviated, till the penalty of death, save in cases of wilful murder, has\nbecome practically abolished; the liberty of the press pushed the length\nof allowing without control its utmost licentiousness; unbounded\ntoleration permitted in matters of opinion, even so far as generally to\nproclaim impunity to the worst Chartist or Socialist doctrines;\ncombinations among workmen to raise their wages declared legal, and\ncarried into practice on the greatest scale in all the manufacturing\ndistricts; a great organic change introduced into the constitution, to\nrender Government more thoroughly dependent on public opinion; taxes to\nthe amount of above thirty millions sterling, on articles of consumption,\nrepealed in less than thirty years; a vast monetary change, to lower\nprices by raising the value of money, introduced, and steadily enforced,\nin spite of unbounded consequent distress; and the principle of free\ncompetition introduced generally as the basis of the social union, the\nonly sure guarantee of national prosperity.\n\n\"Experience,\" says Dr Johnson, \"is the great test of truth, and is\nperpetually contradicting the theories of men.\" Never, since the beginning\nof the world, had the doctrines of philosophers been so generally embraced\nby Government, or measures really intended for the public good so\nextensively carried into effect by the Legislature. Unbounded were the\nanticipations of prosperity and happiness in which men generally indulged\non the adoption of this system; inflexible has been the steadiness with\nwhich it has been adhered to, amidst an amount of suffering which would\nlong ago have proved fatal to any set of measures among men, except those\ndictated by their own opinions. But amidst all these anticipations, and\nthis steadiness in carrying out the doctrines of free-trade in every\ndepartment of thought and action, various unpleasant indications began to\nmanifest themselves in every part of society; and it became evident to all\nthat the fruits of the tree of knowledge were not, in this generation at\nleast, destined to be different from what they had proved to our First\nParents. While wealth was increasing to an unparalleled extent among the\ncommercial classes, suffering and distress as generally ensued among the\nrural inhabitants; and the multitude of ruined fortunes among them\nrendered it certain, that at no distant period the old race of landed\nproprietors would, with the exception of a few magnates, be all rooted\nout, and their place supplied by a new set of purchasers from the\ncommercial towns. While population was advancing with unparalleled strides\nin the manufacturing districts, pauperism even more than kept pace with it\nin all; and the extraordinary fact has now been revealed by statistical\nresearches, that, in an age of unparalleled wealth and general and\nlong-continued peace, a _seventh_ part of the whole inhabitants of the\nBritish islands are in a state of destitution, or painfully supported by\nlegal relief.[2]\n\nWhile all attempts, even, to pay off the national debt have been abandoned\nby Government, and the principle openly proclaimed by the Prime Minister,\nthat any surplus of revenue above expenditure must, to relieve the\nnecessities of the country, be applied to the reduction of taxation,\nwithout a thought to the reduction of the debt; the Home Secretary has\nannounced the not less alarming fact, that, since the peace, above two\nhundred millions sterling, or a fourth of the national debt, has been\nraised for the relief of the poor in England alone. While the returns of\nthe income-tax have demonstrated that seventy thousand persons in Great\nBritain possess among them an annual revenue of two hundred millions\na-year, or about L.2300 each on an average, the melancholy fact has been\nrevealed, by the result of attempts to increase the national revenue by\nmeans of indirect taxation, that that source of income can no longer be\nrelied on; and in a time of profound, and at the close of a period of\nlong-continued peace, it has become indispensable to recur to an\nassessment on property and direct taxation, as it was in Rome in the\ndecaying periods of the empire. The blue folios of the Houses of\nParliament teem with authentic and decisive evidence of the vast increase,\nduring the last thirty years, of crime and frequent destitution among the\nworking classes in all parts of the empire; every four or five years, a\nbrief feverish period of gambling, extravagance, and commercial\nprosperity, is succeeded by a long and dreary season of anxiety, distress,\nand depression; frightful strikes among the workmen, attended with\nboundless distress among, and hideous democratic tyranny over them,\ninvariably succeed in the close of those periods of suffering, as\npestilence stalks in the rear of famine; and popular insurrection has\nbecome so common, that it is a rare thing to see two years pass over\nwithout martial law being of necessity practically enforced in some part\nof the empire. Efforts unheard-of have been made to extend the religious\nestablishments of the state, or augment the means of moral and\nintellectual instruction among the people; but hitherto with no\nperceptible effect in checking the habits of sensuality, improvidence, and\nintemperance, which prevail amongst them; and in an age and a country\nabounding, beyond any other that ever existed, with declamations in favour\nof the blessings of knowledge, and the elements of happiness and moral\nimprovement, which free-trade and a general liberation from restraint were\nto procure for society, the scandal has been exhibited of serious crime\nhaving, during the last forty years, increased TEN TIMES as fast as the\nnumber of the people.[3]\n\nWe are so accustomed in this country to those things, that they have\nceased to make any impression upon us. The great majority of men, actively\nengaged in the business of life, pay no attention to them whatever, but go\non labouring to make money, or keep themselves afloat in the world,\nwithout bestowing even a passing thought of whither that world on which\nthey are so intent is tending. Philosophers and political economists,\nconfounded at beholding such results flowing from the adoption and\npractical application of their favourite principles, quietly pass by on\nthe other side; and, without denying the facts, content themselves with\ndisregarding them altogether, and continuing to prophesy unbounded\nnational prosperity and moral elevation from the ultimate effect of the\nfurther abolition of restraint on thought and action. The religious\nportion of the community--and they form a large and highly respectable\nbody--consider these alarming symptoms as the judgment of Heaven upon us\nfor our sins, and the natural and well-deserved consequence of our neglect\nof the means of salvation, which have been so mercifully put into our\nhands. The merchants and manufacturers, who are rapidly making fortunes\nunder the new system, maintain that it is founded on pure and tried\nreason, and that in no other way can the national resources be fully\ndeveloped. The landowners, who are as rapidly losing them, are, in part,\nso paralysed by their individual embarrassments, in part so perplexed with\nthe intricacy of the subject, that they are incapable of making any\nefforts, except on particular occasions, in their own defence, but resign\nthemselves quietly to the stroke of fate, as the Moslem does to the\nbowstring of the Sultaun. The working classes are quiet during the brief\nperiods of prosperity; but nourish in their hearts at all times a profound\njealousy and hatred of the monied interest. The opinion is almost\nuniversally diffused among them, that the gains of their employers are\nscandalously great, and wrung out of their heart's blood--that they and\ntheir masters are naturally at war with each other--and that whatever is\ngained by the one is lost by the other. Meanwhile Government, obeying the\nnew, and, as matters stand, irresistible impulse let in upon the monarchy\nby the Reform Bill, quietly, slide into the principles and measures\ndictated to them by the dominant, most active, and most influential class\nin the state; and, shutting their eyes to the consequences in future\ntimes, content themselves with getting through the present with as much\npractical support and as little obloquy as possible.\n\nBut although this is, generally speaking, the state of opinion on all\nsocial questions in the British islands, it may well be imagined that they\nare looked upon with very different eyes by men of intelligence out of the\nwhirl of passing events, and beyond the reach of the passions or interests\nwhich mislead so many in this country. The civilization of Great Britain;\nthe social questions at issue amongst us; the experiment making, on so\nextended a scale, of the effect of the new doctrines on the happiness of\nthe people in the British islands; the prodigious wealth which has been\naccumulated in this country of late years; the magnitude and long duration\nof our political power; and the celebrity in arts, in arms, and in\nliterature we have long enjoyed, have struck all surrounding nations with\nastonishment, which, so far from diminishing, is hourly on the increase.\nThis effect appears variously, according to the temper and previous\nprepossessions of those among whom it has taken place. In the French, our\nancient rivals, our persevering antagonists in the revolutionary war, it\nhas produced no other effect, generally speaking, but envy, hatred, and\nmalice. In the Americans, it has engendered a mingled feeling of respect,\nadmiration, and jealousy, which appears in the strenuous efforts they are\nmaking to augment their wealth, power, and territory, by every possible\nmeans, and in every possible direction. But in reflecting minds on the\nContinent, on the really great in all countries, it has produced the\neffect of deep reflection, and anxious investigation. They have already\nbegun to contemplate the astonishing and long-continued empire of Great\nBritain as we, and all subsequent ages, have so long done the\ncorresponding, and only parallel, dominion reared by the arms of the Roman\nlegions. In the causes of the greatness, and seeds of ruin, in both, there\nis a striking, and to us portentous, resemblance. The analogy has been\nalready traced by more than one master-hand on the Continent. But none was\nbetter qualified to do justice to the subject, or has treated it in a more\nluminous or philosophic spirit, than SISMONDI; and it is to his\nobservations on the present social state of the British empire that we\nhave now to direct our readers' attention.\n\nAs the views of this great philosopher and historian are almost entirely\nat variance with those which now generally prevail amongst us, and to\nwhich the liberal party in every part of the country have in an especial\nmanner pinned their faith, and, at the same time, seem to be deserving of\nvery great attention from their novelty and importance, and direct bearing\non the dearest interests of the society with which we are surrounded--we\nhasten to premise that, in forming them, Sismondi has at least not been\nblinded by any _political_ partiality for the side to which, in _social_\nquestions, he inclines. He is, as all persons acquainted with foreign\nliterature well know, a decided liberal, indeed republican, in his\npolitical opinions. Born and educated in the democratic canton of Geneva,\na Protestant both by birth and connexion, the decided opponent of tyranny\nin all its forms, of Romish domination in all its guises, he first matured\nhis powerful mind in writing the history of the Italian republics, and\nafterwards had his opinions confirmed by tracing the long annuals of the\nFrench monarchy. The brilliant episodes in the history of the former,\ncontrasted with the hideous catalogue of persecutions and crimes which\nstain the latter, have confirmed in his mind, to a degree which,\nconsidering the extent of his information, and candour of his thoughts,\nappears surprising--the original prepossessions he had imbibed in favour\nof republican institutions. He even carries this so far as to advocate in\nhis Essays, which form the immediate subject of this paper, an elective in\npreference to an hereditary monarchy. He is as ardent an enthusiast in the\ncause of civil and religious liberty as Russell or Sidney, though his\nviews are modified as to time, by observation and experience. He yields to\nnone of the optimist school of more recent times in sanguine expectations\nof the benefits which may be expected from training the people to the\nduties of self-government, and ultimately entrusting them with its\npowers. He is adverse to an hereditary aristocracy, and strongly advocates\nthe division of landed property, by adopting in all countries the law of\nequal succession, which has given its powers their deathblow both in\nFrance and America. His life has been spent in painting the bright\nefflorescence of freedom and genius in the modern Italian republics, and\ntheir long blight under the combined powers of feudal power and Romish\nsuperstition in the French monarchy. The perfection of society, in his\nestimation, would be an aggregate of little republics, like those of\nGreece or southern Italy in ancient, or of Holland, Florence, Pisa, or\nGenoa, in modern times--in which supreme power was vested in the hands of\nmagistrates, named by the heads of trades, who had been themselves elected\nby the general suffrage of their respective bodies. Many readers will\nprobably be surprised at finding such political opinions entertained by a\nman of such acquirements, and class it with the numerous instances which\nhistory affords, of the inability of the greatest minds entirely to throw\noff the sway of early impressions and hereditary prepossessions. But we\nare not concerned, in this place, with Sismondi's political opinions; it\nis his views on social questions that appear peculiarly important, and\nwhich we are desirous of making known to our readers. And we mention his\npolitical opinions in order to show, that he at least cannot be accused of\na prejudice in favour of the monarchical, or aristocratic, side of the\nquestion.\n\nIt is from a leaning to, and sympathy with, the opposite class in society,\nthat his strong and important views on the tendency of social change in\nEurope, and especially in Great Britain and France, are directed. He is\ndecidedly of opinion, that this tendency is, to the last degree,\ndisastrous; that it is it which is the cause of the continued depression\nof industry, degradation of character, and increase of depravity and\ncrime, among the people; and that, so great and alarming are these causes\nof evil, that, unless they are arrested by a change of opinion among the\ninfluential classes of society, or the good providence of God, they will\ninfallibly destroy the whole fabric of European civilization, as they did\nthat of the ancient world. They are, in his own opinion, the more\nalarming, that they have sprung, not from the blighting, but the triumph,\nof what we call civilization; not from the retention of men in ignorance,\nbut their advance in knowledge; not from the upholding of restraint, but\nits removal. All these, the former evils with which mankind had to\ncontend, will, in his opinion, yield to the growth of industry and the\nprogress of knowledge; but in their stead a new set of evils--more\nserious, more wide-spread, more irremediable--will rise up, which, to all\nappearance, must in the end destroy all the states of modern Europe.\nEngland and France he considers, and probably with reason, as the states\nmost likely to be the first victims of those social evils, far more\nserious and irremediable than any of the political which attract so much\nattention, and are the objects of such vehement contention between parties\ninto which society is divided. England and France are not alone exposed to\nthe danger; all the other European states are advancing in the same\ncareer, and are threatened, in the end, with the same calamities. England\nand France have been the first to be reached, and are now most endangered,\nby them, only because they are in advance of the others in the career of\nknowledge, freedom, and civilization, and have attained more rapidly than\ntheir neighbours the power and energy by which modern society is\ndistinguished, and the perils by which it is menaced. In the social evils,\ntherefore, with which Great Britain is now environed, he sees the\nprecursor of those which are certainly, at one period or another, to\nafflict all Europe; and in the overthrow of our empire, from the corroding\neffect of the calamities they will induce, the ultimate destiny of all the\nstates of modern times.\n\nThat these views are melancholy, all will admit; that they are important\nif true, none will deny; that they are new, at least in this country, will\nbe conceded by the best informed. They come, however, recommended to us,\nnot merely by the powerful arguments and copious facts by which they are\nsupported, but by the peculiar turn of mind, and varied qualifications,\nof the author by whom they are supported. We have long been of opinion,\nthat it is the separation of political economy from history which is the\nchief cause of the numerous errors into which, since the days of Adam\nSmith, its professors have been betrayed, and the general discredit into\nwhich the science itself has fallen with a large portion of the thinking\nmen in the community. This effect has taken place, as it was very natural\nit should in the infancy of a science, from the habit into which\nphilosophers and men of abstract thought were led, of reasoning on human\naffairs as if they were the movement of inanimate bodies, and considering\nonly their own arguments, not the illustration of their truth or falsehood\nwhich experience has afforded. This habit is peculiarly conspicuous in the\nadvocates of free-trade, the reciprocity system, and Mr Malthus's\ndoctrines on pauperism and the poor-laws; they rest on abstract arguments,\nand are perfectly indifferent to the refutation of their principles which\nevery day's experience is affording. Probably the whole present generation\nof political economists must go to their graves before this general error\nis eradicated from the human mind. It is an error, however, of the most\nfatal kind, and which, while it is persevered in, must render political\neconomy one of the greatest of the many curses, which the eating of the\nfruit of the tree of knowledge has let loose upon mankind. It is like a\nsystem of medicine, formed, as such systems are in every age, not on\nexperience or observation, but on the theories of certain physicians on\nthe structure of the human body, and the proper way of developing its\nvarious functions.\n\nMany a patient in every age has been killed, before the absurdity of such\ntheories has been put down by the experience and common-sense of mankind.\nAnd many a nation, in Sismondi's opinion, will perish, before the nostrums\nof its state physicians have been expelled from the general opinion of\nman.\n\nIt is his profound and varied historical information, which has given\nSismondi his deep distrust of nearly all the conclusions of modern\npolitical economy, and inspired him with the gloomy presentiments with\nwhich he is filled, in regard to the tendency of society under the\npractical application of its principles. He has fixed his eyes, not on\nabstract principles, but actual nations, and traced the result, not of\ntheoretical views on the best regulations for society, but of such as have\nactually been established, and had their tendency tested by the experience\nof centuries in different ages and countries of the world. He sees with\ndismay, in the state of society in modern Europe, under the combined\ninfluence of free-trade, increasing knowledge, popular institutions, vast\nwealth, and long-established civilization, a mere repetition, under\ndifferent names, of those dreadful social evils which corroded the Roman\nempire, and in the end overturned the vast physical dominion of the\nlegions. He sees in that state of rural society which is nearly extinct in\nthe British islands, and fast wearing out in France, Belgium, and other\nparts of Europe, where civilization is most advanced, the only solid\nfoundation for general happiness, the only durable bulwark of public\nmorality, the only permanent security for national existence. This state\nof society is disappearing, and a new condition of men coming on, from\ncauses which seem beyond the power of human control, but the fatal effect\nof which is as apparent as the sun at noonday. And thence the gloomy views\nwith which he is inspired on the future prospects of Europe, and his\nprofound hostility to the principles of political economy, from which he\nconsiders them as having mainly arisen.\n\nPolitical economy, as a science, dates its origin, by the common consent\nof men, from the famous work \"On the Nature and Causes of the _Wealth_ of\nNations.\" But a greater authority than Adam Smith has told us, that \"he\nthat HASTENETH TO BE RICH SHALL NOT BE INNOCENT.\" Sismondi's doctrines on\npolitical economy are a commentary on these words, applied to the\nmanagement of nations and the social concerns of man. It is in the fatal\nthirst for wealth, and the application of all the powers of knowledge, and\nall the resources of art, to _that single object_, that he sees the\nall-powerful cause, both of the present degradation of so many of the\nworking classes, of the false direction of political philosophy, and of\nthe spread of social evils, which will to all appearance, in the end prove\nfatal to the existence of the British empire, and of all the European\ncommunities. But it is not any general or vague declamation on the\nprogress of corruption, and the growing evils of society, which he has\nbrought forward; he has given a close and cogent chain of reasoning,\nsupported by a formidable array of historical facts, and shown how it is\nthat the evils have arisen--how they bear upon the condition of the great\nbulk of the people, how they degrade their character, how their habits\ncorrupt their morals and destroy their happiness; and how irremediable,\nunder the prevailing ideas of the influential classes in society, these\nevils have become. The social injustice and political delusions which,\nhistory has now clearly ascertained, were the causes of the ruin of the\nRoman empire, he sees re-appearing amidst us under different names, but in\nstill more aggravated forms, and with more hopeless influences on society.\nAll this he traces mainly to the ruinous pursuit of wealth, which has\nseized alike upon our philosophers, our statesmen, and our practical men;\nwhich has too fatally verified the saying of Scripture, that \"the love of\nmoney is the root of all evil;\" and converted the noble science of\npolitical economy, the end of which is \"ut homines feliciter vivant,\" into\nthe degrading handmaid of wealth.\n\nSo strongly is he impressed with this idea, and so convinced of the\nruinous direction which the social sciences are taking, under the combined\ninfluence of philosophic error and monied ambition, that he thinks it\nindispensable, that language should mark the lasting and indelible crisis\nof distinction between the philosophy of general happiness and the means\nby which national wealth may be augmented. The first he calls \"Economie\nPolitique,\" or \"Les Sciences Sociales;\" the last \"_Chrematistique_,\" or\nthe art of accumulating riches in a state.[4] It is in the conversion of\npolitical economy, or the science of making men happy, which of course can\nonly be done by rendering them orderly, moral, and religious, into\nChrematistique, or the mere pursuit of the means by which we may augment\nthe sum of national riches, that the unobserved source of by far the\ngreatest social evils of the present day is to be found. These evils are\ngreater than either the slavery of the Romans or the bondage of serfs in\nmodern times; for they have induced the ruinous effects of both these\ndegrading systems, without the alleviating and counteracting advantages\nwith which either was attended. And the way in which this effect flows\nfrom the social doctrines of modern times, is this.\n\nAn augmentation of production is generally considered as an addition to\nnational wealth; and it is on this ground that all nations, under the\nguidance of the _Chrematists_, are making such strenuous efforts to\nincrease their agricultural and manufactured produce. Such an\naugmentation, however, says Sismondi, is not only by no means in every\ncase an addition to national wealth, but it is often a useless and\npernicious addition to national suffering. If the supply of any article\nexceeds what can be consumed in the early and simple ages of society, or\ndisposed of to advantage in the later, it is not only no advantage, but a\npositive loss. What avails it that the yards of cotton cloth manufactured,\nor the quarters of wheat raised, are increased in a country from\n50,000,000 to 100,000,000, if, in consequence of the increased supply, the\nprice is lowered one-half? The producers get their trouble for their\npains--they gain nothing--the consumers get more than they require--great\npart of the superfluity is wasted or sent abroad at a ruinous loss.\nAugmentation of production, therefore, is not in every case a sign of\nincreased national wealth; it is the _maintenance of a due proportion\nbetween production and consumption_ which is the real desideratum, and\nforms the only real basis of lasting national opulence.\n\nAccording to the _Chrematists_, the wealth of a nation, as of an\nindividual producer, is to be measured by the excess of the value of\nproduction over its cost. This, says Sismondi, is the most fatal of all\nerrors, and the grand source of the misery of the working classes, and\ninstability of society, in all the manufacturing states of Europe. It is\ntrue, the wealth of a master-manufacturer is to be measured by the excess\nof the price he obtains for his produce over the cost of its production;\nbut a master-manufacturer is not a nation. A nation consists not only of\nmasters but of workmen; not only of consumers but producers. The latter\nclass is by far the most numerous, the most important, the most likely to\nincrease. If they are reduced to misery in consequence of the reduction of\ntheir wages by the introduction of machinery, the employment of juvenile\nor female labour, the immigration of foreign labourers, or any other\ncause, it is a poor compensation to say, that the profits of their\nemployers have been greatly augmented at their expense. If the excess of\nthe value of production above its cost, were either the measure, or even\nan important element in national wealth, Ireland, where the wages of field\nlabour are 6d. a-day, and Poland, where they are 3d., should be the\nrichest nations in the world, whereas they are notoriously the poorest.\nThe real measure of national wealth is to be found, not in the excess of\nproduction above the consumption employed in it, but in the means of\ncomfortable livelihood which their industry affords to the _whole_ classes\nof the community; and that is only to be attained where wealth is very\ngenerally distributed.\n\nThe mere increase of national wealth is far from being, in every instance,\nan addition either to national strength, national security, or national\nhappiness. On the contrary, it is often the greatest possible diminution\nto the whole three. It is not the increase of wealth, but _its\ndistribution_, which is the great thing to be desired. It is on that that\nthe welfare and happiness of society depend. When wealth, whether in\ncapital or revenue, runs into a few hands--when landed property\naccumulates in the persons of a knot of territorial magnates, and commerce\ncentres in the warehouse of a limited number of merchant princes, and\nmanufactures in the workshop of a small body of colossal companies or\nindividual master-employers, it is _absolutely certain_ that the great\nbulk of the people will be in a state of degradation and distress. The\nreason is, that these huge fortunes have been made by diminishing the cost\nof production--that is, the wages of labour--to such an extent, as to have\nenormously and unjustly increased the profits of the stock employed in\nconducting it. Society, in such circumstances, is in the unstable\nequilibrium: it rests on the colossal wealth, territorial or commercial,\nof a few; but it has no hold on the affections or interests of the great\nmajority of the community. It is liable to be overturned by the first\nshock of adverse fortune. Any serious external disaster, any considerable\ninternal suffering, may at once overturn the whole fabric of society, and\nexpose the wealth of the magnates only as a tempting plunder to the\ncupidity and recklessness of the destitute classes of society. \"There is\nas much true philosophy as poetry,\" says Sismondi, \"in the well-known\nlines of Goldsmith--\n\n  'Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey,\n  Where wealth accumulates and men decay!\n  Princes and lords may flourish or may fade--\n  A breath may make them as a breath has made;\n  But a bold peasantry, their country's pride,\n  When once destroy'd, can never be supplied.'\"\n\nThe _Chrematists_ always represent an increase of national wealth as\nnecessarily flowing from an augmentation of the riches of the individuals\nwho compose it. But this is the greatest possible mistake. Great part of\nthe riches obtained by individuals in a state, so far from being an\naddition to the national wealth, is an abstraction from it. The reason is,\nthat it is made at the expense of others in the same community; it is a\ntransference of riches from one hand to another, not an addition to their\ntotal amount. Every one sees that the gains of the gamester, the\nopera-dancer, the lawyer, are of this description; what they take is taken\nfrom others in the same community. But the magnitude of the gains of\nmerchants and manufacturers blinds the world to the real nature of their\nprofits, which, in great part at least, are made at the expense of others\nin the state. If the importing merchant makes extravagant gains, he indeed\nis enriched; but how is he enriched? In part, at least, he is so, by\nimpoverishing such of his countrymen as purchase his goods at the\nexorbitant price which constitute his profits. If the exporting merchant\nor manufacturer drives a gainful trade, it is in part, without doubt,\nderived from the industry of foreign nations to whom the export goods are\nsold; but it is too often earned at the expense also of the workmen he\nemploys, who have been compelled by competition, or destitution, to sell\ntheir labour to him at a rate barely sufficient for the support of\nexistence. We are not to flatter ourselves that the nation is becoming\nrich, because the exporters of Irish grain, Paisley shawls, or Manchester\ncotton goods, are making fortunes, when the labourers they employ are\nearning from sixpence to eightpence a-day only. On the contrary, the\nmagnitude of the gains of the former is too often only a measure of the\ndestitution and degradation of the latter.\n\nIt is usually considered that it is a sufficient answer to this to\nobserve, that if riches are thus, from the direction which national\nindustry has taken, drawn to a distressing extent from one class of the\ncommunity to concentrate them in another, a corresponding benefit is\nconferred upon other classes, by the increased expenditure which takes\nplace on the part of those, in whose hands the wealth has accumulated.\nThere can be no doubt that a certain compensation does take place in this\nway; and it is the existence of that compensation, which alone renders\nsociety tolerable under such circumstances. But the benefit accruing is no\nadequate set-off, if society be viewed as a whole, to the evil incurred.\nIf two millions of Irish labourers are working at sixpence a-day each, and\ntwo millions more of human beings, in the Emerald Isle, are in a state of\ndestitution, it is a poor compensation for such a dreadful state of things\nto observe, that some hundred Irish noblemen, or absentee proprietors, are\nspending ten or twenty thousand a-year each amidst the luxuries of London,\nParis, or Naples; and that they sometimes extract five or six guineas an\nacre from their starving tenants. If weavers in Renfrewshire, and cotton\noperatives in Lancashire, are making cotton cloths at eightpence a-day of\nwages, we are not to be deluded into the belief that society is\nprosperous, because every year six or eight cotton lords buy estates for a\nhundred thousand pounds a-piece; and one-half of the railways in the\nkingdom are constructed with the wealth of Manchester and Glasgow. There\nare no two things more different than national riches and the wealth of\nthe rich in a nation.\n\nIt is the fatal and ruinous effect of wealth, thus accumulated in the\nhands of a few, at the expense of the great bulk of the industrious\nclasses in a state, that it tends to perpetuate and increase the diseased\nand perilous state of society from which it sprang. The common\nobservations, that money makes money, and that poverty breeds poverty,\nshow how universally the experience of mankind has felt that capital, in\nthe long run, gives an overwhelming advantage in the race for riches to\nthe rich, and that poverty as uniformly, erelong, gives the vast\nsuperiority in numbers to the poor. We often hear of an earl or a\nmerchant-prince mourning the want of an heir, but scarcely ever of a\nHighland couple or an Irish hovel wanting their overflowing brood of\nlittle half-naked savages. We occasionally hear of a poor man raising\nhimself by talent and industry to fortune; but in general he does so only\nby associating his skill with some existing capital, and giving its owner\nthus the extraordinary advantage of uniting old wealth with a new\ndiscovery. To get on in the world without capital is daily becoming more\ndifficult to the great bulk of men: it is, in trade or commerce, at least,\nwholly impossible. Thus, as wealth accumulates in the capital and great\ncities of the empire, destitution, poverty, and, of course, crime and\nimmorality, multiply around the seats where that wealth was originally\ncreated. And this evil, so far from abating with the lapse of time, daily\nincreases, and must increase till some dreadful convulsion takes place,\nand restores the subverted balance of society; because the power of\ncapital, like that of a lever which is continually lengthened, is daily\naugmenting in the centres of wealth; and the power of numbers in the\ncentres of destitution is hourly on the increase, from the reckless and\nimprovident habits which that destitution has engendered.\n\nThe happiness of a nation, its morality, order, and security, are mainly,\nif not entirely, dependent on the extent to which _property_ with its\nattendant blessings, and habits of reflection, regularity, and industry,\nare diffused among the people. But the doctrines of the _Chrematists_, and\nof nearly the whole school of modern political economists, go almost\nentirely to uproot this inestimable blessing. The principle being once\nfixed in men's minds, and acted upon by individual men and the\nlegislature, that the great thing is to diminish the _cost of production_,\nit follows, as a very natural consequence, that the main thing is to\ndiminish the _wages of the producers_. Every thing which can conduce to\nthat object is vigorously pursued, without the slightest regard to the\neffect the changes must have on the fortunes, and ultimate fate in life,\nof whole classes in society. It is thus that, in agriculture, the\nengrossing of farms takes place--an evil so sorely felt in England during\nthe seventeenth, and in Scotland in the eighteenth and nineteenth\ncenturies--and that hundreds and thousands of happy families are\ndispossessed from their hereditary possessions, to make room for that\n\"devourer of the human race,\" as the old writers called it, the sheep. It\nis thus that, in our own times, the small tenants and cotters have been so\ngenerally dispossessed in Scotland and Ireland, to make room for the large\ncultivator or store farmer. It is thus that the race of hand-loom weavers,\nwho carry on their trade in their own houses, and with the advantages of\nrural residence, gardens, fields, and country air, is every where becoming\nextinct, or their wages have fallen so low as barely to support existence\nin the very humblest rank of life. In the room of these sturdy old\nchildren of the soil, has sprung up a race of puny operatives or\nlabourers, living by wages, and having no durable connexion either with\nthe land, or even with the capitalist who employs them. Employed at weekly\nwages, they are constantly on the verge of famine if turned out of their\nemployment. Every thing now is concentrated in huge mills, manufacturing\ndistricts, and great towns, where the labour of men is too often\nsupplanted by women, that of women by children, that of children almost\nentirely by machinery, on which they attend. The cost of production,\nindeed, is prodigiously diminished, by the substitute of these feeble or\ntiny labourers for that of full-grown men; and with it the profits of the\nmasters, and the circle of the export sale, are proportionally augmented;\nbut at what expense is this profit to a few gained? At the expense, in\nsome degree, at least, it is to be feared, of the independence, the\ncomfort, the morals, the lives, of whole classes of the labouring portions\nof the community.\n\nThe application of knowledge to the arts, of science to manufactures, so\nfar from diminishing, has, hitherto at least, had the most ruinous\npossible effect in increasing this fatal tendency of great capital and\nextensive manufactured industry upon mankind. Watt, Arkwright,\nCrompton--those giants of intellectual power, whose discoveries have\naugmented tenfold, often an hundredfold, the productive powers of\nmanufacturing labour--have been the worst enemies that the happiness and\nmorals of the working manufacturers ever knew. For what is it that, by\nmeans of great capital, working with the powers which their immortal\ndiscoveries have conferred, manufacturing industry has become? Why, it has\nall, or nearly all, run into huge mills, or other establishments, in which\nmachinery, at a cost of thirty, forty, or fifty thousand pounds, is\nerected, and a crown of needy women and children are employed, in\nordinary times, at the lowest wages which can support existence, with a\nfew men at a guinea or twenty-five shillings a-week, to direct and\nsuperintend their labours. It need not be told what the habits of such a\ncrowd of young women, most of them from fourteen to twenty, must in\ngeneral be. These evils in manufacturing districts are universally felt\nand complained of; but it is not equally generally admitted, that they\narise invariably, and, as matters at present stand, inevitably, from that\nvery extension of science and mechanical power to the arts, which is, in\nthe view of the increase of national wealth, so just a subject of\nexultation, and which it is so much the object, both of legislative\nenactment and of individual ingenuity, to augment and extend. Yet, is not\nthe crushing effect of these great discoveries on the welfare of the\nlabouring classes, as manifest as their elevating influence on the\nfortunes of their employers, and the sum total of the produce of national\nmanufactured industry? On no other principle is it possible to explain the\nprodigious accumulation of wealth in one class of the British empire, and\nof degradation, misery, crime and destitution in the other, and far more\nnumerous classes.\n\nThe division of labour and the confining of each workman, or workchild, to\none limited sphere of employment, while it is productive of a very great\nincrease in the skill which each exerts in his own department, and in\nconsequence augments, in a similar proportion, the net produce of\nmanufactured industry, is still more fatal to the morals, habits, and\nindependence of the manufacturing classes. Variety of occupation is\nindispensable to vigour of mind or independence of character. The\nexclusive chaining of the human mind to one employment, even though that\nemployment is of the most intellectual kind, as the duties of the lawyer,\nthe statesman, the physician, or the divine, speedily contracts the\nunderstanding, narrows the interest, circumscribes the field of enjoyment,\nand often hardens the heart. If this is the case, as undoubtedly it is,\nwith those who are exclusively immersed even in the learned professions,\nwhich require an exercise of thought, and can be founded only on a long\nand cultivated education, how much more must it be the case with those\nwhose occupation is purely mechanical, and so trivial that it may be\nlearned in a few days--as twirling a film, twisting a cotton, dabbing a\nplate, or drawing a cloth out of a vat? Such operatives are exposed, at\nevery period of their lives, to the greatest evils which can debase\nhumanity--uncertainty of subsistence and monotony of occupation. Their\nwork is so simple, that any one can learn it in a few days--therefore they\nare exposed to competition with the whole labouring classes of the\ncommunity;--it is so uniform, that it neither requires, nor is compatible\nwith, intellectual elevation--therefore it is speedily made, by the effect\nof competition for such simple employment, to engross their whole time.\nMental improvement, moral or religious cultivation, are scarcely possible\nto any but the strongest minds united to the strongest bodies, in the\ncircumstances to which the working classes, under such a system, are\nspeedily reduced. If any one doubts this, let him dig, or hoe, or walk\nalong the road, or trundle a hoop, or bear a fowling-piece for twelve\nhours a-day without intermission, save at breakfast and dinner, and then\nsee with what appetite he can take to moral or intellectual improvement\nwhen he comes in at night.\n\nIt is the deplorable effect of such a state of things, that it tends not\nmerely to perpetuate, but increase, the very evils from which it has\narisen, and reduce the working classes to that state, wherein extrication\nfrom them is next to impossible. Under the pressure of the ceaseless\ndesire to cheapen production and diminish the cost of manufacture, young\npersons of both sexes are huddled together into mills and factories, at so\nearly a period of life that they are scarcely fit to leave the nursery. It\nhas recently been found necessary to introduce a special statute to\nprohibit children being employed in print-fields in England under _eight_\nyears of age. They are so because they can at once earn sixpence or\neightpence a-day by standing beside a wheel, or watching a film of cotton\nwhich is discharged out of a machine; and this cheap and infantine labour\nis equally attractive to the parents, who thus discover in their offspring\na source of income instead of a burden--and the manufacturer, who finds\nhis work done by little docile labourers, too weak to engage in a strike,\nand yet strong enough to do the work. No exertion of strength is required,\nat least none at any one moment, in many of these occupations--though the\nwork, when long continued, is to the last degree exhausting; the\nsteam-engine lifts all the weights and furnishes all the power. Thus there\nis, from the necessities and interests of all concerned, a constant demand\nfor juvenile labour; and this demand speedily produces its own supply, by\npromoting early marriages, or fostering a swarm of bastards among persons\nthus thrown together, at the period of life when the passions are the\nstrongest, with a total separation at all times, save bed-time, from that\nonly school of virtue, the parental home.\n\nMoral and intellectual cultivation is, God be praised, not rendered\nimpossible in the more superior and industrious of the manufacturing\noperatives; but it may be doubted whether the species of literature which\nis in general presented to them, and unhappily proves most attractive,\neither strengthens their minds, or improves their happiness. Exciting\nnovels, such as those of Victor Hugo, Janin, Sue, and others of the class;\nhighly wrought pictures of the manners and vices of high life; horrible\nstories of seduction, murder, and suicide, such as compose so large a part\nof the modern romance school of France;--are most sure of circulation\namong the working classes of great towns, because they at once interest\nand excite the imagination. They are read to the extent, and for the\nreason, that novels are so generally devoured by the young, the\nimaginative, and the indolent of both sexes in the higher ranks. The poor\noperatives, however, have an excuse for the exclusive reading of such\nexciting inanities, which does not belong to their higher fellow-citizens;\nthey are so worn out by long-continued toil, that they are unable to _bear\nthe fatigue_ of any kind of reading which requires application or\nreflection. Some, no doubt, are improved by works of a more elevated\nclass, which they contrive to purchase out of their savings, and to devour\nduring the brief period allowed them between labour and repose. But their\nnumber is very small in comparison of the whole, as is decisively proved\nby the limited number of booksellers' shops in the manufacturing towns,\ncompared to those which supply the means of sensual enjoyment. It is\nseldom in such cities you will find one bookseller's shop for an hundred\nwhere beer or spirits are retailed. Many even of those who read are rather\ninjured than improved, both in their habits and their happiness, by the\nmental cultivation they receive. They contract exaggerated ideas of the\nenjoyment of riches, and the avenues to distinction, which may be opened\nby intellectual effort; they become dissatisfied with the station in the\nworld which Providence has assigned them; they strive to exchange bodily\nfor intellectual toil; and in the vain attempt to exchange their lot for a\nbetter one, numbers are precipitated into difficulties, crimes, and ruin.\n\nThe social organization of trades in all the European cities during the\nmiddle ages, was eminently favourable to the working classes; and it was\nperhaps the greatest calamity that ever befell them, that, in the madness\nof democratic ambition, they united with the master employers to pull down\nthese institutions. When each craft was organized in a little republic of\nits own, with its office-bearers, stated meetings, funds for the indigent,\nand exclusive privileges, a gradation of ranks was created amidst the\npoor--a little aristocracy of industry, which often proved itself capable\nof contending with the proudest aristocracy of land or riches. The poor\nwere not left alone; the wrongs of individuals were taken up by their\ncraft; joint measures for the common behoof were pursued; the dreadful\nfeeling of isolation in the midst of a crowd was unknown; all were\nenrolled under some banner, or entered with some craft. Thus every one\nfelt himself in a fixed and definite place in society; he had privileges\nand advantages of a tangible kind to forfeit by losing it. But when\nexclusive privileges, crafts, and incorporations, were abolished, amidst\ncries of joy and shouts of triumph from the whole popular party all over\nthe world, these inestimable blessings were lost. The poor became a mixed\nindiscriminate multitude, having no more coherence or power of resistance\nthan a rope of sand. They degenerated into a huge assembly of private\nsoldiers without officers, incapable either of organizing any thing for\ntheir own durable benefit, or of resisting the progressive encroachments\nof capital, machinery, and competition, on the sole domain left them--the\nwages of their labour. Universally it has been found, that, upon the\nabolition of incorporations and crafts, the condition of the working\nclasses has rapidly and fearfully changed for the worse. The principle of\nfree competition--of breaking down all barriers--allowing every one to\nelbow his neighbour out of employment, and bringing every thing down to\nthe lowest and cheapest level--has tended only to lower the wages of\nlabour, and aggravate the insecurity of the poor. No one has a fixed or\npermanent station; every thing is done for days' or weeks' wages; and the\npenalty of dismissal is destitution, famine, and a lingering death. Hence\nthe constant complaint now on the part of the poor, that they cannot get\nwork; and the prodigious multitude of the lowest class who are constantly\nmoving about, seeking in one situation that employment they have lost in\nanother. This, however, is of all things the most fatal to their habits,\ncharacter, and prospects; they get among people to whom they are total\nstrangers, who regard them with aversion as intruders, and are neither\ninclined to relieve their distresses, nor to facilitate their advance in\nthe world. The most powerful check, next to religion, on human\nconduct--_the opinion of friends_--is lost on the very class who stand\nmost in need of its control. Obscurity screens immorality from detection;\nnumbers shelter crime from punishment. The temptations to vice multiply,\nwhile the barriers against it are cut away. The really good poor are\ninvariably stationary; moving about is as fatal to their habits as it is\nto those of children. The _free circulation of labour_, of which we hear\nso much from master employers and the Chrematists, is often an advantage\nwith a view to the creation of wealth, or the sudden completion of great\nundertakings: considered with reference to national morals, happiness, and\nultimate safety, it is one of the greatest curses which can befall a\npeople.\n\nIt is a sense of the evils arising from this feeling of isolation amidst\nmultitudes, and the experienced inability of the poor, all struggling\nagainst each other for subsistence, to resist the progressive decline of\ntheir wages till they reach the lowest point consistent with the support\nof existence, which has made the working classes in France and England of\nlate years so generally embrace, and make such incredible efforts to\nsupport, trades'-unions. They have endeavoured, in so doing, to regain\nthat organization of crafts in separate classes and bodies, which was\noverturned amidst the shouts of triumph consequent on the French\nRevolution. But this attempt, so far from palliating the existing evils,\nhas had the greatest possible tendency to aggravate them; for it has too\noften vested irresponsible power in hands wholly unfit to wield it.\nPerhaps the greatest, the most wide-spread, the most acute suffering\nendured by the labouring poor in Great Britain during the last thirty\nyears, has arisen from strikes. Nothing has tended so strongly to shake\nsociety to its centre; to array the working classes against their\nemployers; to spread habits of recklessness, violence, and improvidence\namong them, and alienate their natural supporters from them by the\nfrightful crimes to which they have given rise. Foresight, industry,\nregularity of conduct, frugality, saving habits--those prime guardians of\nhumble virtue--are out of the question when men are subjected to the\ntyranny of these dreadful, popularly elected despots. The last and only\npossession left to the poor--their own labour--is liable to be reft from\nthem by the imperious commands of an unknown and irresponsible committee;\nwhich, elevated to importance by the public distress, uses every means to\nprolong it, by preventing a return to habits of regular industry. The\nsuffering produced by the compulsory cessation from labour which these\ncommittees command, often for an incredibly long period, never could be\nborne but by men inflamed by the spirit of party, and contending for what\nthey ignorantly deem their best interests. It equals all that we read of\nin heroic besieged towns, enduring the extremities of famine before they\nsubmit to the besiegers. The Committee of Public Salvation was often\nshaken by a scarcity of provisions in the capital, and never failed to\ntremble at the forests of pikes which, when want became severe, issued\nfrom the Faubourg St Antoine; but a trades'-union committee succeeds in\ncompelling men, by threats of the torch and the dagger, to remain in\nidleness for months together, and surrender their birthright and\ninheritance, the support of themselves, the food of their children, to the\ncommands of an unknown power, which retains them in the agonies of want\ntill suffering nature can no longer endure. The actual suffering resulting\nfrom this unparalleled tyranny, while it continues, is the least of its\nevils. A far greater, because more durable and irremediable calamity, is\nto be found in the demoralizing of the poor, by depriving them of\noccupation, and dividing society, by arraying whole classes against each\nother.\n\nIndustry, during the feudal ages, was often exposed to the most ruthless\nviolence from the hand of power, and men possessed scarce any security\nagainst the occasional oppression of arbitrary monarchs, or the savage\ndevastation of martial incursions. But great as these political evils\nwere, it may be doubted whether they occasioned, in the long run, so\nserious an invasion on human happiness and the springs of human virtue, as\nthe _social evils_, which, on the cessation of these political disorders,\nhave, unobserved, insinuated themselves through society. The annals of the\nmiddle ages are filled with the most heart-rending accounts of the\noutbreaks of savage violence to which the people were subjected; and it\nappears impossible that society could ever have recovered the dreadful\ndevastation to which it was frequently exposed. Yet it invariably did\nrecover, and that, too, in an incredibly short space of time. The Crusades\nwere the overflow of the full nations of Europe, after two centuries of\nthat apparently withering hostility. We read of no such resurrection of\nnational strength in Rome under the emperors after the devastations of the\nbarbarians began; nor do we hear of any such after the oppression of the\npachas and ages in Turkey and Persia at this time. Superficial writers\nexplain this by saying, these nations are in their decline, and the Gothic\nnations, during the feudal ages, were in their youth. But the human race\nis, in all ages, equally young; there are an equal number of young men in\nproportion to the population in every country and in every age. The reason\nof the difference is, that social evils have arisen in the one case which\nwere unknown in the other--they have spread and diffused their baneful\ninfluence.\n\nThe feudal institutions, amidst all their want of protection against\npolitical violence or external oppression, had one admirable quality,\nwhich enabled society to bear up and advance under all these accumulated\nevils. They conferred power and influence at home on those only who were\n_interested_ in the welfare of the people. The feudal baron, at the head\nof his armed followers, was doubtless always ready, at the summons of his\nsovereign, to perform his fifty days' military service, or, at the call of\nan injured clansman, to make an inroad into the territories of a\nneighbouring but hostile feudatory; but when he did so, he had nothing to\ndepend upon but his own retainers, serfs, or followers. If they were\ndepressed, starving, alienated, or lukewarm, he was lost; he was defeated\nin the field, and speedily besieged in his last stronghold. Thus, the most\nvaluable element was universally diffused over society; viz. a sense of\nmutual dependence, and of the benefit each derived from the prosperity of\nhis neighbours. If the baron was weak or unsupported, his vassals were\nliable to be plundered, his serfs found themselves without bread. If the\nvassals were oppressed, the baron was undone: instead of a formidable\narray of stout men-at-arms, sturdy archers, and gallant spearmen, to\ndefend his domains, he found himself followed only by a weak and feeble\narray, giving awful evidence, in the decisive moment, of the ruinous\neffects of his disorderly or tyrannical government. Even the serfs were\nbound up with the prosperity of the little community. If they were\nweakened by bad usage, or driven from the domain by cruelty, the fields\nwere untilled, the swine unherded, the baron and vassals without bread.\nThus it was the interest of all to stand by, protect, and spare each\nother. Each felt the consequences of the neglect of these social duties,\nin immediate, and often irreparable injury to himself. It was this\nexperienced necessity of mutual forbearance and support, which was the\nmainspring of social improvement during the feudal ages, and enabled\nsociety so quickly to repair the chasm produced by the dreadful political\nevils to which it was occasionally exposed. Its spring of improvement and\nhappiness was within--its evils were without. We often read, in the annals\nof those times, of the unbounded plunder and devastation exercised by\narmed violence upon pacific industry, and the great fortunes sometimes\namassed by the robber chivalry, by such predatory incursions.--That is the\nmost decisive proof of the presence of political, and the absence of\nsocial evils. The people must have been previously protected and\nprosperous, or they could not have been worth plundering. The annals of\nthese times will transmit no account of fortunes made by pillaging or\ntaxing the cotters of Ireland, the weavers of Paisley, or the\ncotton-piecers of Manchester.\n\nWhat rendered the feudal system in the end insupportable, was the change\nof manners, strengthening of government, and cessation of private wars,\nwhich left its evils, and took away its blessings. When the baron lived in\nrude plenty on his estate, surrounded by his followers, respected by his\nvassals, feared by his neighbours, his presence was a benefit, his\nprotection a blessing. But when the central government had acquired such\nstrength as to have stopped private warfare; when standing armies had come\nto supersede the tumultuary feudal array, and the thirst for luxury or\noffice had attracted the nobles to the capital, these blessings were at an\nend. The advantages of the feudal system had ceased with the removal of\nthe evils it went so far to alleviate; its burdens and restrictions\nremained, and were felt as an insupportable restraint, without any\ncorresponding benefit on the rising industry of the people. The seigneur\nno longer was seen either at the chateau or in the village. In his stead\nthe bailiff made half-yearly visits to exact the rent or feudal services\nfrom vassals, whose prosperity had ceased to be any object either of\ninterest or solicitude to their lord. Whether they were rich or poor,\nhappy or miserable, contented or repining, was immaterial to him after he\nhad ceased to reside in his castle, and to be protected by his armed\nvassals. The one thing needful was to pay their rents, or perform their\nservices, to maintain his extravagances; and these were accordingly\nexacted with merciless severity. Thence the general oppression of the\npoor, and universal outcry against the system, which produced the French\nRevolution.\n\nThe powerful central government, regular taxation, and large standing\narmies of modern Europe, have removed the chief _political_ evils which\nwere at times felt with such dreadful severity during the middle ages; but\nhave they not introduced _social_ evils of a still more pernicious and\nirretrievable character? Private wars have disappeared; we no longer hear\nof chateaux burnt, fields ravaged, or serfs massacred, in pursuance of the\ndeadly feuds of hostile barons. War has become a separate profession;\nmilitary service is no longer required from the rural tenants; the\nundivided attention of industry is permitted to be directed to pacific\npursuits. The ravages of hostility, and the destruction of conquest, have\nbeen diminished in amount, and greatly alleviated in severity. Taxes\nlevied on the whole community, have superseded the necessity, save in\nextreme cases, of ruinous exactions from individuals; war is often felt\nrather as a stimulus to industry by its expenditure, than a blight to it\nfrom its contributions. It is the influence of these circumstances, joined\nto the protection of a regular government, and the unbounded stimulus of\ngeneral freedom, which have given so marvellous an impulse to the\nprosperity of modern Europe and rendered the British Empire in\nparticular, where their fostering tendency has been most strongly felt,\nthe admiration, the terror, and the envy of the world.\n\nBut in lieu of the political oppression and military exactions which, in\nformer days, were felt as so disastrous, a host of _social_ evils have\nsprung up, and are rapidly spreading their baneful influence through every\nclass of society, to such an extent as to render it doubtful whether their\neffect will not ultimately be to uproot society, and destroy the whole\nstates of modern Europe. These effects have taken place amidst general\npeace and apparent general prosperity; at a time when wealth was\naccumulating with unheard-of rapidity, and knowledge was diffused to an\nunprecedented extent. Law was regularly administered; illegal acts\ngenerally checked; foreign hostility averted; domestic oppression removed,\nor softened. The Chrematists were in exultation; production was every day\nbecoming cheaper; exports and imports in consequence increasing; and all\nthe external symptoms of the highest prosperity, according to the doctrine\nof the _wealth_ of nations, in the most flourishing state. But all these\nblessings have been neutralized, and a large portion of the community\nprecipitated into the most woful degradation, by the operation of the very\ncauses which have produced this vast increase of wealth, and its\nastonishing accumulation in the hands of the commercial community. The\nincessant efforts to lessen the cost of production have beat down the\nwages of labour, in many departments, to the lowest point; the strenuous\nexertions made to facilitate cheaper importation, have reduced the\nremuneration of domestic industry to the lowest point consistent with its\nexistence. Incredible have been the efforts made by all classes to\ncounterbalance by additional industry this disastrous progress; but the\nonly effect of these efforts has been to augment the evil complained of,\nby increasing the necessity for exertion, and augmenting the mass of\nproductions with which society is flooded. Production in every line has\ncome, in ordinary times, to outstrip consumption. Machinery has quadrupled\nits power; gorged markets are constantly complained of as depriving\nindustry of its just, and often of any reward at all. Society has become a\ngreat gambling-house, in which colossal fortunes are made by a few, and\nthe great majority are turned adrift penniless, friendless, to\ndestitution, ruin, or suicide. The condition of a considerable portion of\nthe working-classes has, in this terrible strife, generally been wofully\nchanged for the worse. Brief periods of high prices, which induce habits\nof extravagance among them, are succeeded by long seasons of distress,\nwhich spread the reality of woe. In the desperate effort made to extend\nthe foreign market, by cheapening production, nearly all the kindly\nrelations of life have been snapped asunder. The operative is unknown to\nthe master-employer; he is turned off at a moment's warning into a cold\nworld, in which he can find no other employment. The tenant is too often\nunknown to the landlord; or, at least, strangers are constantly brought on\nthe land. The labourer, even, is unknown to the farmer; his place can\nalways be supplied by a stranger, ready, probably, to work for less wages,\nbecause in greater distress. Every thing is put up to auction, and sold to\nthe highest bidder. Labour only is awarded to the lowest.\n\nA nation which has surrendered its government to the commercial classes,\nand at the same time has a large population and considerable territorial\npossessions, cannot fail to incur ruin if their rule is long continued.\nThe reason is, that their interest is adverse to that of the most\nnumerous, important, and valuable classes of society; and they never cease\nto prosecute that interest till they have destroyed them. To import\nlargely is for their interest; therefore, they promote all measures\ntending to favour the introduction of foreign productions, though their\neffect must be to depress, and in the end extinguish, native industry.\nThey would have the people pay for these imports by enlarged exports; in\nother words, they would convert society into a mere appendage of the\ntrading classes. To enlarge these exports, they make the most strenuous\neffort in every possible way to cheapen production--that is, to lower the\nwages of labour. Their idea of a perfect society is one in which the\nlabouring classes are reduced to the rank of mere attendants on machines,\nbecause that is the cheapest form of production. They would have them\nattend on these machines at sixpence or ninepence a-day, live chiefly on\npotatoes, and eat no bread but what is imported in foreign vessels, and\nfrom foreign countries, because they are cheaper than their own. In this\nway both exports and imports would be elevated to the highest pitch; for\nthe main part of the national food would figure in the imports, and the\nmain part of national labour in the exports. Mercantile business would\ncome to supersede every other--it alone would be attended with any profit.\nMeanwhile, domestic industry would languish and decline--the home market\nwould be destroyed--the rural population, the main stay of a nation,\ngradually withered away and wasted. Poverty and misery would weaken and\nalienate the working classes; and, amidst a constant increase of exports\nand imports, and growth of commercial wealth, the nation would be\ndestroyed.\n\nThis is no imaginary picture. The ruin of the Roman empire in ancient, the\ndesolation of the Campagna of Rome in modern times, are permanent proofs\nof its reality.\n\nIt is generally said that slavery was the devouring cancer which destroyed\nthe Roman Empire, and thence it is concluded by the Chrematists that, as\nwe have no slaves, we can never be ruined like them. They forget that the\nreality of slavery may exist, and its evils remain, although its name has\nbeen expunged from the statute book. It is always to be recollected that\nslavery existed to just as great an extent in the most flourishing as in\nthe decaying periods of the Roman dominion--in the days of Scipio and\nCaesar, as in those of Constantine or Honorius. Cato was a great dealer in\nslaves. He was especially careful to sell his slaves when they _became\nold_, lest, when worn out, they should become chargeable. The republic was\nbrought to the brink of ruin an hundred years before the birth of Christ\nby the Servile War; yet, with that devouring cancer in its intestines, it\nafterwards conquered the world. It was not slavery, but the combination of\nslavery with free-trade and vast patrician and commercial wealth, which\nreally brought ruin on the ancient world. \"Verumque confitentibus,\" says\nPliny, \"_latifundia_ perdidere Italiam: jam vero et provincias.\" It was\nthe accumulation of patrician revenue and commercial wealth in the\ncapital, when the provinces were cultivated only by slaves, and the\ngradual extinction of Italian agriculture by the introduction of Egyptian\nand Lybian grain, where it could be raised cheaper than in the Italian\nfields, because money was less plentiful in the impoverished extremities\nthan in the gorged centre of the Empire, which was the real cause of its\nruin. The free race of Italian cultivators, the strength of the legions,\ndisappeared before the fleets which wafted cheap grain from the banks of\nthe Nile and the shores of Africa to the Tiber. Thence the impoverishing\nof the small freeholders--the buying up of all small freeholds by the\ngreat families--the extinction of grain culture in Italy--the managing of\nthe huge estates into which the country was parcelled, in pasture\ncultivation, by means of slaves--the disappearance of Italian\nfree-husbandmen--and the ruin of the Empire. So rich was the capital when\nit fell, that Ammianus Marcellinus has recorded, that when Alaric appeared\nbefore Rome, it contained within its walls seventeen hundred and fifty\ngreat families, many of whom had estates, almost entirely in pasturage,\nwhich yielded them what was equivalent, in English money, to one hundred\nand sixty thousand pounds sterling of yearly rent.\n\nTo the same cause is to be ascribed the continued desolation of the\nCampagna of Rome in modern times. Slavery has disappeared; but the curse\nof an unlimited and extraordinary supply of foreign grain to the Tiber\nstill continues, and chains the proprietors of the _Agro Romano_ to\npasturage as the only means of profitable cultivation. Travellers are\nnever weary of expressing their astonishment at the desolation which comes\nup to the very gates of Rome, as of Constantinople; but a very simple\ncause explains it in both. It is more profitable to keep the land in\npasturage than to lay it out in grain cultivation, by reason of the deluge\nof foreign grain raised in semi-barbarous countries, with which the\ncapital is flooded. From official documents laid before the Papal\nGovernment, which made the most anxious and minute enquiries into this\nsubject, it appears that 8000 crowns laid out in agriculture in the\nCampagna of Rome, at the prices of Rome, would bring in a profit of only\n30 crowns a-year; while the same sum laid out on pasturage of sheep on the\nsame land, would bring in 1972 crowns. It is not surprising, in these\ncircumstances, that the Campagna remains in grass.[5]\n\nThe cause of this extraordinary state of things is to be found, not in any\npeculiar adaptation of the Campagna to grass cultivation; for the land is,\ngenerally, of the most extraordinary fertility, and in former times, in\nthe infancy of Rome, literally speaking \"every rood had its man.\" The\ncause, and the sole cause, is to be found in the constant low price of\ngrain in the capital, and the purchase of the _whole of its supply_ from\nforeign states. The Papal Government inherited from its Imperial\npredecessor the habit, and the necessity, of making periodical\ndistributions of grain, at a cheap rate, to the people. The people\ninherited, from the lazy successors of the conquerors of the world, the\nhabit of looking to the public stores for cheap distributions of food, as\nthose of Paris did during the Revolution. Government, elective, weak,\nwithout any armed force, and in the hands of priests, had not courage to\nincur the present hazard consequent on a departure from this ruinous\nsystem; and they bought their grain, of course, where they could get it\ncheapest--in Egypt, Odessa, and the Levant. The banks of the Volga are to\nmodern, what those of the Nile were to ancient Rome. The Campagna has been\nchained to sterility and desolation by the same cause in modern as in\nancient times--under the Popes as the Emperors. So far has this evil gone,\nthat in 1797, when the Papal Government was overturned by the French, the\n_Casa Annonaria_ of the Apostolic Chamber, or Board of Public Subsistence,\nexhibited a deficit of 3,293,000 crowns, (L645,000,) incurred in retailing\nbread to the people cheaper than they could purchase it even in the\ncheapest foreign markets.[6]\n\nThe Campagna of Rome is the great type of the state to which the doctrine\nof the Chrematists would reduce the states of modern Europe. Agriculture,\nruined by the perpetual curse of foreign importation; urban industry alone\nflourishing by the stimulus of foreign export; vast fortunes accumulated\nin the hands of a few merchants and great proprietors; constant distress\namong the labouring poor; all the symptoms of prosperity in the\ncities--all the marks of decay in the country; luxury the most unbounded,\nside by side with penury the most pinching; an overflow of wealth which\ncannot find employment, in one class of society; a mass of destitution\nthat seeks in vain for work, in another; a middle class daily diminishing\nin number and declining in importance, between the two extremes; and\ngovernment, under the influence of popular institutions, yielding to all\nthe demands of the opulent class, because it gives money: and deaf to all\nthe cries of the impoverished, because they can only ask for bread. The\nname of slavery is indeed abolished in Western Europe, but is its reality,\nare its evils, not present? Have we not retained its fetters, its\nrestraints, its degradations, without its obligation to support? Are not\nthe English factory children often practically in a worse servitude than\nin the Eastern harem? If the men are not \"ascripti glebae,\" are they not\n\"_ascripti molinis ac carbonariis_?\" What trade can a factory girl or\ncoal-mine child take to, if thrown out of employment? The master cannot\nflog them, or bring then back by force to his workshop. Mighty difference!\nHe can starve them if they leave it: he chains them to their mills by the\ninvincible bond of necessity. They have the evils of slavery without its\nadvantages. Can, or ought, such a state of things long continue? Whether\nthis is descriptive of the state of society in France and England, let\nthose determine who are familiar with the people of either of these\ncountries.\n\nSuch are Sismondi's political views, which are enforced in the volumes\nbefore us by a vast array of historical and statistical facts, which, as\nwell as the deservedly acknowledged talent and character of the writer,\nentitle them to the highest respect, and render then of the deepest\ninterest. That they are \"important if true,\" as the Americans say, no one\nwill deny: that they are of immediate and pressing application to the\nstate of society in the British islands, none acquainted with it,\nespecially in the manufacturing districts, will be so bold as to dispute.\nWe have deemed it best to give an abstract of his opinions and principles\nin a condensed form, in preference to quoting individual passages, because\nhe expands his ideas so much, that the latter course would have enabled us\nto give only a limited number of his views. Those who will take the\ntrouble to turn to the original volumes, will find every sentence in the\npreceding abstract enforced and illustrated at least a dozen times in this\nmost able and original work. That we consider his ideas as in the main\njust, and his anticipations too likely to prove well-founded, may be\ninferred from the pains we have taken to form a digest of them in the\npreceding pages. We only hope that, though he possibly has not much\nexaggerated the social evils which now threaten society, he has not given\ntheir due weight to the many alleviating or corrective causes which, in a\nfree, religious, and moral community, are constantly called into activity\nwhen society has come to require their operation. Sismondi says, though he\nhas been enforcing these principles for twenty years, he has found few\nconverts to his opinion in France; and that he does not think he would\nhave found one, if the English Parliamentary Reports had not afforded\ndecisive evidence of the existence of many of these social evils amidst\nunbounded commercial prosperity and the highest political power in Great\nBritain. The social evils which destroyed Rome, he reminds us, were in\nfull activity during the eighty years of the splendid, pacific, and wise\nrule of the Antonines; the most happy, to external appearance, which the\nworld ever knew. Their baneful influence appeared at once, when political\ndangers commenced with the accession of Commodus. These doctrines are not\nthe less likely to be true that they are contrary to general opinion, that\nthey run counter to many important interests, that they are incapable of\npresent application, that they are adverse to the policy of the rulers of\nthe state. Government rules men, but Providence rules government, and will\nin the end assert its supremacy, and right the moral evils of mankind, or\npunish the sins of nations.\n\n\n\n\nMY FIRST SPEC IN THE BIGGLESWADES.\n\n\nMy uncle, Scipio Dodger, was one of the most extraordinary men of the age.\nFigure to yourself a short, stout, and rather pot-bellied individual, with\nkeen eyes moving in a perpetual twinkle, a mouth marked at the corners\nwith innumerable tiny wrinkles, hair of the shortest and most furzy white,\nscant at the front, but gathered behind into a pig-tail about the size of\na cigar; and you have a fair full-length portrait of my avuncular\nrelative. My father, in early years, had married an American lady--I must\nown it--a Pennsylvanian, and uncle Scipio was her brother. I was the only\nfruit of that union, and at an early age was left an orphan in\ncircumstances of sufficient embarrassment. A mere accident saved me from\nbeing shipped off to America like a parcel of cotton goods. Uncle Scip,\nwho was left my guardian, had some transaction which required his personal\nattendance at Liverpool. He set foot for the first time on the old\ncountry--calculated that it was an almighty fine location--guessed that a\nspry hand might do a good streak of business there; and, in short, finally\nrepudiated America, as coolly as America has since repudiated her\nengagements. He would settle down to no fixed trade or profession; but, as\nhe possessed a considerable capital, he entered into the field of\nspeculation. Never, perhaps, was there a man better qualified by nature\nfor success in that usually dangerous game. His powers and readiness of\ncalculation were unequalled--his information quite startling, from its\nextent and accuracy--his fore-sight, a gift like prophecy. I verily\nbelieve he never lost a single shilling in any one of the numerous schemes\nin which he was engaged; what he made, I have private reasons for keeping\nto myself. If the apostolic order against taking scrip is to be considered\nin a literal sense, Scipio was a frightful defaulter. He scampered out of\none railway into another like a rabbit perambulating a warren, and was the\nwonder of the brokers and the glory of the Stock Exchange. Men perverted\nhis Roman prefix, and knew him solely by the endearing appellation of old\nScripio.\n\nTo me, who was his only living relative, Mr Dodger supplied the place of a\nparent. He placed me at school and college, gave me as good an education\nand liberal allowance as I required, and came down regularly once a-year\nto Scotland, to see how I was getting on. Scripio, though he never failed\nto taunt the Scotch with their poverty, was, in reality, very partial to\nthat nation; he had a high opinion of their 'cuteness and reputation for\ndriving a good bargain, and--somewhat incongruously, for he was a thorough\ndemocrat--piqued himself on his connexion with my family, which was old\nenough in all conscience, but as poor, in my particular case, as if I had\nbeen the lineal descendant of Lazarus. In fact, all my patrimony was the\nsum of a thousand pounds, firmly secured over land, and not available\nuntil I came of age--a circumstance which frequently elicited tornadoes of\nwrath from uncle Dodger, who swore that, if he had got the management of\nit, he could have multiplied it tenfold. Subsequent events have convinced\nme that he was perfectly right.\n\nBe that as it may, I was ultimately called to the Scottish bar, and\nentered upon my profession with the same zeal, promptitude, and success,\nwhich are exhibited by, and attend three-fourths of the unhappy young\ngentlemen who select that school of jurisprudence. I appeared punctually\nin the Parliament House at nine, cravatted, wigged, and gowned, to a\nnicety; took my prescribed exercise, of at least ten miles _per diem_, on\nthe boards; talked scandal with my brethren, (when we could get it,) and\ninvented execrable jokes; lounged at stove and library; wrote lampoons\nagainst the seniors; and, in short, went through the whole curriculum\nexpected from a rising votary of Themis. I followed the law diligently;\nbut, somehow or other, I could never overtake it. The agents in Edinburgh\nmust be a remarkably slow set, for they never would appreciate my merits.\nAt the close of two years, a decree in absence, and a claim in a\nmultiplepoinding, remained the sole trophies of my legal renown.\n\nOne day I was surprised in my study by a visit from uncle Scripio, who had\njust arrived from Liverpool. I was reading a novel (none of Justinian's)\nat the moment, and hastily shoved it into my desk. After the usual\ncongratulations were over, the aged file took a rapid survey of the\napartment, which fortunately was in tolerable order, glanced curiously at\na pile of legal papers, procured--shall I confess it?--from my friend\nCotton, the eminent tobacconist of Prince's Street, uttered a hem, in\nwhich incredulity seemed mingled with satisfaction, and then, having been\nsupplied with a tumbler of sherry and ginger-beer--a compound which he\nparticularly affected--he commenced the work of inquisition.\n\n\"Well, Fred, my boy, how goes it? Slick, eh? Lots of clients coming in, I\nsuppose? You must be driving a pretty smart trade to judge by them 'ere\nbundles.\"\n\n\"Pretty well;\" I replied, \"when my standing at the bar is considered, I\nhave no great reason to complain.\"\n\nThe old fellow looked at me with so quizzical an expression, that I could\nhardly play the hypocrite longer.\n\n\"I'll trouble you for that packet,\" he said; and, remorselessly clutching\na bundle made up with red tape to resemble a process, he took out a\nwritten pleading, to which the signature of a counsel, now ten years in\nthe grave, was appended.\n\n\"What a devil of a time these lawsuits last!\" remarked Mr Dodger,\nunfolding another document. Worse and worse! It was the juvenile\nproduction of a judge in the Inner-House. I had nothing for it but to make\na clean breast.\n\n\"The fact is, my dear uncle,\" said I, \"these papers are just part of the\nfurniture of a lawyer's room. It would never do, you know, to have an\nempty table, if an agent _should_ happen to come in; but the real truth of\nthe matter is, that the only agents I know are lads with as little\nbusiness as myself, who sometimes look in of an evening to solace\nthemselves with a cigar.\"\n\n\"I knew it, Fred--I knew it!\" said Scripio, rubbing his hands, as if he\nthought it a remarkably good joke; \"there are tricks in all trades, my\nboy, and the American blood will break out. But you can't do for me,\nthough, you cunning young villain. Oh no! though you wanted to try it on.\"\nAnd he chuckled as heartily as any of Mr Dickens' characters in the\nChristmas Carol.\n\n\"So you ar'n't making a farthing, Freddy?\" he resumed; \"I'm glad of it.\nYou'll never grease your coach-wheels here. Where's the thousand pounds\nthat were lent over the Invertumblers estate?\"\n\n\"Mr Constat, the agent of old M'Alcohol, paid it to me about three months\nago,\" replied I, rather astonished at the question, which seemed to have\nno connexion with the former subject. \"I have put it into the National\nBank.\"\n\n\"Two per cent? Pshaw--trash!\" said my uncle. \"Here, look at this;\" and he\nshoved a printed paper into my hands.\n\nIt was headed, \"Prospectus of the Grand Union Biggleswade, Puddockfield,\nand Pedlington Railway, in 50,000 shares of L20 each. Deposit L1 on each\nshare.\" If the line had run through the garden of Eden, supposing that\nplace to have furnished a large passenger traffic besides agricultural\nproduce, with London at one terminus and Pekin at the other, the\ndescription could not have been more flattering than that which I perused.\nNature seemed to have lavished all her blessings upon Biggleswade,\nPuddockfield, and the country thereunto adjacent; in short, I never\nrecollect so flattering a picture, with one solitary exception drawn by my\nfriend Frizzle, who had stuck twenty pounds into some railway in a mineral\ndistrict. \"When we recollect,\" said Bob in a burst of poetical frenzy,\n\"the enormous population of the district, the softness and geniality of\nthe climate, and the fairy aspect of its scenery--when we think of the\nvaried traffic which now chokes up the ordinary avenues of industry--when\nwe estimate the inexhaustible beds of ore and minerals, absolutely\nheaving themselves from the ground, as though to entreat the aid of man in\nadapting them to their proper destination;--when we consider all these\nthings, I say, and finally combine them together, fancy closes her\nastonished eyes, and even imagination swoons!\" I will not say that the\nwriter of the Biggleswade prospectus was as soaring a genius as Bob; but\nhe was quite enough of a Claude to seduce the investing public. I forget\nwhat amount of return he promised, but it was something hitherto unheard\nof, and my mouth watered as I read.\n\n\"That's the spec!\" said my uncle Dodger. \"Sit down and write me an order\nfor your thousand.\"\n\n\"Eh, uncle--for the whole?\" said I somewhat aghast.\n\n\"Every sixpence. There--that will do,\" and Mr Dodger disappeared with the\ncheque.\n\nTo say the truth, I was not quite pleased with this proceeding; for\nalthough I had confidence in my uncle's sagacity, it was decidedly a\nserious thing to hazard one's whole patrimony on a speculation which\nmight, so far as I knew, be as visionary as the Aerial Machine. However,\nmy constitutional carelessness very speedily relieved me of all anxiety. I\nwent out to balls and steeple-chases as formerly, attended the House _pro\nforma_ in the mornings, and messed three times a-week with the cavalry at\nPiershill. The pace, indeed, was rather rapid, but then I had a strong\nconstitution.\n\nFor three or four weeks I saw little of my respected uncle. He had--heaven\nknows how--got himself affiliated to one of the clubs, and sat half the\nday in the reading-room, poring over the Railway Journals and the\nMoney-market article in the Times. He played whist of an evening on a\nsystem peculiar to himself, and levied a very fair contribution from the\npockets of certain country gentlemen, who piqued themselves on\nunderstanding the antiquated tactics of Major A.; but never had the\nfortune before to measure trumps with an American. On the whole, he\nappeared remarkably comfortable and contented.\n\nOne morning I was honoured with an early domiciliary visit. \"Fred,\" said\nmy uncle, \"put up half-a-dozen shirts and a tooth-brush. We start for\nLiverpool this evening.\"\n\n\"This evening!\" said I in amazement. \"Impossible, my dear sir! Only\nreflect--the Session is not over yet, and what would become of my business\nif I were to levant without notice?\"\n\n\"I'll insure all your losses for a pound-note. Tell them you've got\nbusiness elsewhere: I daresay a good many of the old hands are up to that\ntrick already.\"\n\n\"But my engagements\"--persisted I. \"There's Mrs M'Crinoline's ball on\nTuesday, and Lady M'Loup's the week after--really, uncle, I don't see how\nI can possibly get away.\"\n\n\"Do you wish to make your fortune, sir?\"\n\n\"Undoubtedly.\"\n\n\"Then do as I bid you. Get up and shave, and in the mean time I'll look\nafter breakfast.\"\n\nThere was nothing for it but obedience, so I rose and polished my outer\nman. Mr Scripio was apparently in high feather and digestion. He put the\nfinishing stroke to what had once been a prize mutton ham, and dug as\ndiligently into a pot of marmalade as though he expected to find a layer\nof doubloons at the bottom. To my amazement, he dedicated his last cup of\ncoffee as a special bumper to the health of the Noble President of the\nBoard of Trade.\n\n\"What's in the wind now?\" thought I. \"Uncle, have you any thing dependent\nbefore Parliament? Perhaps you want a junior counsel for a bill.\"\n\n\"Confound Parliament!\" said the irreverent Columbian; \"I don't care a cent\nmore for it than I do for Congress. The Board of Trade's the thing for my\nmoney! That's your constitutional tribunal--close-fitting boxes and Bramah\nlocks--no humbug there! 'Zooks, won't we smash old Jobson after all!\" and\nScripio neighed like a Shetland pony at its first introduction to\noats--all the while helping himself to a caulker of genuine Glenlivat.\n\nWe set off in the afternoon accordingly, and next morning arrived at\nLiverpool. Our stay there was very short. I was led captive to the\nExchange, and hurried into a stockbroker's office in an obscure alley\nbehind. The Plutus of this den, an old bald-pated gentleman, in a blue\ncoat and drab terminations, started up from his seat as we entered, with\nmore manifestations of respect than would have welcomed the avatar of the\nCham of Tartary. Two consumptive clerks looked up with awe as they heard\ntheir master pronounce the venerated name of Dodger. It was clear that my\nuncle was well-known and appreciated here--his mere patronymic acted as a\nspecies of talisman.\n\nWe were conducted into an inner sanctum, where, having nothing else to do,\nI betook myself to the study of a map of England, where lines of railway\nalready laid down in black, and projected ones in red, intersected the\nsurface as closely as veins and arteries in an anatomical preparation.\nMean time, the two seniors entered into a deep, and apparently interesting\nconversation, the purport of which I did not very clearly understand.\n\n\"How's Dovers?\" asked my uncle.\n\n\"Up. Forty to forty-two ex div.,\" replied the broker.\n\n\"Sell sixty. Bumpton Watfords?\"\n\n\"Rather better this morning.\"\n\n\"Good!\" said Scripio, evidently gratified by the amendment of the\ninteresting convalescent. \"What's doing in the Slushpool Docks?\"\n\n\"Heavy,\" replied the broker. \"There's been a forced sale or two, but they\nwon't go up.\"\n\n\"I should think not,\" said Scripio. \"Have you bought me these forty\nJamaicas?\"\n\nI started at the prodigality of the order. \"Heaven and earth!\" thought I,\n\"can this uncle of mine be a kind of occidental Aladdin? After this, I\nshould not be surprised to hear him bid for Texas and the Oregon\nterritory!\"\n\n\"I've got them,\" said the broker quietly; \"they are going up without\nsteam. Have you got any Biggleswades?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said my uncle, \"what about them? No screw loose, eh? Sure to pass\nthe standing orders, I hope?\"\n\n\"All right,\" said the broker, \"hold for the bill, and you'll make a good\nthing of it.\"\n\n\"Well, then,\" said my uncle, \"that's all, and we're off. I'll write you\nfrom London about other matters. Good-day,\"--and we sallied into the\nstreet.\n\n\"Fred, you dog!\" said Mr Dodger in high glee, \"you've put your teeth into\nit this time.\"\n\n\"Into what, sir?\" asked I, very innocently. \"If you mean luncheon, I'm\nsure I should have no objections.\"\n\n\"Oh come! none of that humbug. I mean the Biggleswades. There hasn't been\nsuch a catch in Britain since the opening of the Coal-hill Junction.\"\n\n\"I'm devilish glad to hear it,\" said I, with a vague kind of general\nimpression that I was going to make money, though I could not well tell\nhow, and a fixed determination, since I _had_ got my teeth in, to take as\nlarge a bite as possible, though, with regard to the process of\nmastication, I was just as ignorant as a baby. That afternoon we set off\nfor Wales, and next day arrived at one of the most extraordinary\nhouseholds, in the southern extremity of the principality, which it ever\nwas my fortune to visit.\n\nThe house was large and spacious, indeed a masterpiece of architecture,\nand probably had been built in the time of Charles the Second. It stood\nupon the slope of a hill, and immediately below were a succession of\nterraces, with walks of smooth green turf, and exotic shrubs, which in\nsummer must be most luxuriant. It was winter when I visited at Mervyn\nHall, but, even then, the terraces were beautiful. Every tree and spray\nwas coated with armour of clear crystalline ice, except the thick old\nyew-hedge at the bottom, which kept its coat of dark perennial green. The\nHall commanded the prospect of a large and fertile valley, diversified by\nwood and domain, tower and village spire; and in more than one place, a\npillar of smoke, curling lazily upwards, marked the situation of a famous\nforge, or foundery. It was, in fact, one of the great iron districts,\nthough you scarcely could have believed so by day; but at night, fire\nafter fire seemed to burst out all down the reach of the valley; and\nprobably years had gone by since the smallest of these was quenched. It is\nnot often that nature lavishes her beauty and her wealth so prodigally\nupon the selfsame spot.\n\nUncle Scripio strode into the house with the air of a proprietor. I am not\nsure that he had not some interest in the concern, for Mervyn Hall was a\nkind of mystery to the neighbours. We were shown into a handsome apartment\nlined with black oak, where a regiment of cavaliers might have dined with\nboth credit and satisfaction; but times had altered, and the\nbanqueting-hall was now put to different uses. On two sofas and a table\nlay a pile of maps and plans, sufficient, according to my limited\ncomprehension, for a survey of the whole world. Then there was an\ningenious model of a suspension bridge, where a railway of white-painted\ncord spanned a valley of undulating putty, with a stream in the centre,\nwhich bore evident marks of being ravished from a fractured looking-glass.\nBundles of thick clumsy sticks--they might be instruments--with brass\nknobs at the top, like the morgenstern of a Norwegian watchman, were\nhuddled into the corners. There was a grievous hole in the centre of the\ncarpet; and several but-ends of cigars scattered on the mantelpiece,\nshowed me very clearly that female domination was not acknowledged by the\ninhabitants of Mervyn Hall.\n\nOur host, Mr Ginger, received us with great cordiality, and a flagon of\nsuperior ale. There are worse things under the skirts of Plinlimmon than\nthe ancient _cwrw_ of the Cymry. In five minutes the two gentlemen were\ndeep in the discussion of certain disputed gradients, and my jaws were on\nthe very verge of dislocation, when uncle Scripio, good-naturedly\nsuggested that I might retire to another apartment.\n\n\"How many of the lads have you here just now, Ginger? I think Freddy had\nbetter step in and make their acquaintance.\"\n\nMr Ginger looked rather sour. \"There's Gordon and Mackinnon working at the\nestimates, and William Cutts writing out the notices. I'm afraid they'll\nbe disturbed.\"\n\n\"No fear of that,\" said I, too glad to make my escape on any terms; and\naccordingly, without further ceremony, I entered the adjoining study.\n\nMr Gordon, the senior engineer, as a sinewy-limbed fellow of some\nthree-and-thirty, whose countenance and complexion bore satisfactory\nevidence of a pure Caledonian extraction. He was considered by his\nscientific brethren as a kind of engineering Robert the Devil, having\nperformed various feats with the theodolite which were the marvel of the\nwhole fraternity. If any old gentleman was foolish enough to object to a\nproposed line on account of its traversing his garden or preserve, or\ninvading the sanctity of his pig-stys, Gordon was instantly sent for. No\nsooner were the stars out, as also the lights in the mansion-house, than,\non the verge of the disputed territory, an accurate observer might have\ndescribed something like the glimmer of a glow-worm advancing stealthily\nforwards. That was Master Gordon, with his lantern, staff, and chain; and\nbefore the grey dawn of morning, the whole gradients were booked and ready\nfor the most searching inspection of a committee of the House of Commons.\nIt is even alleged that, despite the enmity of a northern thane, this\nProtean Archimedes surveyed a Highland line with nothing but his leister,\nor salmon-spear, and actually killed three fish whilst ascertaining the\npracticability of a cutting through a tremendous Pass. Be this as it may,\nhe was certainly a clever fellow, and as ugly a customer as a keeper could\ncope withal before the dew had vanished from the clover. Mackinnon was a\nquiet-looking lad, with a latent dash of the dare-devil; proud of his name\nand of his genealogy, and maintaining some show of a Highland gentleman's\ndignity, in a following of three ragged Skye terriers, who yelped\nincessantly at his heels. Cutts was a grand specimen of the Londoner,\nredolent of the Fives' Court and Evans's; one of those fellows whom it is\nvery desirable to have on your side in a row, and very unpleasant to\nencounter if you happen to be particular about the colour and symmetry of\nyour eyes. With these gentlemen I speedily became hand in glove, and the\nafternoon passed rapidly away. It may be questionable, however, whether\nthe accuracy of the estimates was improved by the introduction of cigars,\nand a pitcher of the Welsh home-brewed.\n\nAfter dinner, we all got remarkably merry. Mr Dodger related, in his\nhappiest manner, several anecdotes of the way in which he had \"flummox'd\"\nold Jobson, his arch-enemy and railway rival; Mr Ginger favoured us with\nan imitation of a locomotive train, perfect even to the painful intensity\nof the whistle; and Gordon told, with great gusto, various miraculous\nadventures, which might have done honour to a Borderer in the good old\ndays of \"lifting.\" Somehow or other, as the evening got on, we became\nconfoundedly national. The Scotch, of course, being the majority, had\ndecidedly the best of it; and the American Scripio and Cambrian Ginger\nhaving joined our ranks, we all fell foul of the unfortunate Cutts, and\nabused everything Anglican as heartily as O'Connell upon the hill of Tara.\nWe soon succeeded in extorting an admission, that the Scots, upon the\nwhole, had rather the best of it at Flodden; and thereupon, and ever\nthereafter, Mr Cutts was accosted by the endearing epithet of Saxon,\npresently abbreviated, for the sake of euphony, into Sacks. I don't\nexactly recollect at what hour we retired to bed.\n\n\"Freddy,\" said my uncle next morning, \"I am going off to London with Mr\nGinger; and I don't think you could do better than remain where you are.\nYou'd be sure to get into no end of scrapes in town; and I haven't time to\nbe continually bailing you out of Bow Street.\"\n\n\"Very well, sir; just as you please. I dare say, I shall manage to make\nmyself quite comfortable here.\"\n\n\"I say, though,\" remonstrated Mr Ginger, \"he'll keep the whole of the lads\nfrom their work. Gordon is too fond of fun at any time; and the moment our\nbacks are turned, they'll be after some devilry or other. Couldn't your\nnephew carry a theodolite, and take a few practical lessons in surveying?\"\n\n\"Lord help you!\" said my uncle, \"he's as innocent of mensuration as an\ninfant. Can't you spare Cutts?\"\n\n\"Better than the other two, certainly.\"\n\n\"Well, then, we'll hand over Freddy to him; and let them amuse themselves\nthe best way they can. Cutts, you may do what you like for the next ten\ndays; but, remember, Gordon and Mackinnon are not to be disturbed on any\naccount. Now, good-by, and take care of yourselves.\"\n\nThe Saxon and I made ample use of the permission. We established our\nheadquarters at the Saracen in Shrewsbury, and went the pace for some days\nat a hand-gallop. I can't help laughing, even now, at the consternation\ninto which South Wales was thrown by the re-appearance of Rebecca and her\ndaughters, who carried off, in one night, seven turnpike-gates. It was a\npity that the London journals should have been at the expense of sending\ndown special correspondents on that occasion; for I can bear personal\ntestimony to the fact, that no country could possibly be quieter. Even the\ntollkeepers appeared to slumber with a tenfold torpedo power. A little\nincident, however, soon occurred, which completely changed the nature of\nmy occupations.\n\nI went, one day, to call upon a family who resided some miles from\nShrewsbury. It was a visit of ceremony; and I therefore considered it a\nbore. Cutts, who was no lady's man, preferred waiting for me at a\nneighbouring public-house; so I effected my _entree_ alone. I went in a\nfree-man; and came out, two hours afterwards, as complete a bond-slave as\never hoed the sugar-canes of Cupid. A pair of laughing blue eyes, and the\nprettiest lips in the universe, had undone me. Sweet Mary Morgan! yours\nwas a rapid conquest! and--you need not pinch my ears.\n\nI went down to the inn in that state of pleasing bewilderment which\ncharacterises the first stage of the amatory complaint. Cutts had got\ntired in my absence; and, being rather in a pensive mood, had gone to the\nchurch-yard with a quart of beer, where I found him copying the\ninscriptions on the tombstones.\n\n\"What the devil kept you so long?\" said the Saxon.\n\n\"Hold your tongue, Sacks! I have just seen the prettiest angel! Who on\nearth can she be? No relation, I dare be sworn, of that fat old rascal\nOwenson.\"\n\n\"Whew! that's the sort of thing, is it?\" quoth Cutts. \"What may be the\nname of the divinity?\"\n\n\"Mary Morgan.\"\n\n\"What? little Mary! Oh yes! I know her very well,\" said the Saxon. \"She's\nthe daughter of the principal medical man in Shrewsbury; a pompous old\nblockhead, with twenty thousand pounds and a pigtail. Mary is a sweet\nlittle creature; and, between you and me, I rather flatter myself I have\nmade an impression in that quarter. You have no idea how she laughed when\nI danced the fetter hornpipe at the Jones's.\"\n\n\"Sacks,\" said I quietly, \"if you dare to mention that young lady's name in\nconnexion with yourself again, I shall knock out your brains on the\nnearest monument. I am perfectly serious. Now listen--how can I get an\nintroduction to the doctor?\"\n\n\"It won't do, old fellow, if you have a complaint of the chest.\"\n\n\"How so?\"\n\n\"The phlebotomizing Jew swears he won't marry his daughter to any man who\nis not as rich as himself. But I'll tell you what it is, Fred.--You are a\nconfoundedly good fellow, though you _are_ a descendant of William the\nLion, which I consider to be utter gammon, and I don't care if I lend you\na helping hand. Miss Morgan is very intimate with Letty Jones, who is a\nnice larking girl, and understands how to manage her mamma. I'll arrange a\nquiet tea-party there to-morrow evening, and you may make love as long as\nyou like, provided you don't interfere with supper.\"\n\nNo arrangement could possibly have pleased me better. The Saxon was as\ngood as his word; and after an early dinner, at which I tyrannously\ncurtailed my friend of his usual allowance of liquor, we made our way to\nthe Jonesian habitation.\n\nCutts, very good-naturedly, took the whole task of amusing the company\nupon himself. He gave pantomimic representations of T. P. Cooke and\nTaglioni, sang half-a-dozen songs that are nightly encored at the Surrey\nside, and finally performed a series of antique statues in his\nshirt-sleeves. For myself, I was far too agreeably occupied to pay much\nattention to his masterpiece of \"Ajax defying the Lightning.\" Mary Morgan\nwas prettier and more fascinating than ever, and before supper was\nannounced, I had made considerable progress. I saw her home, and made an\nappointment for next day to visit a ruin in the neighbourhood. Cutts was\nrewarded for his good behaviour by three extra tumblers of brandy and\nwater at the Saracen, and became so affectionate that I had much\ndifficulty in making my escape to bed.\n\nI shall pass over, without condescending upon minute particulars, the\nhistory of the ensuing week. Love-making is always pleasant; certainly\nmore so in summer than in winter, but there is a strange alchemy in the\ntender passion, which, despite of frost and snow, can endow all nature\nwith the hues and odours of spring. So, at least, it was with me. I met my\ncharmer every day, and at length succeeded in extorting from her lips the\nonly confession, to obtain which the labour of years is but a trifling\nsacrifice. What a pleasant thing it would be, if, in those matters, there\nwas nothing more to consult than the inclinations of the parties who are\nprincipally concerned! What, in the name of cross-purposes, have parents\nto do with controlling the affections of their children? Thirty years ago,\nthere is not one of them who would have submitted patiently to the\ndictation which they now exercise without scruple. I sometimes wonder\nwhether, twenty years after this, I shall continue of the same opinion;\nbut, thank heaven, there is ample time for consideration--Poor dear little\nJemima is only cutting her teeth.\n\nMary was quite alive to the difficulties which stood in her way. Old\nMorgan loved her, it is true; but it was that sort of love which\nantiquarians and coin-collectors have for their rarest specimens--they\ncannot bear to see them for a moment in the hands of others. Wealth alone\ncould bribe the doctor to part with his child, and, alas! of that I had\nlittle or nothing. True, I might be considered as uncle Dodger's\nprospective heir; but that esteemed gentleman was as tough as\nIndia-rubber, and very nearly as good a life as my own. Professional\nprospects--ahem!--they might do to talk about in Wales; certainly not in\nEdinburgh, where few lawyers are accounted prophets.\n\nIn this dilemma, I resolved to take sweet counsel with the Saxon, having\nno one else to apply to. As I had neglected him horribly for the last few\ndays, he was rather sulky, until I gave him to understand that I was in\ndownright earnest. Then you may be sure he brightened up amazingly. There\nwas mischief evidently in the wind.\n\n\"That comes of your confounded Scotch education,\" said Cutts, interrupting\na very pretty speech of mine about honourable conduct and disinterested\nmotives. \"Who doubts that you are perfectly disinterested? Of course it's\nthe girl, and not the money you want. She _does_ happen to have twenty\nthousand, but you don't care about that--you would marry her without a\nshilling, wouldn't you?\"\n\n\"By the bones of King David the First\"----\n\n\"That's enough. Don't disturb the repose of the respectable old\ngentleman--he might not be over happy if he saw his descendant in\nbreeches. The case seems clear enough; I wonder you have a doubt about it.\nOld Morgan won't give his consent, so there is absolute necessity for a\nbolt. Leave it all to me. I'll provide a chaise and four, and if the lady\nhas no objection, we can start to-morrow evening. I'll sit behind on the\nrumble, and shoot the leader if there should be any pursuit. Only mind\nthis, I don't go unless there is a lady's maid. Every thing must be done\nwith strict regard to decorum.\"\n\n\"Is the lady's maid also to occupy the rumble?\"\n\n\"Of course. You wouldn't have her inside, would you? Come now, set about\nit, like a good fellow. It will be a first-rate lark, and you may command\nme at an hour's notice.\"\n\nI confess that I felt very much inclined to adopt the suggestion of the\nSaxon. Most men, I believe, are averse to elopements as a general\nprinciple; but there are always exceptions, as every one discovers when\nhis own wishes are thwarted. I was not destined, however, to offer my\nhymeneal sacrifice at the shrine of the Gretna Pluto. A letter of mine to\nMary, rather amorously worded, found its way into the hands of Doctor\nMorgan. The usual consequences followed--an explosion of paternal wrath,\nfilial incarceration, and the polite message to myself, that if I ventured\nto approach the house, it would be at the risk of appropriating the\ncontents of a blunderbuss. My feelings may be easily imagined.\n\n\"If you amuse yourself that way with your hair,\" said my friend and\nconsoler Cutts, \"you'll have to buy a wig, and that costs money. Hang it,\nman, cheer up! We'll do the old boy yet. Mackinnon will be here to-night,\nand the deuce is in it if three clever fellows like us can't outwit a\nWelsh apothecary.\"\n\nI assisted at that evening's conference, which was conducted with due\nsolemnity. We smoked a great deal, after the manner of an Indian\nwar-council, and circulated \"the fire-water of the pale-face\" rather\nrapidly. Both my friends were clearly of opinion that our honour was at\nstake. They vowed that, having gone so far, it was imperative to carry off\nthe lady, and pledged their professional reputation upon a successful\nissue. Cutts had learned that on the following Friday there was to be a\ngreat ball in Shrewsbury; and, through the medium of Letty Jones, he\nunderstood that Mary Morgan and her father were to be there. This seemed a\ngolden opportunity. It was finally arranged that I should withdraw myself\nfrom the neighbourhood in the mean time, but return on the evening of the\nball, and conceal myself in a private apartment of the Saracen, where the\nball was to be held. Mackinnon was to attend the ball, and lead Mary to\nthe supper-room, from which the retreat could be easily effected. Cutts\nwas to remain below, look after the horses, and act as general spy.\nNothing more seemed necessary than to make Miss Morgan aware of our plans;\nwhich the Saxon undertook to do by agency of his fair and larking friend,\nwho was in perfect ecstasies at the prospect of this coming elopement.\n\nThe eventful Friday arrived; and from a solitary bed-room in the third\nfloor of the Saracen, I heard the caterwauling of fiddles announce the\nopening of the ball. I had asked Cutts to take a quiet chop with me\nup-stairs, but that mercurial gentleman positively refused, upon the\nground of expediency. Nothing on earth could induce him to leave his post.\nHe was to act the spy, and therefore it was absolutely necessary that he\nshould remain below. All my remonstrances could not prevent him from\ndining with Mackinnon in the coffee-room; so I was compelled to give him\nhis own way, merely extracting a pledge that for this once he would\nabstain from unbounded potations. Down went the two gentlemen, and I was\nleft alone to my solitary meditations.\n\nI have read Victor Hugo's _Dernier Jour d'un Condamne_, but I do not\nrecollect, in the course of my literary researches, having met with any\naccurate journal of a gentleman's sensations before perpetrating an\nelopement. It is a thing that could easily be done at a moment's notice,\nbut the case seems very different after the calm contemplation of a week.\nYou begin, then, to calculate the results. Fancy takes a leap beyond the\nhoneymoon, and dim apparitions of bakers' bills, and the skeletons of\ncheap furniture, obtrude themselves involuntarily on your view. I lay down\non the bed, and tried to sleep until I should receive the appointed\nsignal. For some time it would not do. The nightmare, in the form of a\nnurse with ponderous twins, sat deliberately down upon my chest, and\nrequested one of them, a hideous red-haired little imp, to kiss its dear\nPapa! At last, however, I succeeded.\n\nIn the mean time Messrs Cutts and Mackinnon sat down to their frugal\nbanquet in the coffee-room. A glass of sherry after soup is allowed to the\nmerest anchorite, therefore my friends opined that they could not do less\nthan order a bottle. After fish, Mackinnon discovered that he was in very\nlow spirits--a dismal foreboding had haunted him all forenoon; and as it\nwould not do to betray any depression in the ball-room, he rather thought\nthat a flask of champagne would alleviate his melancholy symptoms. The\nSaxon loved his ally too much to interpose any objections, so the cork of\nthe Sillery was started. A jug of ale during dinner, and a pint of port\nafter cheese, were fair and legitimate indulgences; and these being\ndiscussed, Cutts proceeded to the stable to look after the horses. All was\nright; and after an affecting exhortation to the postilions to keep\nthemselves rigidly sober, the Saxon rejoined his friend.\n\n\"It is a great relief to my mind, Mackinnon,\" said Cutts, throwing himself\nback in his chair, and exposing his feet to the comfortable radiance of\nthe fire, \"to think that matters are likely to go on swimmingly. It's a\nfine frosty starlight night--just the sort of weather you would select for\na bolt; and Freddy and his dove will be as comfortable inside the chaise\nas if they were in cotton.\"\n\n\"Rather cold, though, on the rumble,\" replied Mackinnon.\n\n\"Gad, you're right,\" said the Saxon. \"I say, don't you think, since I'm\ngood-natured enough to expose myself in that way, we might have a bottle\nof mulled port just by way of fortifier?\"\n\n\"You're a devilish sensible fellow, Cutts,\" said Mackinnon; and he rang\nthe bell.\n\n\"Won't it be rare fun!\" said Sacks, helping himself to a rummer of the\nreeking fluid. \"Think what a jolly scamper we shall have. The horses' feet\nringing like metal as they tear full gallop along the road, and old Morgan\nin a buggy behind, swearing like an incarnate demon! Mac, here's your good\nhealth; you're a capital fellow. Give us a song, old chap! I won't see you\nagain for three weeks at the soonest. My eyes! what a rage Ginger will be\nin!\"\n\nMackinnon was of a Jacobite family who had rather burned their fingers in\nthe Forty-five, and being also somewhat of a sentimental turn, he\ninvariably became lachrymose over his liquor, and poured out the passion\nof his soul in lamentations over the fall of the Stuarts. Instead,\ntherefore, of favouring Cutts with any congenial ditty from the Coal-hole\nor Cider-cellar, he struck up \"Drummossie muir, Drummossie day,\" in a\nstyle that would have drawn tears from an Edinburgh ticket-porter. Sacks,\nwithout having any distinct idea of the period of history to which the\nballad referred, pronounced it to be deuced touching; whereupon Mackinnon\ncommenced a eulogy on the clans in general, and his own sept in\nparticular.\n\n\"Ay, that must have been a pleasant fellow,\" said Cutts, in response to a\nlegend of Mackinnon's, concerning a remote progenitor known by the\n_sobriquet_ of Angus with the bloody whiskers; \"a little too ready with\nhis knife perhaps, but a lively companion, I daresay, over a joint of his\nneighbour's beef. 'Pon my soul, it's quite delightful to hear you talk,\nMackinnon; as good as reading one of Burns's novels. Just ring the bell,\nwill you, for another jug; and then tell me the story of your great\nancestor who killed the Earl of Northumberland.\"\n\nThis adroit stroke of the Saxon, whose thirst in reality was for liquor,\nnot for lore, proved perfectly irresistible. Mackinnon went on lying like\na Sennachie, and by the time the second jug was emptied, both gentlemen\nwere just tottering on the verge of inebriation. The sound of the music in\nthe apartment above first recalled Mackinnon to the sense of his duties.\n\n\"I say though, Cutts, I must be off now. I'll bring the girl down to\nsupper, and Freddy will take her off my hands at the door; isn't that the\nagreement? Faith, though, I'll have a waltz with her first. I hope there's\nno smell of port-wine about me. It won't do for a ball-room.\"\n\n\"Try a glass of brandy,\" said Cutts, and he administered the potation.\n\"Now you be off, and I'll keep a sharp look-out below.\"\n\nThe Saxon's ideas of a look-out were rather original. In the first place\nhe paid a visit to the bar, where the niece of the landlady--a perfect\nlittle Hebe--presided, and varied the charms of a flirtation with a\nmodicum of brandy and water. He then returned to the coffee-room, in which\nwere two gentlemen who had seceded for a moment from the ball. They were\nboth very accurately dressed, proud of French polish, white cravats, and\nlemon-coloured gloves, and altogether seemed to consider themselves as the\nfinished D'Orsays, of Shrewsbury. A few supercilious looks, which they\nvouchsafed upon Cutts, who, to say the truth, was no beauty in his\nshooting-jacket, roused the Saxon lion. Some complimentary expressions\npassed between the parties, which ended in an offer from Cutts to fight\nboth gentlemen for a five-pound note; or, if they had not so much ready\ncash, to accommodate them with a thrashing on credit. This proposal was\nmagnanimously declined by the strangers, who edged gradually towards the\ndoor; however, nothing, but the arrival of several waiters, who\nrecognised, from frequent practice, the incipient symptoms of a row, could\nhave prevented some little display of pugilistic science. The temper of\nCutts was, of course, a little ruffled by the encounter, and, in order to\nrestore his mind to its usual equilibrium, he treated himself to another\nsoother, and then ascended the stairs to see what I was doing. By that\ntime it was late in the evening.\n\nA tremendous slap on the shoulder roused me from my dreams. I started up,\nand there, to my amazement, was Cutts sitting upon the bed with a\nfresh-lighted cigar in his mouth, puffing as vigorously as an engine.\n\n\"Good heavens, Cutts!\" cried I, \"what is the matter? I hope nothing has\ngone wrong? Where's Mary?\"\n\n\"All right, old fellow,\" said the Saxon with a mysterious smile. \"We've\nplenty time yet for another glass of brandy and water.\"\n\n\"Surely, Cutts, you can't have been making a beast of yourself!\" and I\nseized a candle. There could be no doubt of the fact: he was very\nfearfully disguised.\n\n\"That I should have trusted myself in the hands of such a jackass!\" was my\nfirst exclamation. \"Leave the room this moment, sir, or I shall knock you\ndown with a chair; and never let me see your disgusting countenance\nagain.\"\n\n\"Did you apply those epi--epitaphs to me, sir?\" said the Saxon, with an\nabortive attempt to look dignified. \"You shall hear from me in the\nmorning. This is an ungrateful world--very! I've been doing all I can for\nhim, keeping all the liquor out of the postilions--and that is my reward!\nI can't help it,\" continued Cutts, lapsing into a melodramatic\nreminiscence of the Adelphi--\"so I'll just belay my pipe. Bless my dear\neyes--how came the salt-water here? Hold hard, old boy,--no snivelling!\"\nand he drew the back of his hand across his eyes, as if he was parting\nfrom a messmate upon the eve of execution.\n\n\"This is intolerable!\" I cried. \"Get out, sir, or I shall throw you over\nthe window!\"\n\n\"Like to see you try it,\" said Cutts with a Coriolanus air of defiance. I\nhad just enough command over myself to see that a row with the Saxon was\nworse than useless, as it would effectually destroy my last remaining\nchance. I therefore changed my plans.\n\n\"Mark me, sir. I am going to ring the bell for the waiters, and if you\ndon't choose to relieve me of your presence at once, they shall have my\norders to carry you down stairs. Will you go, sir? No! then take the\nconsequences;\" and I rang the bell like a demoniac.\n\nThe music stopped in the room below. Cutts, drunk as he was, observed the\ncircumstance; and no sooner were steps heard upon the stairs, in obedience\nto the tocsin, than he took his departure with the candle. I lay down\nagain till the tumult should subside, when I intended to apprise Mackinnon\nof the present state of matters.\n\nMy appeal to the bell, which was a vigorous one, had produced a marked\neffect. Several of the company had come to the door of the ball-room, in\norder to learn the true nature of the alarm; and Cutts on his descent was\nassailed by vehement enquiries.\n\n\"Oh, don't ask me--don't ask me!\" said the villain, wringing his hands\nlike a male Antigone. \"My poor friend! he's just going! Oh, gentlemen, is\nthere no medical man here to save him?\"\n\n\"Doctor Morgan! Doctor Morgan!\" shouted twenty voices.\n\n\"Bless my soul, what's the matter here?\" said the doctor, emerging from\nthe ball-room. \"Any body taken suddenly ill, eh?\"\n\n\"Oh, my poor friend!\" groaned the traitor.\n\n\"Mercy on me! is it so bad as that?\" said the Doctor, \"I must see him\nimmediately. My dear sir, what _is_ the matter with your friend?\"\n\n\"His head, sir--his head!\" said Cutts with a sob--\"he is quite mad at the\npresent moment. If you go up-stairs to No. 3, you'll find him biting the\nbed-posts!\"\n\n\"This must be looked to instantly,\" said the Doctor. \"Gentlemen, if I want\nassistance I shall call for you; but we must use gentle means if possible.\nPoor young man! No. 3 did you say, sir?\" and the doctor ascended the\nstaircase.\n\n\"This is an awful thing, Mr Cutts!\" said Mrs Hickson, the comely mistress\nof the house; \"is there nothing that would do the poor gentleman any\ngood?\"\n\n\"I think he'd be a great deal the better of a little brandy and water,\"\nsaid Cutts--\"the doctor hinted as much just now; and, my dear madam, you\nhad better make two glasses of it, rather stiff, and send them up-stairs\nby the Boots.\"\n\nI was startled by the entry of a stranger with a light, who approached the\nbed with all the stealthiness of a cat.\n\n\"'Zounds, sir, what do you want here?\" cried I, springing up.\n\n\"Hush, my dear sir, hush! we must be calm--really we must. It will never\ndo to allow ourselves to be agitated in this way.\"\n\n\"Confound you, sir! what do you mean?\"\n\n\"Oh, my dear sir! merely a friendly visit, that's all. I would like to\nhave a little quiet chat with you. How is our pulse? Do we feel any pain\nabout the temples?\"\n\n\"I'll very soon make you feel pain enough somewhere,\" cried I, in towering\npassion. \"If you don't quit my room this moment, you old idiot, by the\nbones of the Bruce I'll toss you over the stairs!\"\n\n\"Oh, if that be the case, the sooner we send for a straight jacket the\nbetter!\" said the doctor. \"But, eh! what! by Jove, it's the young Scotch\nrascal who was making love to my daughter!\"\n\n\"Dr Morgan!\" I cried. \"Upon my honour, sir, I am quite annoyed\"----\n\n\"Hallo! what's this? We are calm enough now. Answer me directly, sir; are\nyou delirious or not?\"\n\n\"No more than yourself, doctor.\"\n\n\"This, then, was a concerted trick to make a fool of me!\" sputtered the\nWelsh Esculapius. \"But I'll be revenged. I'll have you before a magistrate\nfor this, you villain!\"\n\n\"Upon my honour, sir, I am perfectly innocent. If you'll only hear me for\na single moment\"----\n\n\"To be exposed before the whole town of Shrewsbury, too! I'll never\nforgive it!\" and the doctor banged out of the room. To his dismay he found\nhimself face to face with Cutts, who, along with the Boots, had been a\ndelighted auditor of the scene.\n\n\"How is our patient, doctor?\" said the Saxon, \"Is our pulse good to-night?\nDid we take a look at our tongue?\"\n\n\"Sir, you're a ruffian!\" roared the doctor.\n\n\"Oh, come--we must be calm; it will never do to discompose ourselves. Take\na glass of brandy and water, doctor, and we'll drink success to the\nprofession. What! you won't, eh? Well then, Boots, you take one and I'll\nfinish the other. Here is Doctor Morgan's very good health,\" cried Cutts,\nadvancing to the head of the stairs, \"and may he long continue to be an\nornament to his profession!\"\n\n\"Low scoundrel!\" cried one of the young gentlemen in lemon-coloured\ngloves, recognising his former antagonist.\n\n\"There's the rest of it for you, my fine fellow,\" retorted Cutts, and the\ntumbler whizzed within an inch of Young Shrewsbury's maccassared locks.\n\nA rush was made up the staircase by several of the aggravated natives; but\nCutts stood at bay like a lion, and threatened instant death to the first\nperson who should approach him. The commotion was at its height when I\nrecognised the voice of Mr Ginger.\n\n\"Cutts, is that you? come down this instant, sir!\" and the crestfallen\nSaxon obeyed.\n\n\"Freddy, where are you?\" cried my uncle.\n\n\"Here!\"\n\n\"A pretty business you two fellows have been making of it!\" said Scripio,\nwith wonderful mildness. \"But never mind; let them laugh who win. We've\ndone the trick for you!\"\n\n\"Indeed, uncle! how so?\"\n\n\"The Biggleswade bill has passed, and I've sold your shares at nineteen\npremium.\"\n\n\"Then I have\"----\n\n\"Exactly twenty thousand pounds.\"\n\nI felt as if my head were turning round. At that moment I caught a glimpse\nof Mary leaning on her father's arm. She looked prettier than ever.\n\n\"Doctor Morgan,\" I said, \"there has been a mistake here--will you suffer\nme to explain it?\"\n\n\"Certainly,\" said the doctor, in a very mollified tone; \"if you will\nbreakfast with me to-morrow morning.\" Twenty thousand pounds _do_ make a\ndifference in a man's position.\n\n\"May I come too, doctor?\" hiccuped Cutts.\n\n\"No, sir; and, if you do not wish to be prosecuted, you had better send me\na fee to-morrow morning.\"\n\n\"Oh, come!\" said old Scripio. \"I daresay it was merely a bit of fun. I'll\nsettle the fees, doctor. Put Cutts to bed, and let the rest of us have a\nbit of supper.\"\n\nOn that day three weeks I married Mary Morgan, and have never taken\nanother share in any railway since. If the reader wishes to know the\nreason, he may consult the list of present prices.\n\n\n\n\nGERMAN-AMERICAN ROMANCES.\n\nTHE VICEROY AND THE ARISTOCRACY, OR MEXICO IN 1812.\n\nPART THE THIRD.\n\n\nIn commencing a brief final notice of \"The Viceroy and the Aristocracy,\"\nwe regret much to inform our readers that it is, in a manner, a story\nwithout an end. One of the most striking peculiarities of this anonymous\nauthor, consists in his singular and unaccountable habit of leaving every\nthing unfinished. Despising the rule generally observed by romance\nwriters, of bringing their works to some sort of climax or _denouement_,\nhe in no one instance takes the trouble to dispose satisfactorily of his\ncharacters; but, after strongly interesting the reader in their fate,\nabandons them in the middle of their career, as if he intended, some day\nor other, to complete their history in another volume. The inventive and\ndescriptive powers displayed in his writings, render it impossible to\nattribute this peculiarity to lack of ability. A chapter or two would\nfrequently be sufficient to terminate every thing in one way or the other;\nbut these chapters, owing to some whim of the author, are denied us.\nManifold are the eccentricities of genius, and our unknown friend has\nevidently no small share of them. We are compelled, therefore, to look\nupon his books less as regular novels, than as a series of sketches,\nscenes, and adventures, with slight connecting links; and resembling, by\ntheir vivid colouring, and graphic and characteristic details, some\nadmirably painted and gorgeous panorama, of which the materials exhibit\ninfinite variety and the most striking contrasts.\n\nWe cannot hope, in our translation, to do full justice to so able an\noriginal; and the less so as, in the extracts given, we are compelled to\ntake considerable liberties in the way of abridgement. We are,\nnevertheless, desirous of following the fortunes of Don Manuel as far as\nthe author acquaints us with them; previously to which, however, we will\nlay before our readers one or two fragments, having little connexion with\nthe plot of the book, but highly illustrative of the singular state of\nMexican society and manners at the period referred to. We commence with a\nstriking sketch of the Leperos, as they appeared when assembled outside\nthe city of Mexico, awaiting the arrival of Vicente Guerero and the\npatriot army.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe morning of the ninth of February 1812, had scarcely dawned, when the\nentire multitude of those wretched beings, known by the name of Leperos,\nleft the city of Mexico, and advanced along the Ajotla road as far as the\nchain of volcanic hills already alluded to.\n\nThe road in question forms, with the land adjacent to it, one of the most\ndreary portions of the rich valley of Mexico or Tenochtitlan; and the\nswampy ground through which it passes, and which is only exchanged, beyond\nthe hillocks, for a stratum of lava, exhibited, even in the most palmy\ndays of Mexican splendour, the same gloomy and desert character as at the\nperiod here referred to. Wretched huts, inhabited by half-naked Indians,\nwho either worked at the _desague_,[7] or gained a scanty existence by\nfishing, and here and there a spot of ground planted with vegetables, were\nthe most agreeable objects to be met with; while the low grounds lay\nentirely waste, even the obtuse Indians being deterred by their poisonous\nexhalations from attempting their cultivation.\n\nIt was along this road, early upon the above-named morning, that hordes of\nbrown, squalid, sullen-looking beings, equally debased in mind and body,\nwere seen advancing; dragging themselves listlessly along, now slowly,\nthen more rapidly, in the direction of the hills. It was a disgusting,\nand at the same time a lamentable sight, to behold this mass of filth,\nmisery, and degradation, which came crawling and limping along, scarcely\nhuman in aught except the form of those who composed it. The majority of\nthe Leperos were completely naked, unless the fragments of tattered\nblankets that hung in shreds over their shoulders could be reckoned as\nclothing. Here and there might be seen a thread-bare jacket or _manga_, or\na pair of ragged calico trousers; while the _sombrero de petate_, or\nstraw-hat, was worn by nearly all of them. The women had their long lank\nhair hanging loose about their persons, forming their chief covering, with\nthe exception of some scanty rags fastened round their hips. In groups of\ntwenty to a hundred, some of several hundreds, on they came, all wearing\nthat vacant look which is the attribute of the degraded and cretin-like\nIndian of the Tenochtitlan valley; but which was now modified by an uneasy\nrestlessness that seemed to impel them irresistibly towards the Rio Frio\nmountains. There was something strange and mysterious in the deportment of\nthis sombre-looking mob; no shout, no laugh--none of those boisterous\noutbreaks commonly witnessed amongst numerous assemblages of the lower\nclasses. On most of their callous, but naturally by no means stupid,\nphysiognomies, the expression was one of spite and cunning, combined with\nindications of a secret and anxious expectation. Over the whole column,\nwhich was at least a mile in extent, hung clouds of smoke, more or less\nthick according to the greater or less density of the crowd. Destitute and\nwretchedly poor as the Leperos were, they had, nevertheless, managed to\nprovide themselves, almost without exception, with one article of luxury;\nmen, women, and children, all had cigars, and the smoke of the tobacco was\nby far the most endurable of the odours emitted by this rank multitude.\n\nUpon reaching the rising ground, the squalid throng distributed itself in\ngroups over the road, or on and around the hillocks, as if intending to\ntake up its position there. In all imaginable postures, lying, standing,\nsitting, and squatting down, they waited; why, and for whom, it would have\nbeen hard to say, since they themselves had only an indistinct perception\nof their object. Hours passed away, and there they still were, sunk in the\nlazy apathy which is a characteristic of the Mexican Indians, and of all\nmuch-oppressed nations--a natural consequence of the despotism that\ncrushes them, and causes them at last to look upon the unseen power by\nwhich they are oppressed as the decree of an iron fate which it would be\nimpossible to resist or evade. For a long time profound silence reigned\namong these thousands and tens of thousands--a silence broken only by an\noccasional indistinct murmur or sigh, which found, however, neither reply\nnor echo.\n\nA group that had stationed itself on a projection of the hillock over\nwhich winds the road from Mexico to Ajotla, at last had its attention\nattracted by a party of horsemen approaching from the direction of Buen\nVista. This sight, although by no means unusual on that frequented road,\nappeared to interest the Leperos. They raised their heads, gazed a while\nat the riders, gave a kind of growl, like dogs who perceive something\nstrange or suspicious, and then for the most part stretched themselves out\nagain. Some, however, continued to mutter and grumble, and at last began\nto utter audible curses.\n\n\"Ahuitzote!\" exclaimed one of the Guachinangos, rising to his feet, and\nfixing the oblique gaze of his eyes, which were set wide apart, upon the\ndistant horsemen.\n\n\"Ahuitzote!\" repeated his companions--the last syllable of the word\nseeming to stick in their throats.\n\n\"I was lying yesterday under the _portales_,\" murmured an Indian, \"when\nAgostino Iturbide came by\"----\n\nHe was too indolent to finish what he would have said; but a glance at his\nlegs and shoulders, which were bloody and scarred with sabre cuts,\ncompleted his meaning.\n\n\"The earth belongs to Tonantzin,[8] the heavens to the Virgin of\nGuadalupe, and the _portales_ to the red men,\" said another Indian. \"The\nday will come when no Gachupin shall drive us out of them.\"\n\n\"And when the sons of Tenochtitlan shall have pulque for their drink,\"\nmuttered a third.\n\n\"And tortillas with fat chili for their food,\" chimed in a fourth.\n\"_Maldito Don Agostino!_ He is more the Ahuitzote of the children of\nTenochtitlan than the Gachupins themselves.\"\n\nDuring this dialogue, an old Indian of powerful frame had ascended the\nhillock, and squatted himself down on one of the blocks of lava with which\nthe ground was strewed. The other Leperos seemed to regard him with a\ncertain degree of respect and attention, and, after muttering the name of\nTatli Ixtla,[9] they remained silent, as if expecting him to speak. As\nthis, however, did not immediately follow, they let their heads sink\nagain, and relapsed into their previous state of brooding apathy.\n\nThe Indian gazed mysteriously around him, lit a cigar, and, after a few\npuffs, broke silence in the low murmuring tones peculiar to the Indian\nrace.\n\n\"Ixtla has heard the discourse of the Cura Hippolito of Tlascala. It was\nno _cuento de fraile_.[10] Ixtla has often heard the same from the priests\nof his own race. Will my brothers hear the words of the Cura Hippolito?\"\n\nThere was an unanimous sign of assent from the Indians.\n\n\"He who hath ears to hear, let him hear! So said the Cura Hippolito, and\nso saith Ixtla. When Don Abraham, a most excellent caballero, greatly\nesteemed both by the Holy Virgin of Guadalupe and by Mexicotl\"----\n\nThe speaker paused, for his cigar was going out. We take advantage of the\npause, to inform our readers that the Don Abraham who was thus strangely,\nand, according to the custom of the Mexican Indian priests, brought into\nthe society of Mexicotl and the Virgin of Guadalupe, was no other than the\nJewish patriarch.\n\n\"When Don Abraham,\" continued the Indian, \"felt his end approaching, he\ncalled his son, Don Isaac, and bequeathed to him all his possessions;\nafter which he died in the Lord. This Don Isaac was, as the senores have\nperhaps heard, a God-fearing man, who had two sons, Don Esau and Don Jago.\nOf these, your worships must understand, Don Esau was the elder, or\nfirst-born, and Don Jago the younger. And when Don Jago was twenty years\nold, he had a dream, in which he was told to go to the Madre Patria, where\ngreat good fortune awaited him.\"\n\nThe man paused at the words Madre Patria, by which the reader will always\nunderstand Spain. A number of Leperos had ascended the hillock, and\ncollected round the speaker.\n\n\"As Senor Don Jago,\" resumed Tatli Ixtla, \"as younger son, had less claim\nupon the inheritance of his father than Don Esau, he did according to his\ndream, and betook himself to the Madre Patria, where, by his pleasant\ndiscourse, he won the favour of the King of the Moors, who bestowed on him\nhis daughter, the Princesa Dona Lea, in marriage, and also, after two\nyears, his second daughter, the Princesa Dona Rachel. By these two wives\nhe had twelve sons and daughters, who were all kings and queens in the\nMadre Patria, as well as their father, to whom the Gachupins still pray,\nunder the name of Sant Jago de Compostella.\"\n\nThe Indians and Metises, of whom the crowd of Leperos consisted, nodded\nwith that air of quiet conviction which may be frequently remarked amongst\nthe lower classes in certain European countries, when they hear histories\nrelated which are supported by the authority of great names, and to doubt\nthe truth of which might endanger both body and soul.\n\n\"When Don Jago had established his kingdom,\" continued the old Indian,\n\"the wish came over him to visit his own land again; so he set out with\nhis servants, and, after many days, came to his father's house. And now\nlisten, Senores,\" said the Indian, raising his voice. \"Don Esau was, as\nyou know, the first-born, and as such would have possessed his father's\nland, had not the traitor, Don Jago, or, as the Gachupins call him, San\nJago, cheated him out of it. Through this it was that the sons of\nTenochtitlan became the slaves of the Gachupins, who are the sons of\nJago.\"\n\nThe countenances of the Leperos began to express increased interest in the\nnarration.\n\n\"It was in the _estio_,\"[11] resumed the Indian, \"that Jago returned to\nhis father's house, where a great entertainment was given to him. Don Esau\nwas away at the hunting-grounds, while Don Jago was feasting on the best\nof tortillas and the finest Tacotitlan pulque, better no Count could\nhave.\"\n\nAt the mention of the pulque, there was a strong sensation amongst the\nlisteners.\n\n\"Don Esau came home hungry from the chase, and found his brother with a\ndish of _frijolos_ before him, the best that ever were grown upon the\nChinampas of the Chalco.[12] Now, what think you the traitor Jago did?\"\n\n\"_Io se! Io se!_ We know!\" cried several Indians eagerly.\n\n\"The senores,\" said the old man gravely, \"will hear that Ixtla speaks no\nlies. Jago drew back his dish of frijolos, as if from a dog; and when Don\nEsau begged for a mouthful, he promised him the whole dish if he would\ngive up his birthright; but if he would not do so, then Jago swore that\nnot a single frijolo should pass Don Esau's lips.\"\n\n\"And Don Esau?\" cried the Leperos.\n\n\"What would my brothers have done had they been thirsty and a-hungered,\nand had seen before them the skin of pulque, and the dish of tortillas and\nfrijolos?\"\n\nThis _argumentum ad hominem_ elicited sundry greedy looks from the\nsurrounding crowd; and cries of \"Ah, tortillas! ah, pulque!\" burst from\nthe craving lips of the Leperos.\n\n\"In short,\" continued the old Indian, \"Don Esau gave what his hunger\nforced him to give, and Don Jago gave in return the dish of frijolos and a\nfine large skin full of Tacotitlan pulque.\"\n\n\"_Maldito gavacho!_\" growled the Leperos, who, in spite of their longings,\ncould not help finding the exchange an unfair one.\n\n\"Hush!\" said the Indian. \"Don Esau, as you shall now hear, was the father\nof the sons of Tenochtitlan.\"\n\nAt this new piece of intelligence, the crowd opened their eyes wider than\nbefore.\n\n\"Well, senores,\" continued the Indian, \"Don Esau had his dish of frijolos,\nand Don Jago the inheritance which he had long coveted. Then Jago went\nback to the Madre Patria, and Esau, having lost his birthright, wandered\nout into the wide world. You all know, senores, that Mexico is the world,\nfor Tenochtitlan is the capital of the world.\"[13]\n\nThe Leperos nodded.\n\n\"To Tenochtitlan, then, did Esau betake himself, with his wives and his\nsons, and built the great city on the lake, and made the Chinampas; and\nsoon the city became greater than any one in Mexico. For many hundred\nyears did the sons of Don Esau rule in Tenochtitlan and Anahuac, and his\nyounger sons in Mechoacan and Cholula; and the children of his concubines\nlived as freemen in Tlascala.\"\n\n\"_Es verdad_,\" murmured one of the Leperos.\n\n\"_Es verdad_,\" they all repeated.\n\n\"Well,\" continued the narrator, \"the sons of Don Esau throve and\nmultiplied, and had dollars and tortillas in plenty, when of a sudden it\ncame into the heads of Don Jago's children's children that their father\nhad had the share of the first-born, and that they, as his descendants,\ninherited the right over the whole world; that is to say, over Mexico, and\nthat the sons of Esau owed them a tribute. Thereupon, as they were a\ndaring and knavish race, they got upon their ships and landed in Yucatan\nand Vera Cruz, and ascended the heights of Xalappa and Tlascala, and by\nsweet words enticed the men of Tlascala into their nets, and with their\nhelp got through the barrancas and over the mountains of Tenochtitlan.\nThen they besieged and destroyed the city, put to death all those who bore\nspears and machetes, and made slaves of the rest.\"\n\n\"_Malditos hereges!_\" muttered the Leperos.\n\n\"And when they had taken Tenochtitlan,\" continued the Indian, \"they said,\n'See, here it is good to dwell. Here let us build our ranchos, and the\nsons of Esau shall plant our maize and sow our chili, dig our gardens, and\ntap our agave-trees; and their daughters shall spin our cotton, their\nwives bake our tortillas, their children seek for gold in the rivers, and\ntheir men, instead of warriors, shall be caballitos and tenatores.' And so\nit came to pass.\"\n\nThe Indian who had given this _resume_ of Father Hippolito's sermon, now\npaused, either because he had nothing further to say, or because he was\nreflecting what would be the best application he could make to his hearers\nof these various wanderings and sufferings of the children of Esau. The\npause that ensued, however, was sufficiently long for the Leperos entirely\nto forget all they had heard. Their look of stupid vacancy returned, and\nthey relapsed, like so many swine, into their various postures of lazy\nrepose, quite oblivious of the orator who had so skilfully transferred to\nMexico the heroes of the Old Testament. Some of them continued gazing down\nthe road at the horsemen, who were now drawing near.\n\n\"_Ahuitzote!_\" grumbled an Indian. \"_Son Gachupinos._\"\n\n\"Don Agostino, though a Creole, is a worse Ahuitzote than the Gachupins,\"\nmurmured another Lepero.\n\n\"The Creoles,\" screamed a Zambo, \"are the _piques'_ eggs,[14] the\nGachupins the _piques_ themselves. The Creoles are the sons of the\nMarquis, and of his conquistadores and camerados, who made the Tlascalans\nhelp them against Anahuac, and when they had won it, made slaves of their\nallies. _Larifari! Viva la libertad!_\"\n\n\"_Viva la libertad!_\" cried another of the same negro-Indian race, who was\nstanding with his arms a-kimbo, and looking down with sovereign contempt\nupon the mob of Leperos. \"_Viva la libertad! Viva! Viva!_ See there, the\nhouse of Conde San Jago, the richest caballero in Mexico, who made netto\nsix million dollars out of a single _bonanza_.[15] Netto, senores. _Viva\nla libertad!_ D'ye know, senores, what liberty is? _We_ have been where it\nflourished, in Guanaxato, where we brought the dollars out of the\nAlhondega by baskets-full. _Si, senorias_, the most beautiful, milkwhite,\nsilver dollars, to be had for the taking; that is liberty.\"\n\n\"_Viva la libertad!_\" exclaimed the knot of Leperos. The cry was repeated\nby the next group, and by the next, till it was taken up by thousands of\nvoices.\n\n\"_Todos diablos!_\" cried the Zambo, \"a hurra for liberty, that Cassio may\ntake what he likes, and where he likes. I will have the condesa Ruhl's\ndonzella to pour out my pulque, and the condesa herself--by the virgin of\nGuadalupe, she shall be our _tortillera_!\"[16]\n\n\"_Santa Brigida, santa Agata, santa Marta, santa Ursula, con todas\nsus diez mil virgenes_, pray for the senses of the senor Chino!\" cried the\nLeperos, beyond measure astonished and angry at the presumption of the\nZambo. \"Chino!\" screamed the negro-Indian furiously, \"do you take me for a\nChino? _Es posible?_ Is it possible?\" cried he, tearing open his jacket,\nand producing from a small silver case a dirty bit of paper, which he held\nup in triumph. \"See, here, senorias, '_Que se tenga por blanco!_'\"[17]\n\n\"_Que se tenga por blanco!_\" yelled a hundred, and soon a thousand,\nLeperos, roaring with laughter. And then dancing round him in a circle,\nthey again vociferated, \"_Que se tenga por blanco!_\"\n\nThe ragged Zambo, who, in his day-dream of ambition, had selected a\ncountess for his cupbearer, did not seem disposed easily to give up his\nclaims to a white skin. He gazed for a moment at the mad antics and\ngrimaces of the filthy and ugly mob by which he was surrounded, and then\nagain vociferated, \"_Io soy blanco, y todo blanco es caballero!_\"\n\n\"A rascally thief from Vera Cruz, that is what you are,\" was the retort;\n\"a sand-fly that would fain creep in and make its nest amongst us.\"\n\n\"I will show you who has the most power, your Vicente Guerero, or Cassio\nIsidro,\" cried the Zambo. \"I will let you know it,\" added he, his hands\nstuck in his sides as if in defiance, \"and before ten months are past, I\nwill have Vicente Guerero for my muleteer.\"\n\nThe Zambo's cup was filled to overflowing by this last piece of\npresumption, and a thousand Indians, forgetting their sloth and apathy,\nsprang forward to seize and punish the man who had dared to speak lightly\nof one of the greatest heroes of the Revolution, the representative of the\ninterests of the coloured races. But the Zambo was far more nimble than\nthe sluggish Leperos, and his speed of foot, and active bounds over the\nheaps of lava, enabled him to laugh at the pursuit and menaces of those\nzealous partisans of the illustrious Vicente Guerero.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThis kind of familiar, not to say profane, adaptation of the Scriptures to\nthe comprehension of the lowest and most ignorant classes, for the\nfurtherance of a political or other temporal object, is not altogether\nwithout example amongst the priesthood of some European countries.\n\nWe pass on to a midday scene in the city of Mexico. There had been a\ndisturbance, followed by some menacing demonstrations on the part of the\nauthorities; and the streets, instead of being silent and entirely\ndeserted, as is usually the case in Mexico during the first three hours of\nthe afternoon, were traversed by numerous passengers. The following\npicture of a Spanish-American interior, is peculiarly characteristic.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIt was one of those delightful February afternoons, when the freshness of\nthe Mexican winter blends with the approaching summer heat which is so\nsoon to succeed it, when the sun begins to resume its power, and the\nheavens appear so pure and deep, and so transparent in the brilliancy of\ntheir golden-tinted azure, that the eye seems to penetrate beyond them\ninto infinite space. From the _mirador_, or balcony, of the house of St\nSimon Stilitta, whence they commanded a view of the cathedral, of several\npalaces, and for nearly a mile down the long Tacuba street, three pairs of\ndark eyes were flashing bright glances through the gilt trellis-work. It\nwas a stately and right Catholic-looking mansion, that Casa de San\nSimon--which was so called because its front was adorned with the image of\nthe aforesaid patron. An image of St. Francisco was his companion, and\nbetween the two was the balcony, occupied by three young girls, whose\nblooming beauty contrasted strongly with the harsh-featured and\nindifferently carved and painted effigies of the two holy men.\n\nAlthough none of the three damsels were more than half through their\nteens, they had not the less attained the full perfection and ripeness of\nMexican womanhood. First, there was the Senorita Dona Celestina, daughter\nof the intendant of Valladolid, a little round-faced beauty, with some\ntendency to _embonpoint_, lips rather too full, eyes black and brilliant,\nalthough somewhat prominent, a well-turned waist, and a healthy Spanish\ncomplexion--that is to say, bordering on the yellow--of which hue her\nteeth, thanks to the filthy cigar, also participated. Dona Ximene,\ndaughter of Senor Vivar, one of the _oidores_ of the Audiencia, was of\nmore slender form than her above-named companion, her lips also rather too\nthick--a defect modified, however, by the grace with which they\noccasionally parted, and disclosed a symmetrical row of teeth. Her eyes,\nalthough not sufficiently deep-set, sparkled like diamonds, and she smoked\nher _pajita_ with an elegance that was quite enchanting. Laura, a\nround-chinned, plump-cheeked damsel, youngest daughter of the\nvice-president of the Hacienda Real, made up the trio. All three had the\nsmallest possible feet, the most fairy-like hands, the blackest eyes, and\nthe best Woodville cigars; and all three were suffering from a most\nextravagant fit of ennui. It was to get rid of this last, that the poor\ngirls, who lived in the Calle de Aguila, the fashionable Spanish street,\nand had been awakened from their siesta by the _grito_ and disturbance,\nhad come, attended by their negro waiting-maids, to pay a visit to their\nfriend Isidra, whom they had found giving herself up to all the delights\nof Mexican _farniente_.\n\nThe mirador on which the three girls were lounging and smoking, was\nconnected with the _sala_, or drawing-room, by lofty folding-doors, which\nstood open. At the further end of this sala was the _estrada_, a kind of\nraised platform; on the estrada a large low ottoman, and on the ottoman\ntwo figures, of which the one sat upright, and the other was in a\nreclining posture. The girdle of the latter was loosened, and the upper\npart of the body bare of all covering, except a profusion of glossy black\nhair, which was spread out over the bosom and shoulders; answering,\nhowever, less the purpose of a veil, than that of making more evident the\nwhiteness of the owner's skin. The lady thus unceremoniously disapparelled\nwas apparently very young; but no inference could be drawn from her face,\nwhich was concealed in the lap of her companion, a mulatto girl, whose\nfingers and eyes were alike busy in an investigation of her mistress's\nhead; a search so eager, active, and absorbing, that she resembled a\nhuntress, forgetting, in the ardour of the chase, all surrounding objects.\n\nThe saloon occupied by these two damsels was furnished in the usual manner\nof Spanish houses of the better class; the floor spread with _esteras_, or\nmats, a large table in the centre, and two smaller ones at the sides, the\nlatter supporting images of the Virgen de los Remedios, and of San Jago de\nCompostella. A dozen or two high-backed chairs, dating probably from the\ntime of Philip the Fourth, made up the furniture. The walls were covered\nwith square tiles of blue earthenware, the hangings were of green Cordovan\nleather, and instead of the chandelier, which hung in one corner of the\nextensive apartment, six silken cords were suspended from the large gilt\nhook in the centre of the ceiling. On the table in the middle of the room\nlay several musical instruments, amongst them a Spanish guitar and a\nMexican _teponatzli_ or lute--the latter a hollow wooden cylinder, with\ntwo parallel holes cut in the centre, and played upon by means of sticks\ntipped with caoutchouc.\n\nA cloister-like stillness reigned in the saloon as well as on the balcony,\nand not a syllable was uttered, although fully a quarter of an hour had\nelapsed since the arrival of the young ladies and their donzellas. Nor was\nthere more vivacity of movement than of tongue. From time to time, one or\nother of the three girls would push aside her mantilla, and dart a\nflashing glance into the street, and then, meeting no return, relapse into\nher former languor.\n\n\"_A ellos! a ellos!_ Go on!\" at length cried a voice out of the lap of the\nmulatto girl.\n\n\"_Que quiere?_ What do you want?\" replied the latter, as she discontinued\nher diligent search amongst the raven locks, and raising the head from her\nknees, exposed to view a youthful and charming countenance. \"_Basta!_\nenough!\" added she, in a decided tone. The lady gave her an angry look.\n\n\"_Porque?_\" she asked \"_Porque acabar?_ Why leave off?\"\n\n\"_Que quiere vmd?_\" returned the waiting-maid; \"_matar los todos? A\nninguna senora de calidad se los mata todos._ No lady of quality has them\nall killed.\"\n\n\"_Mentira!_ 'Tis a lie!\" screamed her mistress peevishly.\n\n\"_Es verdad!_ 'Tis true!\" interposed Donas Ximene, Celestina, and Laura,\nputting their hands into their hair, and after a short search producing\nmanifest proofs of the truth of the waiting-maid's assertion, and of their\nown powers of endurance. Thereupon the head sank once more into the lap of\nthe mulatto maiden, who began to disentangle and arrange the hair.\n\nAgain all was still. The three senoritas gazed out into the street, and\nsmoked and yawned; the attendant twisted and plaited her mistress's\nabundant tresses; all was apathy leaden, Mexican apathy.\n\nIn a side chamber, of which the door stood half open, a voice was suddenly\nheard, uttering sundry Oh's! and Ah's! in such a strange, half-groaning,\nhalf-screaming tone, that the four young ladies burst into a loud fit of\nlaughter. The chamber was much smaller than the saloon, but yet far larger\nand higher than an ordinary European bedroom, and, like the sala, was\nlined with blue china tiles. In one part of it there hung a hammock, the\noccupant of which, judging from his or her loud and regular snore, was\nsoundly sleeping. On the right hand stood a sort of hybrid machine,\nbetween a bed and an ottoman, which might have been cleaner, and on which,\nbesides other articles of dress, lay a blue cloak, richly embroidered with\ngold. Hats crushed out of shape, dusty trowsers, dirty linen, and\nimplements of the toilet, were scattered about the apartment, side by side\nwith costly articles of apparel, the value of one of which would have\nsufficed to cleanse the whole house, and keep it clean for half a year to\ncome. Below the hammock sat an Indian girl, with a fan of feathers upon\nher lap; her head was inclined upon her breast, and sleep had overtaken\nher in the midst of the monotonous occupation of fanning the inmate of the\nhammock. Near the bed or sofa stood a mulatto, holding a box of cigars and\na light.\n\n\"Oh! Ah! Ih!\" again groaned the occupant of the bed, from which a nightcap\nnow emerged. A meagre grimy hand next appeared, pulled off the nightcap,\nand disclosed a dry, brown physiognomy, of which the cheeks, temples, and\nhollows round the eyes, were puckered into innumerable dark olive-green\nwrinkles.\n\nThis lamentable interjection, which was somewhat louder than the preceding\none, caused a commotion in the hammock, from which there now appeared\nanother tawny countenance, ornamented with a few warts as large as peas,\nand with a beard which would have been a fitting decoration for a\ngrenadier. All effort was made to raise the body as well as the head, but\nthe weight of the former made the attempt abortive, and the whole figure\nagain disappeared in the hollow of its hanging couch. A second, and more\nvigorous trial was successful, and there came into view the head, neck,\nshoulders, and other component parts of a female bust, the more minute\ndescription of which we will spare our readers. The lady of the house, for\nit was no less a person, did not seem in the least embarrassed by the\npresence of the mulatto, but sat upright n her hammock.\n\n\"Manca!\" cried she, in a voice like an ill-conditioned trumpet, and gazing\naround her as she spoke. \"Manca!\" she repeated in a yet harsher tone; and\nthen throwing her right foot and leg over the side of the hammock, she, by\na tremendous kick, knocked the drowsy Manca off her perch. By this\nexertion there was communicated to the hammock a swinging motion which\nseemed highly pleasing to the Spanish lady, who allowed her left foot to\nfollow her right, neither of them being protected by stockings or any\nother covering; and then, holding on with both hands to the cords of the\nhammock, she rocked herself to and from with infinite satisfaction, her\nsole garment being her chemise.\n\nFor the third time did the Spaniard utter his lamentable Oh! Ah!\n\n\"Don Matanzas!\" screamed the senora, \"it is impossible to shut one's eye\nfor your groans. Can one have no quiet; not even for the siesta? _C--jo!_\"\n\nAnd again she jerked herself into her hammock, which Manca now kept in a\nstate of vibration, creating a cool breeze in the room, but at the same\ntime raising clouds of dust. About two minutes elapsed, during which not a\nword was spoken; the Spaniard had lighted a cigar, and was puffing forth\nvolumes of smoke. On a sudden he took the cigar from his mouth, apparently\nin a great rage.\n\n\"_Muerte y infiernos!_\" he exclaimed. A twinge interrupted him, and he\nrelapsed into his groanings, while his greenish-brown physiognomy was\nhorribly distorted. \"_Muerte y infiernos!_\" he resumed, as the pangs\ndiminished in violence. \"No quiet, say you? And whose fault is it? Who\nbrought us up here from Acapulco?\"\n\n\"Would you have stopped there to be made minced meat of by the rebels?\"\nretorted his wife.\n\n\"_Maldito mal pais_,\" growled the Spaniard. \"Would that I had remained in\nthe Madre Patria!\"\n\nThe lady cast a glance of the most supreme contempt upon her shadow of a\nhusband, took a cigar from the Indian girl, and beckoned the mulatto to\nbring her a light. It was only when her cigar was in full puff that she\nvouchsafed a reply.\n\n\"Remain in the Madre Patria, say you? To dine with St Antonio,[18] I\nsuppose. To feast upon garlic soup, with six-and-thirty garbanzos in it,\nand as many drops of oil swimming on the hot water. _Porquerias! No hablas\ncomo Cristiano._\"\n\n\"Not speak like a Christian, say you?\" cried the Spaniard with a sort of\ncomical shudder. \"Jesus, Maria, y Jose! _Nosotros!_ We, who descend from\nthe oldest Christians of whom Castile can boast--we, whose ancestors were\nat the fight by Roncesvalles\"----\n\n\"Pshaw! the man talks nonsense. Did we not come all the way from Acapulco\nto get him cured of his consumption? And now we are here, the fool will\nnot see the doctor, because he would be obliged to call the Zambo Don, or\nSenor. Cursed folly!\"\n\n\"Folly!\" returned her better half furiously--\"Folly, do you say? _You_ may\ncall it so; you who have not a drop of the blood of the Matanzas in your\nveins. Folly, quotha!\" continued he with a fresh outburst of indignation;\n\"the heroism of a Matanzas, whose three hundred forefathers must look down\non him from heaven with pride and exultation, especially the great\nMatanzas who in the fight by Roncesvalles\"----\n\n\"Roncesvalles or no Roncesvalles!\" interrupted his spouse, \"my ancestors\nwere members of the Seville Consulado, Senor! remember that; and it was\nthrough them that you got your present place, and became what you now are,\na richer man than all your three hundred ancestors put together; three\nhundred beggars, indeed, who had only three cloaks amongst them all, and\nas many soup-dishes, in which they begged their _olla_.\"\n\nThe Spaniard threw a scornful glance at his wife.\n\n\"We have,\" said he, in mighty dudgeon----\"Oh! ah!\" groaned the poor devil,\nhis features twisted up with pain. \"We have,\" he continued after a moment,\n\"a pedigree as long as the Tacuba Street, Senora, while yours--pshaw! it\nwould not make a mat for this room.\"\n\nThe man had raised himself up, and spoke in a sharp screaming voice, but\nthe last words he uttered were half stifled by pain.\n\n\"Folly!\" continued he, after a pause--\"folly, do you call it! because we\nrefuse to indulge an insolent Zambo, who dares to expect that a descendant\nof the great Matanzas, a _viejo Cristiano_, should style him Senor--a\nMatanzas, whose nobility is older than that of the king himself!\"\n\nAnd so saying, the shrivelled anatomy of a creature placed upon his head\nan enormous three-cornered cocked hat, with a red cockade and waving plume\nof feathers.\n\n\"Folly! d'ye call it?\" he repeated.\n\n\"Yes, folly,\" laughed his wife; \"I would style the Zambo 'your majesty,'\nif I wanted him.\" And she went on with her smoking and swinging. The\nSpaniard took a fresh cigar out of the mulatto's box, lit it, and soon\nenveloped himself and his cocked hat in a cloud of vapour.\n\nThe truce between the contending parties lasted several minutes, during\nwhich the Spaniard sat up in his bed without any other clothing than a\nflannel shirt and the cocked hat aforesaid, and his lady lay quiescent in\nher hammock. She was the first to break silence.\n\n\"Matanzas, you are an old fool,\" cried she, \"and if I were Don Toro\"----\n\n\"Don him no Dons!\" interrupted her husband. \"He has no right to them. Ah!\noh!\" groaned the suffering wretch. \"No, never will we give to a miserable\nZambo the title of Senor; we, whose ancestors were at the fight of\nRoncesvalles. And the dog expects that we should stand up on his entrance,\nas before a _viejo Cristiano_, and greet him as Senor!\"\n\n\"The standing up might be dispensed with,\" rejoined the lady, \"seeing that\nyou are not able to do it.\"\n\n\"_We_ call the Zambo Don!\" reiterated the Spaniard, \"and stand up on his\nentrance! Madre de Dios, what insolence! No, Senora, that shall never be,\"\ncontinued he with much solemnity. \"By the Virgen de los Remedios, and the\nmost excellent Sant Jago, that shall never be! Were we a thousand times as\nill, and this Zambo could cure us by the mere touch of his staff, as Senor\nDon Moses did the Israelites--Dona Anna,\" said the man, with an assumption\nof immense dignity, \"we would rather die a thousand deaths that call the\nZambo Senor, or stand up before him. We are a _viejo Cristiano, y basta_!\nEnough! I have spoken.\"\n\nDuring this declaration of his principles, the Spaniard's cigar had gone\nout; he lit another, pressed down his huge cocked hat deeper upon his\nforehead, took a long cross-hilted dagger from the wall, with the words,\n\"_Ven, mi querida Virgen!_\" and kissing the sacred emblem, laid it before\nhim. Husband and wife had quarrelled themselves weary, and now remained\nsilent.\n\nThe dispute seemed to have excited no interest in the saloon and mirador,\nwhere the young ladies were still lounging, yawning, and smoking; their\nfeatures wearing that disagreeable relaxed expression which is frequently\nto be observed in the countenances of Mexican women. A moment, however,\nwas sufficient to change the scene. The Senorita Ximene had gazed awhile,\nwith the drooping underlip and careless glance of indifference, upon a\nnumber of persons who were coming up the Tacuba Street, and who, to judge\nfrom their garb, were for the most part members of the _cinco gremios_,\nthe five guilds or handicrafts. On a sudden, however, her eyes lost their\nvague and languid look, and became fixed and sparkling; her lips were\nprotruded as if inviting a kiss; her hand was extended, her mantilla fell,\nas of itself, into graceful folds--it was but an instant, and the damsel\nwas completely transformed. Her two companions had scarcely remarked this\nchange, when they in their turn underwent a like metamorphosis; their\ncountenance became all animation, their manner fascination itself; they\nwere no longer the same beings.\n\n\"_Don Pinto y un superbo hombre!_\" whispered Ximene.\n\n\"_Quien es?_ Who is it?\" asked Celestine.\n\n\"_No se_,\" replied the other two.\n\nThe whispering and commotion in the balcony had roused Dona Isidra from\nher state of indolent apathy. Her hair was already tressed and knotted;\nshe now hastily slipped on a gown, darted through the folding-doors out\nupon the mirador, and clapped her hands together, uttering the words,\n\"_Venid, venid, querido!_\" Then tripping back into the saloon with her\nthree companions, they all four seized the cords of variegated silk that\nhung down, as already mentioned, from the centre of the ceiling, which was\nfull fifteen feet high. The waiting-maid had just had time to slip on Dona\nIsidra's basquina, and fasten her mantilla on the crown of her head, when\nthe door opened, and Don Pinto, accompanied by another cavalier, entered\nthe room.\n\nThe damsels were now picturesquely beautiful. No trace was visible of the\ndull apathy which, but two minutes before, had seemed to weigh them down.\nThe yellow tint of their cheeks had become a glowing carnation; the\nthick-lipped, half-open mouth was closed with an arch expression, the eyes\nflashed fire; all was grace and seduction. The fascinating basquina,\nembellishing the full round form, and reaching down to the knees; beneath\nit the petticoat of light blue silk; the elegant folds of both garments,\nand the indescribable play of the mantilla, now half veiling, then\nrevealing, the speaking, love-glancing eyes. It was an enchanting group,\nwhich acquired additional grace when joined by the two cavaliers, in their\ncharacteristic Mexican costume, embroidered jackets, and short cloaks. The\ngirls bounded forward to welcome Don Pinto and his companion, a handsome\nyoung Creole; and with a \"_Venid, venid, senores!_\" offered them the two\nremaining cords. A hasty pressure of the hand, an ardent glance, and the\ndancers stood ready to begin.\n\n\"The Chica of Yucatan,\" whispered Don Pinto.\n\nThe maidens were all fire, glowing with eagerness. An Indian girl took up\nthe guitar, and began to play the dance that had been asked for,\naccompanied by another on the Mexican instrument already described, which\nyielded tones hollow and tremulous, but yet melodious, somewhat resembling\nthose of an harmonica. The dance commenced with a slow gliding step, the\ndancers holding the ropes with one hand, while with the other the ladies\ncoquetted their mantillas. It was impossible to behold any thing more\nfascinating than their movements, as they glided past each other, their\neyes flashing, mantillas waving, their full and graceful forms exhibiting\nthe most enchanting contours. Presently the step changed, the movements\nbecame quicker, ladies and cavaliers more animated, crossing, circling,\nwinding, quite unembarrassed by the cords, which they still held, and\nwhich, as they trode the complicated mazes of the dance, gradually formed\nthemselves into a sort of network. As the ropes grew shorter, the\nmovements of the dancers became necessarily more circumscribed, until at\nlength the completion of the net brought them together into one panting,\nglowing, voluptuous group. For an instant they remained motionless, and\nthe music ceased; but then again commencing, they retraced their steps\nthrough the complicated mazes of this most singular of dances, until the\nnetwork they had so skilfully interwoven, was as skilfully and gracefully\ndisentwined.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_Y basta!_ as Don Matanzas says; for we cannot allow ourselves to follow\nour author any further in his somewhat glowing description of Mexican\ndances, the license of which appears to be in accordance with the\nunrestrained morals and manners of the people. We return then to Don\nManuel, who cannot get over his remorse at having, under the influence of\na generous but fleeting impulse, assisted the rebels against the troops of\nhis rightful sovereign; and as his free-agency is in no way restrained by\nGuerero, he leaves the patriot army and repairs to Mexico. Whilst\nendeavouring to obtain an interview with the viceroy's sister, Dona\nIsabella, he is discovered, apprehended, and thrown into one of the\nsubterranean dungeons which extend under a considerable portion of the\nviceregal palace. On discovering the name of the prisoner, the viceroy, in\npursuance of his designs on the immense wealth of the Conde de San Jago,\nresolves to make away with this, his nephew and heir. The great power and\ninfluence of the count, his popularity in Mexico, a popularity which is in\nsome degree shared by his nephew, compel the viceroy to proceed with\nextreme caution in carrying out his design. While deliberating as to the\nbest means to be employed, one of Don Manuel's servants, named Cosmo\nBlanco, is brought in a prisoner, and this circumstance suggests a plan to\nthe plotting viceroy and his secretary and creature, Don Ruy Gomez. The\nservant is put out of the way in a dungeon, and his arrest not registered,\nwhile Don Manuel, under the name of Cosmo Blanco, is brought before a\nsort of arbitrary tribunal, which sits in the vaults adjoining the prison.\nDespairing and half frantic, the unfortunate young nobleman takes no note\nof the name under which he is arraigned, confesses all the charges brought\nagainst him, and implores that the punishment, which he acknowledges\nhimself to have merited, may be immediate. He is condemned to death; but,\nbefore the sentence can be executed, his real name gets wind, and great\nalarm is excited even amongst the very judges and officials who have had\nto do with his capture and condemnation, as to what the consequences of\nhis death may be. Already have two of the alguazils who apprehended him,\nbeen stabbed in the open street; there is a rumour and a murmur throughout\nthe city of Mexico, which bodes no good. Nevertheless the viceroy holds\nfirm, trusting to his Spanish bayonets to keep down rebellious\ndemonstrations, and to his assumed ignorance of Don Manuel's identity to\nbear him harmless with Count San Jago. It is a critical time; the hour\nappointed for Manuel's death draws near; the Count, apparently unaware of\nhis nephew's peril, has made no visible effort to rescue him; when, by a\nboldly devised and rapidly executed scheme, which several Spanish\nofficials are induced by their fears either to aid or connive at, the\nviceroy's secretary, who has been commissioned to witness the secret\nexecution of Don Manuel, is deceived, and the young Creole's life saved.\nWe will extract the chapter in which this occurs, and the one that\nprecedes it. The action of them both passes in the prisons beneath the\nviceregal palace.\n\n\nCHAPTER THE FORTY-FIRST.\n\n     \"I'll see if his head will stand steadier on a pole or no:--Take him\n     away, and behead him.\"--_King Henry VI._\n\nDon Penafil, alcalde of the right worshipful _cabildo_ or town-council of\nMexico, was in the act of raising a glass of sangaree to his lips, when\nthe chief alguazil entered the vault and informed him that his excellency\nthe Oidor of the Audiencia wished to speak with him. Setting down his\nglass, he looked searchingly at the messenger.\n\n\"His excellency wishes to speak with us? Shall be at his service as soon\nas we have finished with this rabble. Will cut it short; Don Ferro,\" added\nhe to his coadjutor, who was busily writing, \"how far have we got?\"\n\n\"No. 4,\" answered the escribano.\n\n\"Bring up No. 4,\" growled a voice at the further end of the vault, and a\nhoarse laugh was heard, although the person who uttered it still remained\ninvisible. The lower part of the vault was gloomy, being only lighted by\nglimmering lamps that hung on either side of a pillar, and shed a misty\nimperfect gleam over surrounding objects. In various recesses, dark\nfigures might be seen lurking in the gloom, as if they shrank from\nobservation. Some of them were lying stretched upon stone benches, wrapped\nin sheep-skin garments, and snoring loudly. Here and there, iron hooks\nprotruded from the massive walls, over which the damp was trickling in\nthick heavy drops. The whole aspect of the place was dismal and terrible.\nOn the upper portion of the vault, which was raised a couple of steps\nabove the lower part, from which it was separated by a bar, more care had\nbeen expended. It was wainscoted, the floor was covered with mats, and\nfurnished with cushioned chairs. Its appearance, however, was still rude\nenough, but by no means out of keeping with that of the two hard-featured\nand surly officials by whom it was occupied.\n\nDuring the pause that ensued after No. 4 had been called out, the chief\nalguazil held a brief conversation with the alcalde, the effect of which\nseemed to be greatly to increase the impatience of the latter.\n\n\"_Muerte y infiernos!_\" exclaimed he violently.\n\n\"_Vengo! vengo!_\" replied a voice, accompanied by the rattle of chains,\nand then, supported between two grim-looking executioner's aids, an\nenfeebled and wretched object was dragged forward, and placed at the bar.\n\n\"Your name is Andres Pachuca?\" asked the alcalde sharply.\n\nThe prisoner, a youth some twenty years of age, gave no answer.\n\n\"Is it so, or have you lost your tongue, perchance?\" demanded the alcalde\nin an angry tone.\n\n\"He had tongue enough in the fonda of Trespana,\" snarled a voice from the\nbackground, \"when he proposed the health of the accursed Morellos.\"\n\n\"You hear the charge,\" said the alcalde, too lazy to repeat it himself,\nand converting the words of the police spy into a formal accusation.\n\n\"Senor, for the sake of God's mother, have mercy!\" cried the culprit\nbeseechingly. \"I was misled.\"\n\n\"So were eighty thousand others,\" was the surly answer. \"Write down his\nconfession, and away with him to the Acordada.\"\n\n\"Above or under ground?\" asked the escribano.\n\n\"Wherever the maestro has room,\" replied the alcalde. \"No. 5.\"\n\nThe knees of the unfortunate youth smote together, and he fell down as if\nhe had received a sudden and stunning blow.\n\n\"Do not be a fool,\" growled one of the executioner's assistants with a\nhorrid laugh. \"You drank Morellos' health in sherry and sangaree; you can\ndrink it now, for a change, in fresh Tezcuco water; it is a trifle saltish\nas you know, but there is soft lying in it, at least if the snakes and\nlizards will leave you alone. That is to say, if you get into one of the\nlower cells, where many people have lasted half a year. If you give the\nmaestro fair words--gold and silver words, mind ye--he will only put you\nthe fifty pound chains on, and it will be nearly a fortnight before _they_\nbegin to cut into your flesh.\"\n\nWith such consolations was the wretched prisoner dragged out of the vault,\nwhile another, designated as No. 5, took his place. He was also a young\nman, apparently not much over twenty.\n\n\"Elmo Hernandez,\" resumed the alcalde, \"you are accused of having cursed\nhis excellency the viceroy, and of having uttered cries of '_Maldito\nGobierno_,' and '_Maldito Gachupin_,' and of '_Mueran los Gachupinos_,' in\nthe quarter of the Trespana. You also shouted, '_Abajo con la Virgen de\nlos Remedios_.'[19] Crimes both against the state and the holy Catholic\nchurch. What can you say in reply to these accusations?\"\n\n\"Senor,\" replied the prisoner, who was violently agitated, \"I have seen my\nown sister forcibly compelled to wed the sub-lieutenant Garcia, my estate\nwrested from me, my sister's health and happiness ruined by the\nill-treatment and excesses of her husband.\"\n\n\"Lieutenant Garcia is a Spaniard, a _viejo Cristiano_; and if your\nsister--but enough, you are a Creole and a malecontent.\"\n\nThe young man ground his teeth, but said nothing.\n\n\"You are a malecontent,\" repeated the alcalde. \"A malecontent has a\ndiscontented disposition, and a discontented disposition is a rebellious\none, and he who has a rebellious disposition is a rebel. Write it down,\nDon Ferro.\"\n\nAfter coming to this just and logical conclusion, the alcalde took a\ndraught of sangaree, and then again turned to the escribano.\n\n\"In the Cordelada--under ground--chains of the second class.\"\n\n\"You have thirty pounds more to carry,\" whispered a jailer to this new\nvictim. \"Eighty pounds at the least. You may say your prayers, for an\n_inferniello_ will be your portion.\"\n\nThe prisoner gnashed his teeth, and shook his fetters with impotent rage.\nHe was instantly led away.\n\n\"Cursed rebel!\" growled the alcalde after him.\n\n\"The rest are all _gente irracionale_,\" observed the escribano.\n\n\"So much the better--Nos. 12 to 21,\" cried the alcalde.\n\nFor about a minute there was a deep silence, only broken by the scratch of\nDon Ferro's pen, and the snoring of the sleepers; then a rattle of chains\nwas heard approaching, accompanied by a hollow murmur, that resounded\nstrangely through the extensive vault; and at last several dark figures\nemerged from the gloom, their coal-black and fiery eyes glittering out of\nthe darkness like _ignes fatui_. They were ten in number;\ndesperate-looking men, who appeared neither bowed down by the sufferings\nthey had already endured, nor concerned about their future fate. Some were\nof gigantic frame, and the form and materials of the rags which clothed\nthem betokened Indians from the Baxio. With indomitable resolution and\ndefiance depicted on their countenances, and an expression of desperate\ncunning in their widely parted eyes, they approached the bar.\n\n\"Accused of causing disturbances, and exciting the Leperos to rebellion,\"\nsaid the escribano. \"One, also, of having torn down the proclamation\nissued by the Audiencia.\"\n\n\"Which is he?\" enquired the alcalde.\n\n\"That one,\" replied a voice, and the Zambo called Cassio Isidro stepped\nforward, and pointed to the old Indian whose acquaintance we have already\nmade under the name of Tatli Ixtla.\n\n\"So the Gachupins are the _piques_ that have laid their eggs in the flesh\nof Mexico?\" asked the judge, reading from the police-spy's report, which\nhe held in his hand.\n\n\"Ixtla did not say that,\" replied the old Indian. \"This dog of a negro\nsaid that.\"\n\n\"You lie,\" screamed the Zambo furiously.\n\n\"And the Gachupins, who are the sons of Jago, have despoiled the sons of\nEsau, that is to say, the _gente irracionale_, of their birthright?\"\ncontinued the alcalde.\n\nThe Indian made no answer. The judge was silent for a moment, and then\nuttered the word \"Verdugo.\"\n\nA man of lofty stature and great strength, with a bushy beard of an\niron-grey colour, and in a dress consisting entirely of white and blue\npatchwork,[20] stepped forward, and gazed for a moment expectantly at the\nalcalde. On a nod from the latter, he cast a noose round the Indian's\nneck, and dragged him away, as the hunter does the buffalo he has caught\nin his lasso.\n\n\"Nos. 13 to 21,\" cried the alcalde. \"Accused of gritos, and of stirring up\nthe Leperos, and being in correspondence with the Gavecillas. They are\nfrom Zitacuaco and Guanaxato, and therefore rebels.\"\n\n\"The nine Indians, who were of various ages, were now standing in a row at\nthe bar. The alcalde addressed them.\n\n\"What if you were to say, just once, and for the joke's sake, 'Death to\nthe traitor Vicente Guerero!'\"\n\nThe prisoners gazed at their interlocutor with a fixed and stolid look.\n\n\"Are ye all tongue-tied?\" resumed the judge. \"We will put it in another\nshape. Cry '_Muera el traidor Morellos!_' Perhaps that will suit ye\nbetter.\"\n\nNone of the Indians made any reply.\n\n\"Would you object to cry, '_Viva el Rey?_'\" asked the alcalde with a sneer.\n\"They will not answer,\" he added, shaking his head. \"Away with them all.\"\n\nAnd at the word, half a dozen familiars sprang from the stone benches and\nout of the recesses, passed lassos through the iron collars of the\nprisoners' fetters, and dragged them away, like calves to the slaughter.\n\n\"Cut it short, Don Ferro,\" said the alcalde abruptly. \"The shorter the\nbetter; his excellency is waiting for us. You know they do not pay much\nattention to the writing part of the business, and right enough too,\nseeing that the sentence is generally executed before it is signed.\"\n\nThe escribano took the hint, and handed the paper to the Alcalde, who\nsigned it, as did also the chief alguazil.\n\n\"Caramba!\" exclaimed the magistrate, yawning and stretching himself. \"We\nhave done for to-night, but it is only to begin again to-morrow.\nWell--_oremos, Senores!_\"\n\nAnd so saying, the man rose from his seat, approached a sideboard, on\nwhich was a basin and can of water, and after he and his two companions\nhad washed their hands, they took from the table the candles, a crucifix,\nand an image of the Virgin de los Remedios, placed them upon a stool that\nstood against the wall, knelt down, and prayed audibly, \"Ave Maria, regina\ncoeli, audi nos peccatores!\" Those of the verdugos and jailers who still\nremained in the vault, joined in the supplication with that solemn fervor\nwhich Spaniards are wont to blend with their devotions. When the prayer\nwas ended, the alcalde rose, took up his papers, and left the vault,\naccompanied by the escribano and chief alguazil, and followed by the\ninferior officials, with the exception of one, whose blue and white dress\nindicated an executioner. To this man the alguazil, in going out, had\nwhispered something which made him start. Recovering, however, from his\nsurprise, he extinguished the candles, wrapped himself in a sheep-skin,\nand lay down upon one of the benches.\n\n\nCHAPTER THE FORTY-SECOND.\n\n  \"Per me si va nella citta dolente,\n  Per me si va nell' eterno dolore,\n  Per me si va tra la perduta gente.\"\n                                  DANTE.\n\nAll was now still in the spacious vault, with the exception of a distant\nclank of chains and murmur of voices, which echoed dismally along the\nmassive walls and under the gloomy arches. Suddenly, rapid but cautious\nfootsteps were heard, and three persons, the foremost of whom was the\nchief alguazil, entered, looked cautiously around them, and then beckoned\nto the executioner, who rose from his hard couch, and preceded them into\na narrow gloomy corridor. This led them into another vault, of dismal and\ndreary aspect. It was lighted by a single lamp, of which the light fell so\npale and dim upon the grey and gloomy walls, that it seemed as if the\nintention had been to give those who entered only a gradual acquaintance\nwith the horrors of the place. The roof was supported by pillars of\nenormous thickness; along the walls were fixed tables and benches of\nvarious construction, some resembling chests, others grates, and some like\nsmall carts; but all of iron. Chains, thick as a man's arm, hung upon the\nwalls and pillars, which were running with moisture, and in these fetters\nwere figures, in sitting, standing, and kneeling postures, of which the\noutline was that of human beings, but, whether living or dead, the\nimperfect lamp-light rendered it impossible to distinguish. They gave,\nhowever, no sign of vitality. There were also numerous low doors, or\nrather iron gratings, closing narrow holes in the wall. The aspect of the\nwhole place was that of a subterranean slaughter-house, with dens around\nit for wild beasts.\n\nUpon entering this vault, two of the four persons, who were wrapped in\nample cloaks, paused behind one of the pillars, while the other two\nhastened to a cell and crept into it. It was one of those dungeons devised\nby the ingenious cruelty of Mexico's tyrannical rulers, and which had\nreceived the appropriate name of _inferniellos_--five feet high, six feet\nlong, and as many broad. No superfluity of furniture--a stone bench, rings\nand chains. Upon the former a young man now sat, or rather hung, his neck\nencircled by a massive iron ring, his hands stretched out and maintained\nby chains in the attitude of one upon the cross, his head drooping forward\nover the iron collar. A cap that covered his head was drawn down over eyes\nand face, allowing little more than the mouth and chin to be visible. From\ntime to time the unfortunate captive uttered deep moans, like those of\nsome vanquished and expiring lion, and which for an instant startled his\ntwo visitors. Recovering himself, however, the chief alguazil, for he was\none of them, approached the prisoner, and endeavoured to open the\nneck-iron. His companion, the executioner, hastily seized his arm.\n\n\"Beware, Senor,\" cried he; \"if you touch a wrong spring, his neck is\nsnapped as though it were a maize stalk; and, by San Lorenzo! I think it\nwould almost be a kindness to do it. The caballero is the first whom ever\nheard beg for death, and call upon God and devil to send it him. But,\nnevertheless, may the lowermost hell catch me, if I had not a notion that\nthis manga would never see the inside of old Lorenzo's wallet.\"\n\nWhile thus discoursing, this wild executer of the laws had unfettered the\nprisoner.\n\n\"_Silencio!_\" said the alguazil. \"You were mistaken. The manga shall be\nyours.\"\n\n\"He is to change his clothes then? Will your worship be pleased to give a\nhelping hand, for it will be a full hour before he gets the use of his\nlimbs. A damnable shower-bath it is, this inferniello; and for that\nmatter, so are they all.\"\n\nIt was with no small difficulty that the alguazil accomplished his task of\nundressing the prisoner, who seemed more dead than alive, and lay passive\nand motionless while he was stripped, first of his manga, then of his\nembroidered jacket, and finally of his hose. He seemed to have lost nearly\nall sensation; only at times an agonized sigh burst from his over-charged\nbreast, and was accompanied by a convulsive quivering of the whole body.\nHis sufferings had evidently been dreadful.\n\n\"We will leave him his under garments,\" said the alcalde, who had\nexperienced, on trying to remove them, that kind of unconscious resistance\nwhich even persons in a swoon will sometimes make when their instinctive\nsense of modesty is wounded. Then, throwing his cloak round the prisoner,\nhe took him in his arms, and partly bore, partly dragged him out of the\ninferniello.\n\n\"Is it he?\" asked one of the two figures who had remained near the pillar,\nraising the cap a little as he spoke.\n\n\"It is,\" muttered the other.\n\n\"It is,\" repeated the alguazil.\n\n\"_De pregonero a verdugo_,\" muttered the executioner; \"so says the\nproverb, but here things are reversed. Follow me, Senorias--I will lead\nyou to a place where he shall sleep safely; that is to say if the rats,\nwhom he will have for companions, will allow him.\"\n\nThe party now disappeared in the windings of a corridor, whence, after a\nshort absence, the executioner and alguazil again emerged, bringing with\nthem a young man whose stature, hair, and general appearance, coincided\nstrongly with those of the prisoner they had just carried away. Like the\nlatter, the newcomer had a cap drawn over his face, but he appeared much\nless exhausted and suffering.\n\n\"Jesus Maria! Where am I, Senores? For the mother of God's sake, where am\nI?\"\n\n\"_Silencio!_\" growled the hangman, placing him against the wall, and\nbeginning to undress him. The manga as soon stripped off, and the jacket\nfollowed.\n\n\"Lift your foot,\" said the executioner, pulling at his trousers. \"Now the\nother! So. The shirt is not worth much--you can take that with you. The\nbotines and shoes tolerable. But don't be frightened, Senoria; it is only\nan exchange.\"\n\n\"Jesus Maria! Mercy, gracious Senor!\" stammered the unfortunate wretch.\n\"Ah! if my poor mother, who lives at the corner of the Plateria,\ncould\"----\n\n\"We will tell her of it, Senoria,\" interrupted the hangman, in almost a\nfeeling tone; \"and she will perhaps be able to get you an _indulgencia\nplenaria_--for we have no confessors here. It is short work with us,\nparticularly since the rack is done away with. But for twenty dollars she\ncan get the best of indulgencias. They are cheap since the rebellion.\"\n\nThe poor fellow listened to this speech, his head bent towards the speaker\nin an attitude of attention; but he did not seem to understand. He\nslivered like an aspen leaf; for he now stood nearly naked upon the cold,\ndamp stones.\n\n\"Jesus Maria!\" whimpered the lad, \"what is it you want with me? I only\nwent to accompany my young master. How could poor Cosmo help it? We begged\nand prayed of him--Maestro Alonzo, Pedro, and I--that he would not\ninterfere when Major Ulloa charged the _gente irracionale_. Jesus! how\ncold it is!\"\n\n\"You will soon be warm, Senor,\" quoth the executioner. \"In our hands, the\ncoldest grows warm. There--take that!\"\n\nAnd he handed him, one after the other, the garments which the alguazil\nhad taken off the other prisoner. The unfortunate creature caught at them,\nand slipped them on with a haste that had something shocking in it. On a\nsudden, he left off dressing himself, passed his hands over the fur\ntrimmings and gold embroidery of the jacket, and exclaimed, in a trembling\nvoice--\"Holy Virgin! they are my master's clothes!\" For a moment he stood\nshivering, with the jacket in his hand.\n\n\"Quick, Senor!\" cried the executioner; \"time is short.\"\n\nThe prisoner put his arm mechanically into the sleeve of the jacket. The\nhangman helped him on with it, threw the short cloak over him, and placed\nhim hastily in the cell which had been so recently vacated. He had\nscarcely done so, when the sound of a bell was heard from the adjacent\nvault. Alguazil and executioner listened for a moment, and then hurried\nthrough a corridor, in the direction whence the summons proceeded. After a\ncouple of minutes, they returned, accompanied by the alcalde, and by a\nperson muffled in a blue cloak.[21] The two latter carried dark lanterns.\n\n\"Executioner, do your duty!\" said the alcalde. \"No. 3.\"\n\nThe executioner disappeared in the inferniello; the clank of chains was\nheard, and he again emerged from the den, bringing with him the\nunfortunate prisoner.\n\n\"_Por el amor de Dios!_\" implored the latter. \"Cosmo will do any thing,\nconfess every thing\"--\n\n\"He raves,\" interrupted the alcalde.\n\n\"Jesus Maria,\" groaned Cosmo again. \"We begged, we entreated him not to\nfire at Major Ulloa. Never in my life will I again take a trabuco in my\nhand.\"\n\n\"That voice!\"----exclaimed the cloaked figure--\n\n\"Is altered,\" hastily interposed the alcalde. \"The poor fellow has lost\nvoice, reason, and courage. But it is always so.\"\n\n\"There,\" muttered the hangman; \"these bracelets might have been made for\nyour Excellency; they just fit on over the fur cuffs.\" And so saying, he\npushed the prisoner against the wall, and placed both his arms in rings.\n\n\"_Santissima Madre, ora pro nobis!_\" prayed poor Cosmo between his teeth,\nwhich chattered as he spoke. Then suddenly he raised his voice, and broke\nout into the beautiful hymn, \"Madre dolorosa, dulcissima y hermosa,\" which\nhe sang, in this his moment of extreme anguish, with such expression and\nmelody, that even the executioner suspended his proceedings, and listened\nfor a moment, visibly moved. A sign from the alguazil recalled him to his\nduty.\n\n\"A little farther back, Senoria. The legs asunder, on either side of this\nstone. We want you to sit comfortably.\"\n\n\"It is cold, bitter cold!\" whined the poor fellow. \"Oh, my poor mother!\"\n\n\"The head higher,\" resumed the hangman, \"or the springs might catch your\nskull. So--that is right. Don't be afraid. We are not going to hurt you.\"\n\nThe prisoner now stood with his legs straddled out, a large stone, that\nprojected from the wall, between them, his neck in a huge iron collar, his\narms spread out and hanging in the rings.\n\n\"Remain standing, Senoria, till we have fastened your cravat. Don't\ntremble. We are doing nothing to you. In two minutes you will be as you\nshould be.\"\n\nWhile uttering these words of consolation, the executioner had fastened a\nthinner chain, of which the end was secured to the stone above mentioned,\nround the neck of the victim, who stood shaking and trembling, and\nallowing himself to be thus dealt with as unresistingly as a lamb. The\npoor fellow had left off sobbing, and was now repeating Ave Marias in a\nlow hurried voice, with all the agonized eagerness of one who in his last\nmoments would fain make up for former omissions.\n\n\"Would you, Senoria, wish to have the sentence read?\" enquired the alcalde\nof the man in the blue cloak, who stood observing the proceedings in deep\nsilence, and now made no answer to the question.\n\n\"Would Don Ruy Gomez be pleased to hear the sentence read?\" repeated the\nalcalde in a hoarse whisper.\n\nStill no reply.\n\nThe alguazil made a sign to the executioner. The latter pressed the\nprisoner down upon the stone--the snap of a spring was heard--the stone\nfell out of the wall.\n\n\"Jesus Maria! Todos Santos!\" shrieked Cosmo. \"Madre mi\"----\n\nThe last syllable was not uttered; in its place there was the noise of\ncrushed and breaking bones; and then the tongue protruded from the mouth,\nand the eyes from their sockets, the face became of a deep purple colour,\nand the victim hung a corpse in his manacles.\n\n\"_El ultimo suspiro!_\" said the executioner, in an unusually solemn tone.\n\nThe viceroy's secretary shuddered, and gazed fixedly and in silence upon\nthe corpse.\n\n\"The finest youth in Mexico!\" he murmured. And then, as if devils had been\ngoading him, he hurried to the door.\n\n\"Show his Senoria a light,\" cried the alguazil gravely; \"and may his dying\nhour be as easy as that of this unfortunate. By my soul,\" continued he to\nthe alcalde, \"these great men are delicate. They take us for tongs, made\nto pull their chestnuts out of the fire.\"\n\nThe alcalde nodded.\n\n\"Do not forget the prisoner,\" said he. And with an abrupt \"_Adios_,\" he\nleft the vault.\n\n\"Come, and that quickly,\" cried the alguazil anxiously; \"in a quarter of\nan hour it might be too late. An alcalde and an alguazil cannot be always\nblind.\"\n\nHis summons, which had been uttered in a loud tone, was replied to by the\nappearance of the original occupant of the No. 3 cell, who now re-entered\nthe vault, supported by the two strangers with whom he had quitted it a\nshort time previously.\n\n\"Where am I?\" he exclaimed.\n\n\"In a place which few ever leave alive, Don Manuel,\" was the answer; \"but\nhe that has the Pope for his cousin, as the proverb says, need not fear\nhell-fire. Nevertheless, let your Senoria beware! Another time it might\nnot be so easy to rob the tiger of his prey.\"\n\nAnd with these words the chief alguazil led the way out of the vault.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWith this rescue of Don Manuel, and sacrifice of his unfortunate servant,\nthe plot of the book may in great measure be said to terminate, although\nthere are still several lively and interesting chapters. Count San Jago\nnext comes upon the scene, and has an interview with the viceroy, who at\nfirst is disposed to carry matters with a high hand; but the count\nexhibits such an accurate and dangerous knowledge of the viceroy's\nsecrets, and, amongst others, of some treasonable negotiations the latter\nhad been carrying on with the French--proofs of which, the count assures\nhim, are deposited out of the country in the hands of friends of his own,\nready to be used should aught happen to him--that the satrap is completely\ncowed. The count has no wish to have Vanegas deposed, considering his\ncontinuance on the viceregal throne more favourable to the prospects of\nMexican freedom, than would be his replacement by Calleja, who has a\nstrong party in his favour amongst the Spaniards. The matter is therefore\ncompromised; Don Manuel receives a passport for England or the United\nStates; the Conde Carlos is promoted to an important command in the army;\nand in return Count San Jago gives the viceroy his support against the\ncabal that is for pulling him down and elevating Calleja. The book, to be\ncomplete, should have a continuation dated ten or twelve years later,\nshowing the successful issue of the struggle of which these volumes\nnarrate the commencement, and terminating the various intrigues, both\nprivate and political, which are here commenced, but not carried to a\nclose.\n\nOur limits have prevented us from giving more than brief glimpses of work\nwhich, if translated as a whole, would fill three or four comely post\noctavos. We trust that it will be worthily done into English, without\ngreater abridgement than may be rendered indispensable by the epithets and\nexpletives so abundant in the German language; many of which are\nunnecessary, and some without equivalent in ours:--done, however, not as\ntranslations usually are, but in a manner worthy of the admirable\noriginal. Out of the numerous translations of clever German books that\nhave recently appeared, it is lamentable to observe how few have been\ndone, we will not say _well_, but decently, and how little justice has\nbeen rendered to the talent of the authors; the translators having been\nfor the most part incompetent drudges, working by the square foot, or\npersons of some ability, who apparently deemed it beneath them to bestow\nupon translations even a small portion of the pains they devote to\noriginal productions. We are aware of very few instances where this\ndescription of labour, which to do well is not altogether so easy as is\nusually supposed, has fallen into hands alike competent and conscientious.\nWe trust that whenever the works of our German Unknown are translated,\nthey will be undertaken by persons at once sensible of their merits, and\nable to do them justice.\n\n\n\n\nTHE RECTOR'S DAUGHTER.\n\n\nCHAPTER I.\n\nThe rapid shade of an October evening, borrowing deeper gloom from the\nwildness of the adjacent Tipperary mountains, was falling over the lonely\ntown of Clogheen, within whose classic precincts took place that important\nmeeting between Sergeant Snap and Paddy Carey, which has been recorded\nimmortally in song. Forty years ago, (of which period we are about to\nwrite,) when roads were not as good, travellers as adventurous, and\nmarkets as abundant as at present, Clogheen was a smart, or, as the\n_Itinerary_ of that day has it, \"a thriving place with a decent church,\"\nboasting a comfortable inn and several hucksters' shops, where every\nvariety of merchandise, from brandy and bandle-linen to hand-saws and\nhalfpenny whistles, was procurable.\n\nIn a double-countered shop (for the appliances for the inward creature\nwere sold at one side, and those for the outward man at another) in one of\nthe handsomest houses of the town--where a double-story, slated roof, and\na sign-board with a red splash in the middle, and the characters, \"General\nHutchinson,\" underneath, was the standard of excellence--on the evening in\nquestion stood Curly Cahill,[22] spirit retailer, and, according to the\nsignboard just quoted, \"dealer in soft goods, butter, leather, iron, eggs,\nand tobacco,\" busily engaged in serving a customer.\n\n\"Beautyful baffety, Miss,\" said Curly, a dapper middle-aged worthy, his\nshort black hair combed sleek over his low forehead, with a face half\nsmooth, half smirking, and--for the little fellow pretended to no small\ndegree of sanctimony--his person dressed neatly in black, as closely as\npossible to resemble the fashion just imported by the new _Co'juther_ from\nMaynooth.\n\n\"Beautyful baffety, Miss Katey, fit for any lady from this to Knocklofty,\nlet alone for servants' wear, an' only tenpence-halfpenny a yard. It's\ngiving it away I am.\"\n\n\"It does not seem a very good colour,\" said the purchaser in a musical\nvoice.\n\n\"Is it the colour! Take your hand ov it, take your hand ov it, astore,\"\ncried the dextrous merchant; \"a bleachground would look yallow an' that\npurty hand to the fore. An' here, Padeen, bring a candle--an' turn out\nthem pigs, you sir, an' boult the half-dure, till Miss Tyrrel sees the\ngoods.--Now, Miss,\" he said, when the light was brought and his behests\nobeyed, slapping his hand in fond emphasis on the bale as he unrolled it\nwider along the counter, \"there's an article!--that I may be happy if I'd\nwish finer for my windin' sheet; only, to be sure, a body would like\n_that_ to be linnen, an' go to the grave decent. Yeh! what need you be so\nvery particular for servants?\"\n\n\"I really do not like the calico, Mr Cahill,\" hesitated the lady, \"and,\npapa\"----\n\n\"You don't see it, Miss,\" interrupted Curly; \"push back them darlin' locks\no' yours that's sweepin' the counther, an' I'll be bound the goods 'll be\nat the Glebe afore an hour;\" and as he spoke he playfully, but with great\nrespect and tender fingers, lifted aside some of the masses of golden hair\nthat drooped above, and, as he truly insinuated, in some measure\novershadowed the good qualities of his merchandise.\n\n\"Curly, you are a sad old flatterer,\" said the young lady, and she\nimpatiently raised her head, and shaking back its weight of ringlets,\nexposed a fair high forehead and beautifully oval face to view. \"I find it\nalways difficult to deal with you; however,\" she added with a smile, \"the\nbetter way, perhaps, is to send up the whole piece to the Glebe to-morrow,\nand I shall then be able to judge of it.\"\n\n\"Ah, then, that I may be soon sellin' you the weddin' sheets, Miss Katey,\"\nsaid the successful shop-keeper, as he rolled up the bale and pushed it\nto the end of the counter; \"and,\" he added, in a very different tone,\nmodulated to the lowest key of suppleness and deference, \"shure that 'ould\nbe to-morrow, if you take my advice, an' were kind en' thrue-hearted to\n_the one you know_\"----\n\n\"Yes, indeed!\" half ironically half regretfully murmured the young lady,\nas she drew down her veil and prepared to depart, but was stayed by a\nprognostication from Curly, who pledged nothing less than his \"hand an'\nword to her,\" that she'd break the heart of the anonymous individual\nalluded to, \"afore long, if she didn't take care!\"\n\n\"'Twas when the men wor goin' to work at broad daylight this mornin',\nMiss, I hear _him_ in the next room to me, stealin' to bed afther sittin'\nup the night readin' them books, an' songs, an' things, that you're\ndeludin' the poor fellow's senses with--ach\"----\n\n\"Oh! that reminds me,\" said the listener, producing a small volume from\nthe folds of her cloak; \"I will just leave this book with my compliments.\nHe is, of course,\" she carelessly observed, \"not now at home?\"\n\n\"Jest took a short stick in his hand and went out for a solithary walk; by\nhimself, poor fellow, down by the Shuire. 'Tis the only time o' the day he\nlikes for walkin'.\"\n\n\"The time of the night, you mean, Curly,\" said the girl with a laugh, glad\nto shake off a certain air of embarrassment she felt, by affected gaiety.\n\"Tell him he should keep better hours; though, upon my word,\" as she\nprepared to face the darkening twilight, \"I don't set him a very good\nexample myself. Good evening.\"\n\n\"The best of evenin's to you, _a cushla_,\" said Mr Cahill, as he bolted\nthe shop-door after her. \"The bloody tithe-devourin' parson's daughter,\"\nhe muttered, as he turned in and prepared to roll up his goods to be\nforwarded to the Glebe next morning; \"an' for all, she's a darlin'\nherself, an' a blessin' to every one that's about her--but her murdherin'\nfather! Here, Padeen!--Padeen, I say!\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nKatey Tyrrel was the spoiled child of an indulgent parent. Her father, the\nReverend Edward Tyrrel, was rector of the parish in which our story lies.\nA man whose disposition, naturally soft and affectionate, had, in the\ncourse of years, become sharp and irritable, from the long series of petty\nvexations he had been subjected to in his efforts to collect the\nunsatisfactory revenues of his incumbency, from as ingeniously-obstinate a\nset of parishioners as were to be found in the most litigation-loving\nisland in the world. The district of country, too, in which Mr Tyrrel's\nlot had fallen, although sufficiently fertile and wealthy, was, of all\nothers, from its situation at the foot of the high and sterile tract of\nthe Kilworth mountains, (then the favourite resort of highwaymen and\nfugitives from the law,) with the gloomy range of the Gaultees to the\nnorth, and on its southern edge the long and lonely Commeragh hills, that\ndivided it from Waterford, the most unfavourable to passing a life of\nquiet plenty and security. When to this it is added, that from the scanty\nnumber of gentry the Government of the day deemed it prudent to entrust\nwith the commission of the peace, in self-defence he was obliged to be a\nmagistrate, an office which not unfrequently compelled him to be\ncomplainant, counsel, and convicting justice in his own cause, some idea\nmay be formed of the difficulties and vexations the Vicar of Clogheen had\nto encounter in the collection of those tithes from which his income was\nprincipally derived. Notwithstanding, during the twenty or five-and-twenty\nyears of his incumbency, if his temper did not progress towards\nimprovement, his fortune did. By an ample dowery received with his wife,\nand exact economy and prudence, he had been enabled, from time to time, to\nmake considerable purchases in land; until at length Mr Tyrrel was\naccounted, if not the most popular, at least one of the most prosperous\nclergymen from Dunmanway to the Devil's Bit. He had become a widower early\nin life, and around his daughter Katey, the sole offspring of his\nmarriage, those sympathies and affections which were denied vent in every\nother quarter, were concentrated in a lavish and inexhaustible flood. A\nfew short years of a mother's superintendence--some attempts at\nhome-education, (for he would not trust her from his sight,) in the shape\nof a little petticoated rebel, who would be taught nothing, and a sickly\ngoverness who had nothing to teach--a girlhood of romance-reading, riding\nrough colts with her cousin Lysaght Osborne, and rambling among the\npeasantry--and we have the result of the clergyman's fondness and folly in\nthe wild, lively blue-eyed maiden of nineteen, now wending her way along\nthe dim and elm-darkened road leading from the town of Clogheen to her\nfather's mansion, nearly a mile away. Even in the early part of an autumn\nevening few persons were desirous of travelling alone in that\nneighbourhood; but Katey trod her path in perfect security. She was known\nto every body, and by the surrounding peasantry (to whom she ever came,\nwith her purse or prescriptions of pots of jam, warm jackets and flannel\nbed-gowns, a living and lovely Replevin for many of her sire's exactions)\nshe was treated with a fond regard, which can only be estimated by those\nwho know how largely the smallest loan of kindness--of real\n_disinterested_ kindness--is repaid by that people. Wayward and innocent,\nhowever, as she was, Katey, on the evening in question, had not, without a\nmotive, dispensed with the companionship of the staid female domestic who\nusually attends young ladies in Ireland, when they are necessitated to go\nout shopping after dinner by themselves. It might be for this reason, that\nshe hastened homeward with more anxiety than usual, although her step was\nneither as elastic, nor her brow as unclouded, as they were wont to be.\nBut she did not pursue her way uninterrupted.\n\n\nCHAPTER II.\n\nHalf-way upon the road, where a stile opened into the adjacent fields, a\nman suddenly appeared, and, coming forward, walked for some paces in\nsilence by her side, as though awaiting some recognition before he\nventured to address her. He was of middle stature--his figure was entirely\nconcealed in the thick and ample wrappings of a long, dark riding-coat,\n(or _bang-up_, as it was called,) common to that country; his step was\nfirm, and its very sound, quick and decided, so different from the\nshambling pace of the peasant, told that, whatever he might be, he did not\nbelong to that condition. As Miss Tyrrel showed no symptom of surprise or\nalarm, it is possible his appearance was not entirely unlooked for. She\nlikewise, however, forbore to speak, and the stranger at length was\nobliged to commence the conversation--turning back, at the same time, the\nhigh collar by which his face was muffled, and exhibiting features so\nextremely dark that they would have been deemed repulsive, had they not\nbeen finely formed, and enlivened by the full light of manhood, which,\nhowever, some feeling of deep interest, or passion, seemed at the present\nto overcloud.\n\n\"The hour is come that we have so often talked of,\" he said, in a low\ntone. \"I have no time to waste, Katey--_are you ready?_\"\n\n\"Then you were right in your conjecture,\" said Miss Tyrrel, with an\nunembarrassed air; \"your retreat is discovered?\"\n\n\"At least it can no longer shelter me. News arrived to-day that the soul\nof this ill-starred enterprize--Emmett--has perished by legal murder in\nDublin. The gibbet awaits all those of his followers who may be arrested.\nCertain intelligence has reached me that my assumed name and character are\nno longer of avail--the local authorities are aware of my real offences.\nIf I do not instantly escape, before the coming midnight I shall be a\nprisoner.\"\n\n\"I expected this,\" said Katey, half musingly; \"it could not be otherwise;\nyou yourself anticipated it. And yet I have been to Cahill's,\" she added,\nlooking down, \"to--to--leave a book, for I was anxious, and _he_ seems to\nknow nothing of your danger.\"\n\n\"I have only just learned it myself, and have hastened to seek you; the\nmine at our feet is about to be sprung, and\"----\n\n\"So ends _your_ life of ignoble disguise and _mine_ of duplicity. We\nshould both be thankful.\"\n\n\"One of us at least--thankful as the wrecked seaman, when the plank he\nclings to splits and sinks him within sight of shore. But time presses; I\nhave come to test the truth of your character. Once more--are you ready?\"\n\n\"I am indeed--ready to part this instant. I knew it should be so; it was a\npleasure to have known you, but I am resigned--ready. Fly! O lose not a\nsingle moment; the moon is rising. Farewell, and fly!\"\n\n\"Not without _you_! Girl, you affect to misunderstand me; or have you\nforgotten those promises of friendship and faith, even to death, that you\nhave made me so often and so lately?\"\n\n\"Promises--faith?\" cried his startled companion; \"even admitting those\nplayful assurances of a wild, country girl's friendship, were a compact,\ncould you be cruel enough to insist upon my fulfilling it in this\ndesperate hour?\"\n\n\"Then all the interest you have expressed hitherto in my fate,\" pursued\nthe stranger; \"the sympathy you have led me to think you felt for one,\nsuffering as I have suffered in the cause of my unhappy country--the hopes\nexcited in this heart when, as I pictured a delighted life passed with\nyou, and love, and freedom, beyond the Atlantic, you listened on, with a\nconsenting smile--all this was but pastime for your vacant hours?\"\n\n\"It was wrong, I know,\" replied Katey yieldingly; \"yet Heaven knows it was\nno pastime. I found you in concealment--a fugitive--hunted, you told me,\nby the laws for your exertions in the cause of a country I have been\ntaught by you to deem misgoverned; I saw you superior to all those around\nyou; you complained of cheerlessness and solitude, of ill health--I\nbrought you books, music, all that I could judge likely to lighten your\nhours, and dearly am I punished for it.\"\n\n\"But think\"----\n\n\"_Think!_\" cried the girl, passionately interrupting him, for the chord\nhad jarred, \"I never _thought_--till now--when all my giddy, imprudent\nconduct crowds on my mind as if to crush me. A few months back, and we\nwere ignorant of each other's existence.\"\n\n\"Would that it had continued so,\" he said, in a voice of sadness; \"a few\nmonths more, and my memory will be to you as the nameless gravestone,\ntelling alone that it hides the dead. Cruel, but beloved, farewell!\" and\nhe turned to depart.\n\n\"Yet stay,\" said Katey, hurriedly. \"Why not let me tell my father of this\nbusiness--I mean of your story--that I know it all, and entreat of him, as\nI have often urged you to let me do, to interest himself with Government\nand procure your pardon, which he can readily obtain? I will go this\ninstant.\"\n\n\"And give me up to justice--for such, I assure you, will be the result of\nan appeal to your father.\"\n\n\"You wrong him, believe me. He is perhaps stern and vindictive in his\nfeelings towards those whom he considers instrumental in keeping alive a\nspirit of animosity and disturbance among the people; but you know not,\"\nshe said with a smile, \"how all-powerful is my influence with him. Yes,\neven at the risk of his displeasure--for he little dreams I am acquainted\nwith you, I will tell him your sad story--there is nothing in it a brave\nor noble man should be afraid of. I will go to him this moment,\" and she\nmoved on.\n\n\"Impossible!-you are mad. The very fact of your having known and\nbefriended me in this clandestine way, will incense your friends. I shall\nbe arrested, and you will accuse yourself for life as my destroyer. No,\ndear girl,\" he continued, in a softer yet not less eager tone, as he\nplaced his arm round her, \"why not yield to the impulses of your own high,\ndisinterested spirit, and fly with me, as I have so often implored you? Be\nmine first in the sight of man and heaven, and then plead for me\nafterwards with your father?\"\n\n\"I dare not--it would break his heart--my own is breaking fast already,\"\nand she trembled from head to foot in her attempts to subdue the sobbing\nof her bosom.\n\n\"And this is the energy, the firm-mindedness, you have so often boasted\nof! You have it in your power this instant to raise me to happiness,\nwealth, and safety; and, forgetful it was the charm you threw across my\npath which has kept me near you until the bloodhounds have run me to bay,\nyou doom me to despair and death. I see _you_ have made your\ndecision--hear _mine_. Life since I knew you has no value in my eyes if\nunshared by you. Exile from you would be worse than death. Here, then, I\nstill await the pursuers. Never will I leave, with life, the mountains\nthat surround you.\"\n\n\"Oh--no--no! Heaven forbid your blood should be shed on my account! Fly, I\nimplore you, before it is too late.\"\n\n\"Never! I will sell my life dearly, but my grave at least shall be where\nyou can sometimes visit it and remember\"----\n\n\"Unkind, dark, inhuman man! was it _all_ my fault? My poor father, what\nwill he say? give me at least a day or two to think\"----\n\n\"It is now of no use, the night has half past, my doom is fixed.\"\n\n\"No! again no! you will drive me mad! Oh fly, fly, but this once, and I\nwill, at least I promise--I must see him--my father--before--fly now and\nreturn, and I will do all you desire--only, only, save your life at once.\"\n\nThe man replied not for some minutes, he then resumed--\"I have here that\ncopy of the Gospels you gave me--will you swear on that gift that when we\nnext meet you will be prepared to share life, be it happiness or horror,\nwith me?\"\n\n\"Yes, I do--I will--any thing; but fly and save yourself.\"\n\n\"Swear then,\" he said, as with one arm around her he prepared with the\nother to place the sacred Book upon her lips, when at that very moment an\naspersion of cold water was dashed with such ample profusion in the\nimpassioned faces of the pair as to cause them to spring asunder with a\nstart that had very nearly as much the character of discomfort as alarm.\n\n\"Hell and\"----half-exclaimed the man, as he tore open his coat and grasped\none of several pistols it now appeared he was armed with.\n\n\"_Dhieu, a's Marudha, a's Phaidhrig, a's_\"[23]----said a voice, following\nup the lustration with a blessing, cut short, however, by the Stranger's\nclutching the throat of the pious intruder, and dragging forward from\nbeneath the trees which had hitherto overshadowed their way a little\nBundle of some dark coloured cloth, surmounted by a straw bonnet, so\nbattered in its outlines that to fix it there it must have been flattened\ndown with no ordinary emphasis, and from beneath which guttural shrieks\nnow arose, whose extent of volume was out of all proportion to the\ndiminutive object from which they proceeded.\n\n\"Hold! let go, for goodness sake!\" cried Miss Tyrrel, \"it is only poor\nSally-the-tin, the Holy-Water woman.\"\n\n\"A--a--a! my windpipe!\" cried the Bundle, as soon as that interesting\norgan had been extricated. \"A--a--Miss Katey, take the bushblunder out ov\nhis hand 'fore he blows my brains out,\" and the shrieks were renewed with\nmore vociferation than before.\n\n\"She will raise the country. I must stop her, were I to kill her,\" said\nthe stranger furiously.\n\n\"No, no, dear friend, she is a deaf harmless thing--hush! I hear steps.\nOh, in mercy fly!\"\n\n\"Not without your promise,\" he said doggedly.\n\n\"I am ready, I promise--next time we meet; now farewell and away,\" said\nKatey, while she waved one hand to the departing fugitive as he dashed\nthrough the thicket, and placed the other on the roaring mouth of the\ncreature at her side, whose terrors seemed under considerable\nself-control, for they at once subsided.\n\n\"Mother o' Grace, pray for us now an' at the hour ov our death, amen!\"\nmumbled the Bundle, as it righted itself, and assumed the appearance of a\nwithered and ancient little Woman, who, in flinging back her dark blue\ncloak to adjust herself, exhibited a small scarecrow frame, round which\nwas hung, until its shape became orbicular, every variety of feminine\nattire, from the petticoats, under, upper, and quilted, through the higher\ngradations of gown, apron, spencer, jacket, pelerine, handkerchief, and\nshawl. A broad leathern strap was buckled round her waist, from which on\none side hung a rosary or string of large beads, to the other was fastened\na _canteen_ or tin can without a cover, containing a large supply of holy\nwater, procured from the neighbouring chapels on Sundays. She bore in her\nhand literally nothing but (as they would say in Ireland) her _fist_,\nwhich was of immense size, and of whose convenience for the purposes of\naspergation Katey and her friend had just been afforded such convincing\nproof.\n\nFootsteps now approached rapidly, and Miss Tyrrel, holding Sally-the-tin\nby the arm, turned towards home. She was shortly encountered by a\nlively-voiced gentlemanly young man, who saluted her in an affectionate\ntone with \"Katey, pet, what on earth has kept you out so late. Hallo!\nSally, I bar that!\" he exclaimed, adroitly slipping aside, and escaping\nthe showery blessing which, despite the lesson just bestowed on her, this\nincorrigible lady of the Tin had (as was her wont with all she met)\ndischarged at him. \"But did I not hear some one,\" he continued,\n\"screeching violently as I came up?\"\n\n\"Yes, Lysaght,\" said Miss Tyrrel, \"this stupid, deaf, old creature here,\nwho is a torment to all who meet her, with her benedictions and holy\nwater, suddenly threw some of the contents of her tin (as she always does\nwhen saluting a person) on a Stranger, a man she happened to be passing\nclose to, which so irritated him that he has given her a proper fright.\"\n\n\"I could chide you soundly, dear Katey, for such late scampers as these;\nbut you take my hints----well, don't be cross, and have it all your own\nway if you like,\" said the young man, interrupting himself, dejectedly.\n\n\"I _am_ very cross to-night, Lysaght, so don't talk. But here we are, and\nI am glad of it,\" and Katey knocked impatiently and loudly at the door of\ntheir home. \"Now don't go away sulky, there's a good boy,\" she cried after\nher cousin, who turned towards the stables; \"and, Lysaght, I have done the\nrosettes for Lightfoot's headstall, which you asked me to make, though I\nsaid I wouldn't--you shall have them in the morning. And now to give this\nsilly old woman her supper and a night's lodging,\" and followed by\nSally-the-tin still groaning heavily, she entered the house.\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\n\nSleepless and miserable to Katey Tyrrel was the night that followed her\ninterview with the Stranger. The fearful and critical position in which\nshe was placed caused her, for the first time in her life, to go through a\nrigid course of self-examination, the result of which but added to her\nalarm and anxiety. For some months past the person she had just parted\nfrom had been a sojourner in lodgings at Cahill's under circumstances of\ngreat privacy--rarely venturing out during the day, and in the evening\nonly with secresy and caution. As that remote country, ill-supplied at the\nperiod with police, (and even those of the most \"ancient and quiet\"\ndescription,) and wholly inaccessible to bailiffs and all other\nfunctionaries attendant on county sheriffs, was deemed peculiarly\nfavourable as quarters for that class of magnanimous men whose expenditure\nhappens to exceed their incomes, to the detriment of their tailors and\ntheir own personal inconvenience, it was soon whispered, and as quickly\nbelieved, that the resident at Cahill's was one of that generous\nbrotherhood, or in other words, was \"a gentleman on his keeping.\"[24] In\nher visits to the shop, which, from her idle though innocent life, were\nfrequent, Katey had several times encountered him as he sauntered in and\nout. An intimacy sprang up. There was a frankness and a half-military air\nin his deportment that interested her. He had evidently seen much of the\nworld and society, his conversation was lively and varied, his knowledge\nand accomplishments, to the secluded country girl, seemed extensive, and\nround all circled a halo of mystery, not the least of those attractions\nfor Katey, whose passion for riding to the Kilfane hounds had just been\nsucceeded by a stronger one for Mrs Radcliffe and romances. Time flew on.\nTheir daily interviews improved to evening rambles, the interchange of\nnotes, supplies of books and flowers upon one side, an avowal of love and\ntale of lofty but luckless patriotism on the other. To the object of his\npassion alone did the stranger confide his story. Fascinated by the\nprinciples of freedom with which France had lately inoculated mankind, and\nmaddened by the miseries of ill-government under which his own green\nIsland groaned, he had engaged, full of hope and high aspirations, in that\nenterprise for the recovery of her national independence, which terminated\nin the martyrdom of as noble and pure-spirited a being as sleeps buried\nand unhonoured in \"the cross ways of fame\"--ROBERT EMMETT. The Stranger\nhad been dispatched, he said, to the south to forward the movement of his\nparty in that quarter, when their central Power in the capital prematurely\nexploded, carrying dismay and destruction to every remoter organ of the\nconfederacy. His name--the name of Fergus Hewitt, citizen of the new\nWestern Republic, and major of brigade--was one of the first upon the list\nof the proscribed; a reward was offered for his head; and it was while\nlurking a hunted man, amid the fastnesses of Tipperary, that he wooed and\nventured to win the heart and hand of the heiress of Clogheen.\n\nSuch was the tale along whose vicissitudes the fair girl to whom it was\nimparted now glanced with a bewildered mind. The interview just terminated\nwill have given the reader some idea of the unsettled state of her\nfeelings; but it was in the solitude of her chamber, when she found\nherself called on to part for ever, or for ever to be united with this\ninteresting stranger, that she seemed to discover, not without\nconsternation, how necessary to her happiness he had become. The waste\nvacancy of her time and thoughts before she had met him--broken only by\ndull and distant visits to duller and more distant aunts, vapid rides\nthrough rude and solitary scenes, and incessant feud and amnesty between\nher cousin Lysaght and herself--was this once more to be her portion? or\nwould she fly with Him who had relieved her from them all, and relinquish\nher father and her home? How, she continued to ask herself, would that\nbeloved parent, so stern to all else, so blindly indulgent to her, endure\nher loss? Would he proscribe her for ever? She felt not--assuredly not.\nNo, her father would once more receive her into his grace and affection;\nbut Lysaght, who had been reared with her, who loved her so well, so all\nthe more deeply, she knew, that he had never told her so--what would _he_\nfeel? How would he look the first morning after her flight, when he came\nin to breakfast and found the room solitary, the urn cold, her little\nspanniel, Lapwing, moaning about the hearth, and Katey away over the\nmountains in the dead of night with a nameless and lawless man? Yes, poor\nLysaght, she felt, would _then_ be to be pitied: her father might once\nmore be hers; but her cousin--even her little quarrels with him had\nsomething pleasant to her recollection, and on this portion of the\npicture, much as she desired to banish it from her mind, she again and\nagain returned to dwell; nor did she succeed in _overlaying_ it by\npainting her reconciliation with Lysaght on her return, and her reparation\nin the shape of a large present of real and personal estate which her\nfather should be induced to make to him, and thereby enable Lysaght to\nsettle in life. And then his wife--which of all her surrounding country\nfriends would she choose for him? The sketch was still unfinished, when\nthe bell announced the morning's repast; and Katey, sleepless, agitated,\nand undecided, descended to breakfast.\n\nThere was nothing in that meal calculated to allay her anxiety. She found\nher father and cousin (the latter having just come in from his matutinal\ntour through the farm, and laden, of course, with the news of the\nneighbourhood) busily engaged with cold beef and conjectures upon the\nsudden flight of the gentleman resident at Curly Cahill's, which had taken\nplace during the night, half-an-hour previous to a domiciliary visit from\nthree peace-officers who came from Clonmel, and departed as they came, in\nprofound silence regarding the object of their expedition, upon\ndiscovering the stranger had left. As Mr Tyrrel had not been consulted by\nthe authorities on this occasion, the reverend magistrate testified no\nvery poignant regret at the disappointment of the officers; but as his\ncuriosity was commensurately excited, he hazarded several ingenious\nsolutions of the Problem that had been paying eighteen-pence a-week for\n\"dry-lodgings\" at Cahill's, the last four months. Lysaght was loud in his\ndecision that the fellow was \"some coiner or poaching blackguard;\" while\nhis uncle rather inclined to the arson and agrarian-outrage line. Poor\nKatey sat behind the coffee-stand stifling her feelings in the manner she\nbest might, until she heard her father propose \"sheep-stealing\" as an\nemendation of the probable offence of her banished friend, when she could\nsupport it no longer. Little accustomed at any time to hide her emotions,\nthe high-spirited girl burst into tears, upbraided her respectable parent\nand thick-headed cousin for their hardheartedness and want of charity,\nventured at first to disbelieve every sentence they had uttered, proceeded\nto confess that she had had the pleasure of the stranger's acquaintance,\nand ended by proudly introducing him (in an imaginary way) to her\nastonished friends as Major Fergus Hewitt of the Second Republican Brigade\nof Artillery, and Commissioner to Mononia from the Provisional Government.\n\nHad a petard from the Major's own brigade been projected into the centre\nof the little breakfast table, it could not have played the mischief more\neffectually than did this stunning explosion. Lysaght Osborne, after\nremaining speechless for some minutes, having helped himself to a cup of\nscalding water from the urn, was compelled to retreat upon the pump\noutside. His uncle, who had received so large a portion of the shell,\nnecessarily, too, exhibited much suffering, which his daughter at length\nattempted in vain to alleviate. But the spoiled and petted Katey had for\nonce overcounted. There are in certain minds bursts of passion, which,\nlike the tempests of tropical islands, are all the more violent and\nunsparing from the halcyon seasons that precede them. Such was the storm\nof wrath that now for the first time descended from Tyrrel's lips upon his\ndaughter's head. He raved and stamped at her like a maniac, terrified her\ninto an acknowledgment that she had listened even to amatory\ncommunications from the unhappy Hewitt, commanded her from his presence,\nthen recalled her to be reprimanded for retiring so hastily, and again\nexpelling her, pursued her with all but palpable fire and sword to her own\nterritory, where, locking her in her bed-chamber, he deposited the key in\nhis pocket, and set out on foot to finish the work of disaster by\nannihilating the \"dealer in soft goods,\" who had, he felt assured, been a\nproximate agent in nearly ridding him of his child. His first intention\nwas to hold no terms whatever in his approaches upon Curly's fortalice,\nor, in other words, \"to make an open show of him;\" but a mile's walk of a\nmuddy day has a sedative effect, and by the time he arrived at Cahill's Mr\nTyrrel had seen the impolicy of giving any publicity to what _he_\nconsidered the folly of his daughter. His interview, therefore, with Curly\ntook place in private, and for any satisfaction that resulted from it he\nmight as well have placed himself in communication with the intelligent\nmilestone, \"Clonmel XII.,\" which he had passed as he entered the town.\nCahill, on his part, received the first discharge of the clergyman's\nindignation with a look of stolid surprise, to which one Liston, a player,\ncould alone have done justice. For some time he seemed at a loss to\ncomprehend whether the remarks had reference to his last year's arrear of\ntithes, or the projected invasion from Boulogne; and when at length their\nreal purport _did_ overtake him, the shock was overwhelming. Well it was\nfor the Fugitive that he was at the moment out of reach of his estimable\nhost's indignation. To be \"skivered,\" to \"have every bone in his body\nsmashed to smithers,\" or \"to be torn asunder as one would tear a lark,\"\nwas the mildest of the horrible fates he had escaped for attempting to\ninveigle the affections of \"the darlin' young lady.\" As to Cahill himself\nhaving ever perceived the remotest approach to any intimacy between the\nparties, he \"declared to his heart\" he never saw them together in his\nlife; if he had, his instant duty would have propelled him to inform the\nrector of it \"in a shake;\" so that as Mr Tyrrel saw his interview was\nlikely to be a fruitless one, he cut it short and departed, while Curly\nwas concluding a declaration, that \"if he could go on his hands an' knees\nto Clo'mel for his rav'rence, he'd be proud to do it.\"\n\nDuring the rest of the day, the discomfited parent had full occupation in\nhis own self-upbraidings. In his boundless indulgence, he had permitted\nhis daughter to be perfectly mistress of her time and actions; and the\nconviction now pressed upon him, that he had done so to a very culpable\nand unfortunate degree. In order to remedy one false step, however, he now\ntook another in a contrary direction; and Katey, so long the sole object\nof his tenderness and love, was henceforth to experience a share of that\nhardness in his character, which the rest of the world had so largely\nfelt. Although he did not persist in keeping her locked up in one\napartment, he forbade her for the present to appear in his presence, and\nstrictly commanded that she should not, on any account, stir from the\nhouse.\n\nThis was the step to the opposite extreme, and it had the effect that\nmight be expected. His daughter's sensibilities revolted at such\nseverity--her prepossessions in favour of the hapless person on whose\naccount she was subjected to it, became more confirmed; she was determined\nshe would not be thwarted, that, at least, she would attempt to learn some\nintelligence of Hewitt's fate, and, if possible, see him once more before\nthey parted for ever. While, however, she awaited an opportunity of\ncommunicating with a faithful messenger, who had sometimes conveyed notes\nfrom him when accident prevented their meeting, she was attacked with\nillness, a smart febrile indisposition--the result, no doubt, of the\nmental disquietude she had undergone--and several weeks elapsed before she\nwas again able to reach the little conservatory, which, opening on the\nlower apartments of the mansion, constituted the utmost limits of that\ndomestic boundary beyond which she was not permitted to proceed.\n\n\nCHAPTER IV.\n\nIt was late in a dreary night of November. The wind blew a perfect\nhurricane, rushing up the thick avenue which led to the Glebe house of\nClogheen, driving before it in its fury vast clouds of withered leaves it\nhad collected on its way, and showering them in impotent wrath against the\ndoors and windows of the house, which shook and clattered as if each had\nits own separate assailant. Midnight--black midnight had passed, and the\nfaint light of a rising moon was beginning to mingle with the disturbed\nand dismal air. It was no night for mortals to forsake quiet and\ncomfortable beds, and, least of all, delicate female invalids; yet Katey\nTyrrel, shadowy and wan as a ghost, was standing at this hour watching the\nroaring tempest from the windows of the conservatory, that looked upon the\nfront lawn of the dwelling. She had not, however, been long stationed\nthere, when the darkness of the spot in which she stood (for there was no\ncandle) was made still murkier by the shadow of a man who appeared\noutside. Katey softly undid the Venetian door, and Hewitt stood before\nher.\n\n\"Dear, dear girl! how am I to thank you?\" he murmured as he pressed with\nimpassioned eagerness the hand she extended to him.\n\n\"Speak low--low--low!\" whispered the confused and trembling maiden. \"Oh,\nwhat a night--what an hour to meet in!\"\n\n\"Any where--every where--no where--no matter--with you it is paradise to\nme!\" ejaculated her lover with a random delight. \"How did you manage the\ndogs though?\"\n\n\"Oh--I--locked Buffer in the stables, ever so far off--and Bang--indeed\n_he_ is so savage I was obliged to take him a field away, to the\npotatoe-house;\" and Katey felt her cheek blush, until she feared it would\nlight the gloom.\n\n\"High-souled, devoted being! how am I rewarded for all I have gone\nthrough! You are indeed worthy to share the existence of one like me,\nwhose hopes have been ruined in the holiest cause that----but there is not\na single minute to lose--I have horses ready beyond the avenue gate--oh,\ncome, my Katey--'fly from a world'--etcetera. You know the song.\"\n\n\"Fly!--dear friend--you rave--do you not know how ill I have been? Can you\nnot see what a wretched thin fright I have become.\"\n\n\"Nonsense, my love, you look--(for dark as it is I can see that)--a\nthousand times more interesting with that pale sweet face. My own life,\nthis is no time to trifle--who could suppose you were so undecided, you so\nlofty-spirited, so _heroine_-like.--Oh, Katey\"----\n\n\"Believe me, Hewitt, I have not strength even to mount, much less to sit a\nhorse at present.\"\n\n\"Then, why this meeting, my love?\"\n\n\"Why--why--I scarce can tell; surely it is a pleasure to meet for once,\neven in this way, after all we have suffered.\"\n\n\"Decidedly\"--said her lover with an abstracted air. \"I'll tell you what,\"\nhe added eagerly, as if struck by some sudden thought, \"there is fearful\ndanger of our being separated if we do not act quickly, and for ever.\nSuppose--suppose, my beloved one--you now here, in this blest spot, give\nme a _legal_ claim to your hand, we may not again have such an\nopportunity?\"\n\n\"What--how do you mean?\" asked Katey bewilderingly.\n\n\"Why, you see the truth is this--I _did_ dread your health might have\ninterfered with active flight--might not have been such as seconded our\nwishes--and I came prepared--the fact is, I have brought a Reverend Friend\nwith me--you understand?--he is now not far away--indeed, he is just\noutside.\"\n\n\"Hewitt!--are you mad!\" exclaimed the overwhelmed girl, shrinking away. \"I\ncannot--indeed, I cannot, think of such a thing.\"\n\n\"Folly--stuff! I see, my beloved one, I must act for you in this\nmatter\"----\n\nTo go to the window--give a gentle tap--summon a low corpulent little man\nbefore it--to seize him by the neck and drag him softly into the room, as\nthough the unwieldy individual were unable to accomplish the feat\nhimself--was but the work of an instant; the next, Hewitt had caught the\nhalf-swooning Katey's hand and led her forward.\n\n\"'_D-d-dom-dominus adimp-p-p-lea bened-d-dic_ (hic!) _benedictionem suam\nin v-v-v-obis!_ (hic!)\" stutteringly whispered the new-comer, while the\npowerful smell of whisky-punch, which began to pervade the apartment, bore\nfar less testimony to his piety than to his potations.\n\n\"Douce your lingo!\" muttered Hewitt. \"Keep it till 'tis called\nfor.----Now, my own dear Katey,\" he said in his most persuasive tone, \"let\nthis moment make you mine--mine indissolubly. Come, Father Larr,[25] there\nis not an instant to spare--do your office;\" and supporting Katey, and\nhalf-forcibly, half-entreatingly, bringing her forward, he stood with her\nbefore the priest--if indeed it is right to profane that name by\nconferring it on the drunken and dissolute creature, who, long since\nexpelled from the altar, was forced to depend for a livelihood on his\nservices in such desperate hours of need as the present.\n\n\"Oh, Hewitt, give me a moment--my father--Lysaght--I did not look for\nthis\"--murmured the agitated bride.\n\n\"Then such is your faith after all?\" whispered Hewitt; \"but as you\nplease--even here--at this moment I give you up for ever, since you desire\nit.\"\n\n\"No--it is God's will--there is no use in struggling against my fate--I am\nready,\" she answered, endeavouring to rouse her stupified faculties.\n\n\"Go on, then,\" whispered her lover to the priest, \"be quick!\"\n\n\"_Co--co--conjungo vos_,\" began Father Larr as he joined their hands, \"_in\nnom--nom_--(hic!)--_nomine P--p--patris_ (hic!) _et\nF--f--f--fil_--(hic!)\"--\n\nThe rest of his articulation was effectually stopped by his receiving,\nfull in the face, the contents of what he felt to be a basin of cold\nwater, conferred, it appeared to him, by the hands of the timid bride;\nwhile, at the same time, a voice that split the very room like thunder\nsaluted the group with a blessing from the Virgin and St Patrick, and\nSally-the-tin stood beside them, who, however, no sooner recognised\nHewitt, with whose grasp she had before now been familiar, than she set up\na shriek in which entreaty, benediction, curse, complaint, and\nconsternation, were so vociferously blended that it would have alarmed\nErebus. The next instant the whole house above and around them was heard\nin commotion; bells rung, and were instantly answered by the noise of\nheavy bodies jumping out of bed; windows raising; servant-women squalling;\nand grooms rushing madly down-stairs. Miss Tyrrel sank fainting on the\nspot; and Hewitt had but time to treat Sally-the-tin to a parting kick,\nwhich conveyed her in a state of collapse to a small bower of pelargoniums\nat the further end of the green-house, drag his reverend friend through\nthe window, and disappear, when the whole effective force of the household\nburst into the apartment.\n\n\nCHAPTER V.\n\nWe have long been persuaded, not less by the impartial assurances of\nrespected friends than by our own internal convictions, that, if we\npossess any one excellence beyond another--and our talents are varied and\nextraordinary--it is a tendency to dramatic perfection. And albeit the\nnarrative Arimanes too often mars the beneficent desires of the dramatic\nOromasdes; yet at all times we endeavour as much as in us lies to adhere\nto those venerable observances the Unities, so long and no doubt so justly\nobjects of respect and admiration. In the present tale, although compelled\nto violate the unity of Time, we have hitherto pretty closely adhered to\nthat of Place, our characters having, for the course of some pages,\nhovered within and around the precincts of the celebrated village where\nthe scene opened, which (although a hall, or some spacious chamber, might\nbe a little nearer to those rules the classic stage so strictly enforces)\nwe flatter ourselves will be found sufficiently limited for present\nexigencies. We are now, however, about to take a liberty with the second\nunity by transporting the reader (may we hope in more senses than one?) to\na spot distant from our former scene some six or eight miles, on the high\nand solitary summit of Kilworth mountain, in that place where the great\nsouthern road from Dublin to Cork winds over the acclivity.\n\nThe peculiar character of the landscape in question may best be conveyed\nin the words of a friend whom we once, in an hour of juvenile arrogance\nand self-exaltation, induced to accompany us thither in order to astonish\nhim with what we conceived to be the boundless impressiveness and glory of\nthe scene. It happened to be rather a breezy day towards the fall of the\nleaf, and after a pretty sharp and tedious journey, enlivened, however, by\nour friend's various and interesting converse--for he had been a\nmarvellous traveller, and had crossed the globe from Spitzbergen to\nCaffraria in one direction, and circled it from Pekin to Peru, _via_\nParis, in another--we arrived at our _point d'appui_. Having allowed him\ntime to recover from what we felt must be his stupendous wonder and\ndelight, we ventured to enquire \"what he thought of _that_?\" Whereupon,\nsinking his arms to the elbows in the pockets of his Petersham, and\ndoubling himself in two, as if seized with a cramp in the stomach, he,\nafter a short altercation with himself, replied in a tone that made our\nvery teeth to chatter--\"No, I never--yes--now I think on't--there\nis--there is one slip of wilderness in Crim Tartary as _bad_, as to _howl_\nat least, but this beats it out in the _whinstone_.\"\n\nOver this howling desert, then, we beg to present to our readers Mr Curly\nCahill travelling slowly, about dusk, a month or two after the occurrence\nwhich took place in the preceding chapter. He was warmly muffled in his\ngreat-coat or _loody_, and mounted on a very high-boned horse, whose\nhoofs, with many interjections of stumble, made the only noise that broke\nthe dismal stillness around. The summit of the mountain passed, the\ntraveller began to descend the southern side, when, after proceeding a few\nhundred yards, his steed _toed_, and tumbled the rider over its head as\nsoftly as if it were his favourite mode of alighting. Mr Cahill, having\ntaken a few minutes' time for reflection, on his face and hands, quietly\narose, threw the bridle over his arm, and proceeded to walk the very short\nremnant of the journey. Turning aside to a miserable hovel on the road, he\nunbolted the half-door, fastened his rein to the latch, and with a\n_Dhieu-a-uth_, or \"God save you,\" entered the hut. It was in darkness,\nsave where around a large fire that was flickering half-smothered in its\nown ashes, sat three men, at a little table, sharing between them a mug of\npoteen whisky, the only vessel on the table, or probably in the house.\n\n\"How long you wor entirely!\" said one of the men (who did not move)\nknocking the ashes out of his pipe, as the traveller entered.\n\n\"The baste thravelled badly,\" replied Curly; \"besides, I waited for the\nfall of the evenin,' as I was loth to be seen comin' the road.\"\n\n\"Well, an' what's on?\" asked another. \"Be quick--we're not easy here so\nclose to the road, and it'll be pitch-dark with us across the bog.\"\n\n\"Well, then,\" said Cahill, \"the long an' the short of it is this--they're\nback from Dublin at the Glebe agin. The Capting has sure word from _her_\nthat she'll be ready to go away with him to-morrow night at twelve. Let ye\nget three more good boys an' watch, an' soon as ever ye hear them gallop\nfrom the gap where they'll mount--make a dash for the house, she'll be\nshure to leave the windy open, an' then--ye have her murdherin' father--_I\nneed say no more_.\"\n\n\"I'm agin the _blood_ any how,\" said one of the men; \"he forgiv' my\nbrother Mick two years' 'rear of tithe--an' he giv' Jug Sheedy an' her two\nchildher a cabin an' half an acre o' garden when Buck Rice turned her off\nthe Clo'mel estate\"----\n\n\"Iss\"----said another, \"an' the wife, when she was alive, was good to the\npoor. As far as smashin' the place, an' makin' a fire upon the stairs, an'\nbringin' away the tithe-books goes, I'm agreeable; but I vote agin blood\nunless we can't help it.\"\n\n\"Then ye'll not get a rap from me,\" said their tempter.\n\n\"Bloor-an-nagers! what do you mean?\" asked a third. \"Will you be satisfied\nif we giv' him a beaten'?\"\n\n\"No--I won't,\" answered Cahill.\n\n\"Nothin' but blood? Well, I'll tell you what, we'll shplit the\ndifference--we'll cut the ears ov' him--he was always hard on us--but\nh---- to the one ov us will go further; he never took a spade[26] ov\nground over a man's head yet, an' he don't desarve it. I won't say but he\nhurt many a poor boy by the processes--still _that's_ law--but the\nvillyans that go to eject creathures out of house an' home\"----\n\n\"Well--I'm satisfied with the ears,\" muttered Cahill. \"It'll be some\nsatisfaction for my hundhred-an'-forty-sevin pounds eighteen-an'-tenpence,\nincluding costs, of the last arrear; besides he'll suffer in losin' the\ndaughter. I'll meet you here again afther to-morrow night, this hour, an'\nwe'll settle.\"\n\nAnd Mr Cahill, remounting his steed, rode away.\n\n\nCHAPTER VI.\n\nHe did not journey far. A mile further over the mountain, he pulled up\nbefore a lonely public-house, the only abode deserving the name of\nhabitable that then existed for many miles on that desolate range of\nhills. It was of a very suspicious appearance, and quite as questionable a\ncharacter; but the Shopkeeper seemed to entertain no scruple on those\nheads, for he alighted and entered with a pleasant air, and met, from\nnumerous stragglers who were loitering in the kitchen, a cheerful\nreception.\n\nCurly, having cast a reconnoitring glance through the place, wiped his\nmouth softly with his right palm, and before he withdrew it managed to\nwhisper from behind it to mine host--\n\n\"Is he within jest now?\"\n\n\"You'll find him in the back room; he has been askin' for you this half\nhour,\" was as gently responded.\n\nCurly carelessly, or, as he would say himself, \"promiscuously,\" wandered\nacross the ample kitchen, and, stumbling heavily, slipped, as if by the\nmerest accident, through a door close beside him, and, closing it after\nhim, found himself alone with Major Hewitt, late of the 2d Brigade of\nRepublican Artillery.\n\nThat gentleman was standing with his back to a good fire, in a small\napartment, lighted by a single candle, which stood on a rude mantelpiece.\nHe exhibited some slight symptoms of impatience at Curly's entrance, and,\nlike the desperado-gentlemen of the hut, enquired peevishly what had\ndelayed him.\n\n\"I'm proud to see you, Capting,\" said Cahill evasively; \"the job is near\nfinished at last, I hope?\"\n\n\"Yes, to-morrow night, I think. We go off after twelve, provided you don't\nfail in having the horses ready.\"\n\n\"Don't fear me in that. Well, 'twill be great sport intirely--the ould\nman's tatteration when he finds his colleen gone.\" And Curly was obliged\nto bend himself double with laughter. \"You'll find Ned Burke at the gap in\nthe avenue-wall with two as good coults as there is in the barony. But,\nCapting, when it's all right, an' you settled in life, you'll not forget\nthe friend that stood by you an' helped you to the fortun'?\"\n\n\"For the sake of his own revenge at being cast in a law-suit about ten\nshillings' worth of potato-tithe? Certainly not, most upright Curly.\"\n\n\"An' where'll you take the brideen--Miss Katey--the darlin'?\" said Cahill\nwith a jocose wink.\n\n\"Curse you, villain! you'll drive me to give you a token on that head of\nyours you'll remember until--you see me again, at all events,\" cried\nHewitt passionately. \"Thank God, I'm 'most done with you. Have you brought\nthe money?\"\n\n\"Sorrow a sixpence, jewel. I had the arrears an' costs to pay this\nmornin', a'n I'm run dhry teetotally; that's the thruth.\"\n\n\"Then all my plan's gone for nothing!\" said Hewitt. \"In the fiend's name,\nwhat brought you _here_, then?\"\n\n\"Jest a thrifle o' business up the road,\" answered Curly, \"an' a great\nwish intirely for _you_, Capting.\"\n\n\"And _she_ prepared and all!\" continued Hewitt abstractedly. \"I thought I\nwas done with it for ever.... Go back, I implore you, Cahill, and raise me\nfifty pounds in any way. I am perfectly penniless.\"\n\n\"I couldn't raise you fifty farthens--I could _not_, 'pon my word and\nhonour to you, Capting.\"\n\n\"Then I give up the business,\" replied Hewitt.\n\n\"An' the fair-haired girleen, an' her goold, an' what's betther, I know,\nto you, her goodwill; an' the land, an' the laugh at Lysaght\"----and\nCahill ran on rising towards his climax.\n\n\"I can't stand this; d--n you,\" cried his hearer. \"Since you won't aid\nme, I must try the old treasury once more.\"\n\n\"An' you're the boy to have your dhrafts honoured, never fear, Capting.\"\n\n\"Will you escort me to the bank?\" asked Hewitt with a savage sneer.\n\n\"He! he! he!\" laughed the worthy Cahill. \"My road home lies partly that\nway; an' if I don't lend you my note-o'-hand, at all events I've no\nobjection to witness the deed, Capting.\"\n\n\"Go out and get your horse, then, and I shall be ready in a few minutes,\"\nsaid Hewitt, with something like a sigh.\n\n\nCHAPTER VII.\n\nA post-chaise with two stout horses, and as stout a man to drive them, was\nstanding before the door of Jackson's Inn, in the then little village of\nFermoy, at the close of a dry and frosty February day. In the parlour of\nthe inn, two or three gentlemen stood watching or eagerly conversing with\na couple of tall and powerful-looking men, who were engaged with a\nbeef-steak, which it seemed--from a watch being placed before them on the\ntable--they had but a limited time to discuss.\n\n\"Then you are really determined on it, Mr Skelton?\" said one of the\nstanders-by to the elder and busier of the banqueters.\n\n\"Quite,\" answered the person addressed, speaking as rapidly as he fed.\n\"What's to be done?--road stopp'd up--business checked--six months\ngone--mails cut off--guard killed--alarm increasing\"----\n\n\"If it continues much longer,\" interrupted his slower companion, \"all\ncommunication with the capital will be at an end, unless a blow be\nstruck,\" he said, looking round him loftily, \"that will paralyze the\nenemy, gentlemen.\"\n\n\"Now for it, Rudd,\" said Skelton rising; \"our time's up--twenty-five\nminutes past five,\" and he pocketed the watch by which he counted.\n\n\"I'm your man,\" answered Rudd, as he swallowed his last glass of sherry,\nand jumped up: \"have you the blunderbuss?\"\n\n\"Ay have I.\"\n\n\"I have the dirk and pistols, then: so bolt at once. Good-by, gentlemen;\"\nand without waiting for the \"good-bys\" and \"successes\" that were showered\non them, Messrs Skelton and Rudd hurried into the attendant post-chaise,\nand, giving some earnest directions in a whisper to the driver, dashed\nrapidly over the bridge which crossed the Blackwater, and took the road\nleading north, over Kilworth mountain, to Dublin.\n\nHalf an hour's travelling brought them to the foot of the hill, where the\nroad began to ascend, and from this spot the driver was instructed to\nproceed at a slow pace. The night had thoroughly set in, both dark and\nfoggy, and an hour elapsed tediously in winding up and attaining the vast\nlevel of the Wild. As they had no lamps, though desirous now to advance at\na brisker rate, they were compelled to keep in a slow and cautious trot,\nthe hearts of the travellers, intrepid as they seemed to be a short time\nago, thumping violently every step they proceeded.\n\nAfter various short pauses to avoid deep ruts, and several descents by the\ndriver to free his horses' hoofs from the loose stones that lay\nplentifully along the wretched road--during one of which he seemed to hold\ncolloquy with some benighted traveller--the carriage had nearly crossed\nthe long summit of the desolate hills, when its occupants perceived it to\nstop with a sudden and forcible impulse, that betokened instant danger.\nDropping the glasses at once, they called loudly to the driver to enquire\nthe cause.\n\n\"There's a gentleman here,\" replied the man in a timid sullen voice,\n\"houldin' the horses heads, that says I must stop here a spell.\"[27]\n\n\"How many of 'em?\" asked Skelton in a low tone.\n\n\"Two,\" was the answer, just as softly; \"one a-horseback, t'other a-foot.\"\n\n\"Here we are, then!\" said Rudd to his companion in a feverish whisper.\n\n\"Yes; I wish 'twas over,\" was the reply, which was scarcely breathed when\na man appeared at the right-hand carriage-window, and, presenting a\npistol, said in a strong loud voice--\n\n\"I'm sorry, gentlemen, but I must have your money.\"\n\n\"Or your lives,\" added a man on horseback, blocking up the opposite side\nof the chaise.\n\n\"This is very hard, sir,\" answered Rudd hesitatingly--\"very--hard--indeed;\nhowever, I suppose it must be so: perhaps you'll be good enough to come\nround to the other door of the chaise--my friend here is, I fear,\nseriously ill--\n\n\"Certainly,\" said the robber, who was now heard walking round to the door\nalready occupied by his mounted companion.\n\n\"Are you steady?\" whispered Rudd.\n\n\"As steel!\" answered Skelton.\n\n\"Then slip the muzzle of the blunderbuss across me, and the moment the\ndoor is well opened, when I raise my arm with the purse, shoot him dead on\nthe spot.\"\n\nThe click of a trigger was the sole reply:--the highwayman had come round\nto the door. He had his grasp on the handle, when he was suddenly struck\nin the eyes with some icy liquid, that caused him to swerve violently\naside, dragging open the door at the same moment. There was a terrific\nvolley from the carriage, and Curly Cahill, receiving the greater portion\nof the contents of the blunderbuss intended for his friend, dropped\nheavily from his horse.\n\nRudd and Skelton instantly sprang out. They found Hewitt (for our readers,\nno doubt, have anticipated it was he) engaged with their stalwart driver,\nwho had already grappled with him, having, before he could recover from\nhis shock, as well as surprise, by a well-directed blow knocked the pistol\nfrom his hand, and closed with him. The man would have been no match for\nHewitt; but before the latter could draw another pistol, he was struck\ndown by Rudd, and, with the powerful assistance of Skelton, handcuffed,\nand secured in the chaise.\n\nThe travellers, who had come determined and prepared for this\nexpedition,[28] now struck a light, and proceeded to raise Cahill, who\ncontinued to groan heavily where he had fallen. He seemed to bleed\ninwardly, having been wounded chiefly in the chest and stomach, and was\nlifted into the carriage beside his captured companion, and where he\nalmost instantly expired, having squandered his last breath in a feeble\nlaugh, and the expression of his conviction, that \"the Capting was\ncashiered at last.\"\n\nThe travellers now hurried rapidly onwards, conveying with them\nSally-the-tin, whom, having been benighted on her return from some\ncountry-fair, the driver (an old acquaintance) had overtaken and given a\nlift to on the bar beside himself, and whose elemental piety, for once not\nill-timed, was the means of saving Hewitt's exit. Leaving Cahill's body at\nthe very roadside-hut where he had so lately planned his villanous\nrevenge, they continued their course to Clogheen; and being informed that\nthe nearest magistrate was the rector of the parish, about nine o'clock at\nnight they entered Mr Tyrrel's parlour, where, though still suffering\nunder her father's suspicions, Katey was presiding at the tea-table to\nLysaght and his uncle, and begged to introduce to the Reverend Justice's\nnotice, the person who accompanied them--the dreaded and notorious\nfreebooter, Roderick O'Hanlon, who had been so many months the terror of\nall who travelled Kilworth mountains--and who, on a previous occasion, had\nbeen ushered, in an imaginary way, to his acquaintance as Major Fergus\nHewitt, commissioner to Mononia from the Provisional Government.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nHewitt (or O'Hanlon) was tried at the ensuing Tipperary Assizes, and,\nnotwithstanding the extreme severity of the law at that period, there were\nso many palliating circumstances pleaded in his favour at the\ntrial--particularly a popular, and we believe a not altogether unfounded\neulogium, (since grown into an apothegm in that country,) that \"He robbed\nthe rich to give to the poor,\" and so many persons of distinction, who had\nknown him at one time as a performer on the Dublin stage, came forward to\ninterest themselves in his behalf--that he escaped with transportation for\nlife. He ultimately conducted himself with such propriety at Sydney, that\nhe obtained a free pardon--and lived to amass some property, and settle in\nthat colony. Previous to his quitting Ireland, he conveyed to Miss Tyrrel,\nby the hands of her father, a few lines explanatory of portions of his\nconduct and career, and which concluded with the assurance, that, next to\n_one_ nameless and bitter regret, he most deeply lamented the injury he\nhad, were it only in _her_ estimation, inflicted on the cause of brave and\nunfortunate men, by passing himself as an adherent of Robert Emmett's, and\nthe affair of 1803--with neither of which, he declared, had he had any\nconnexion.\n\nKatey Tyrrel recovered so rapidly from the shock and illness that\nsucceeded the appearance of Hewitt as a prisoner in her father's parlour,\nthat it is more than probable her wounded pride and convicted folly\nannihilated at once that affection for a highwayman which she would have\nhad no scruple of bestowing on a Major of the Republican Brigade. Her\nfather, grateful that, before it was too late, he was afforded an\nopportunity of atoning for past severity, no less than former indulgence,\nrestored her speedily to favour. Katey profited largely by the lesson her\ngiddiness and obstinacy had received. She became a steady and domestic\ncharacter, and in due time saved herself the trouble of looking out a wife\nfor Lysaght Osborne among her neighbours, by marrying him herself. They\ncontinued to reside with her father, who survived to such an extreme old\nage as to see all feuds between himself and his parishioners extinguished\nby the Composition Act.\n\nSally-the-tin, as often as her vagrant disposition admitted of it, had\nalways a corner in Katey Osborne's kitchen; and it would be an injustice\nto woman's heart not to say, that this protection was afforded her not a\nwhit the less warmly and permanently, for having been instrumental\n(however unconsciously) in saving the life of Hewitt.\n\n\n\n\nA GLANCE AT THE PENINSULA.[29]\n\n\nIn England, where politics are so generally and largely discussed, where\nin fact they form the only subject upon which most men appear disposed or\ncompetent to converse, it is not uncommon to meet with persons well\ninformed concerning the social and political state of the principal\nEuropean countries. But we have frequently observed, that even amongst\nthose who display the most varied knowledge of this kind, there are very\nfew who either possess or pretend to any thing like a thorough\nappreciation of the affairs of the Peninsula. Yet there are obvious\nreasons why Englishmen ought to be more conversant with Spanish affairs\nthan with those of any other European state--our nearest neighbours,\nperhaps, excepted. Here is a country about which we have been fighting or\ndiplomatizing, almost without intermission, since the commencement of the\npresent century; a country to which, by its intestine broils and frequent\npolitical changes, the attention of the English public has been\ncontinually directed, while that of the monied and commercial classes has\nbeen specially attracted to it by the frequent fluctuations and consequent\nspeculation in what are facetiously termed Spanish _Securities_, and by\nthe oft-revived but hitherto fallacious expectation of a commercial\ntreaty. When these sources of interest are considered, it does seem\nsingular that so few persons should have thought it worth while to\ninvestigate the real state of Spain in all its various relations; and that\nof those who have gone thither with that view, none should have produced a\nbook fully elucidating Spanish affairs to the numerous classes in England\nwhich are more or less interested in them. The probable cause of this is,\nthat no country has been so difficult to follow and comprehend through all\nits countless changes; an indispensable key to which is a thorough\nknowledge of the national character. On the other hand, that knowledge is\ndoubly difficult to obtain at a period when, as now, the people and the\ninstitutions of Spain are in a state of transition.\n\nIt is a truism which, at first sight, looks like a paradox, that\ncontemporary history is the most difficult to write. Time, which, in its\nmore extended lapse, destroys and obliterates--previously, by successive\noperations, purifies and enlightens; classes men and events; elevates the\nimportant and the true; and gives praise and obloquy to whom they are\nseverally due. And in the Peninsula, more than in any other country, is\nthis kind of classification requisite. Amidst the various parties and\nfactions, the strange contradictions of the national character, the\ninterminable web of intrigue and political manoeuvre, how arduous the\ntask to unravel the truth, to throw a clear light upon the state and\nprospects of Spain, and explain the hidden and complicated machinery by\nwhich many of the recent events in that country have been brought about!\n\nWe have now lying before us a book in which this task has been attempted,\nand, we are disposed to think, by no means without success. It is the work\nof a man who has evidently passed a considerable time in the Peninsula;\nand, after becoming well acquainted with the language and habits of the\npeople, has studied the peculiarities of their manners, feelings, and\ninstitutions, with a keen and observant eye. The result of his\nobservations he has committed to paper pretty much as they were made; so\nat least we infer from the style of his book, which, without being on any\nregular plan, touches upon every subject connected with Spain, nearly, as\nit would appear, in the order in which they chanced to come uppermost in\nthe writer's mood of the moment. The frequent change which this occasions,\nfrom grave subjects to gay, and _vice versa_, serves, perhaps as well as\nany more regularly preconceived plan could have done, to carry the general\nreader pleasantly through two rather copious volumes; in which, whatever\nnay be their deficiencies, there is certainly no lack of variety; while\nthe style in which they are written has about it a characteristic vigour\nand originality, and at times a considerable degree of humour. We are not\ninformed how long the author has lived in Spain; but we suspect that his\nresidence there has been of considerable duration, and that he has become\nin some degree _Espanolisado_. We infer this from an occasional foreign\nidiom; from his intimate knowledge of the habits of various classes, which\nonly a long residence in the country could have brought in his way; and\nfrom a familiarity with Spanish proverbial language, which now and then\nbreaks out in an amusing and Sancho-like passage. In short, the whole book\nis characteristic both of the man who has written it, and of the people\nwhom it describes.\n\nCommencing with the fall of Espartero, the first twenty chapters of the\nfirst volume are chiefly political in their nature;--containing\nexplanations of the various circumstances attending the above event;\ndetails of the state of parties, of the intrigues against Olozaga, and his\nfinal overthrow by the Camarilla of the day; the history of Camarillas\ngenerally, and sketches of several of the most prominent actors upon the\nSpanish political stage. The figurative signification of the word\n_camarilla_, which, in its literal sense, means a little chamber, is\nalmost too well known, even out of Spain, for an explanation of it to be\nnecessary. Since the fourteenth century, the days of Alonzo the Eleventh,\nand the beautiful Leonor de Gusman, it has been the wont of Spanish\nmonarchs, with rare exceptions, to rule, and often to be ruled, by cabals\nor coteries composed of an indeterminate number of courtiers. We find men\nof all ranks and classes of society taking in turn their share of this\nback-stairs influence; priests and soldiers, jesuits, nobles, and lawyers,\nand not unfrequently women, composed the courtier-conclaves that governed\nthe rulers of Spain, sent their own foes to the scaffold or dungeon, and\nraised their own friends to the highest dignities of the state. In\nconformity with this time-honoured tradition of the Spanish monarchy, no\nsooner was Espartero expelled from Spain than Christina hastened to send\ncreatures of her own to Maddrid, to watch over her interests pending her\nown arrival, and to intrigue against those who should appear disposed to\nthwart her designs and line of policy; to form, in short, a Camarilla.\nThis was soon done. \"It was composed of Narvaez, the Marchioness of Santa\nCruz, and Valverde, the Duke of Ossuna, Juan Donoso Cortes, and a member\nof the Senate named Calvet--all faithful adherents of Christina, Moderados\nin their politics, and strongly tinged with absolutist principles,\nalthough most hostile to the claims of Don Carlos.\" These half-dozen\nintriguing spirits soon carved out for themselves abundant and mischievous\nemployment. The then minister, Lopez, the same whose famous amnesty\nproject caused the downfall of Espartero, alike averse to encounter their\nopposition or to truckle to them in his government, resigned his office\nalthough possessing a strong majority in the Cortes; and Olozaga took his\nplace, having been himself designated by Lopez as the most fitting man.\nThe new premier trusted to his energies and talents to make head against\nthe Camarilla; but he had underrated the ingenuity and cunning of the\nlatter; and, still more, the hatred borne to him by Queen Christina. This\nhatred he had excited to a deadly extent, when ambassador at Paris in the\ntime of Espartero, by demanding the expulsion of Ferdinand's widow from\nthe French capital, on the ground of her plottings and attempts to\nrevolutionize Spain. As will be remembered, no attention was paid to these\ndemands by Louis Philippe, who was far better affected to Christina than\nto Espartero; and the cunning dowager remained snug at the Hotel de\nCourcelles, hatching plots against the existing government of Spain--plots\nin the carrying out of which she was largely aided by French gold and\nFrench counsels. But she neither forgot nor forgave Olozaga's\ninterference; and no sooner did he assume the reins of government, than\nher adherents opened their batteries upon him with unusual vigour. So\neffectual was their fire, that Olozaga, who took office on the\ntwenty-first of November, was dismissed from it on the twenty-ninth;--one\nweek's tenure. The absurd history of the violence employed by him to\nobtain the Queen's signature to a decree for the dissolution of the Cortes\nis well known, as are also the efforts that were made to crush him, even\nafter his expulsion from the ministry had been obtained by this pitiful\npretext--a pretext at once disgraceful to the artful and unprincipled\nframers, and injurious in the highest degree to Queen Isabel, one of whose\nfirst acts, after her majority had been declared, was thus made to be the\nattestation of a gross and shameless falsehood. In the long and stormy\ndebate that ensued in the Cortes, Olozaga amply confirmed all parties of\nthe absurdity of the charge brought against him, and utterly confounded\nhis enemies. What they could not accomplish by public means, the latter\nnow attempted to bring about by underhand ones--namely, Olozaga's\ndestruction in a literal as well as a political sense; and after one or\ntwo narrow escapes from assassination, the ex-premier was advised by his\nfriends to withdraw from Spain. \"Portugal presented the readiest asylum;\nand following very nearly the course of the Tagus, the exile, escorted by\ntwenty well-armed contrabandists, came by way of Talavera and Coria on the\nback of a mule, in the disguise of a trader, with copious saddle-bags, and\ncrossing the little river Herjas into the Portuguese province of Beira,\nwas soon in Castello Branco.\" Olozaga was used to this sort of thing,\nhaving already had to fly for his life in the time of Ferdinand. On that\noccasion he drove out of Madrid in the disguise of a Calesero, in company\nwith his friend Garcia, the then intendant of police, who was also obliged\nto fly from the vengeance of the Camarilla of the day. They reached\nCorunna in safety, and embarked for England; the facile versatility with\nwhich Olozaga had smoked, joked, and drunk his way, adapting himself to\nthe humours of all he met, and supporting admirably his assumed character,\nhaving in no small degree contributed to save them from detection.\n\nThe account our author gives of Queen Isabel is any thing but a favourable\none; although we have much reason to fear that it is substantially\ncorrect. Wilful and pettish, at times obstinate, deficient in intelligence\nas well as temper, and above all, _dissimulada_, a dissembler. Ugly words\nthese; but if it be true that children inherit their parents' virtues and\nvices, what better could be expected from the offspring of a Ferdinand and\na Christina? Indeed it will be fortunate for herself and her people, if,\nat a later period of this child-queen's life, there are not a few more\nfailings to be added to the above list--already sufficiently long. At\npresent, artfulness and insincerity seem her chief faults--no trifling\nones, certainly; and to these may be added a want of heart, very unusual\nin a girl of such tender age, and which is perhaps the worst symptom in\nher character. It has been frequently and strongly exemplified in her\nconduct to those nearest her person. Previously to the anti-Christina\nrevolution of 1840, the Marquesa de Santa Cruz was her governess, and to\nher the young Queen appeared much attached. But when the Marchioness left\nSpain in the suite of the Queen-mother, Isabel never made an enquiry after\nher, receiving Madame Mina with just the same degree of apparent affection\nthat she had shown to her preceding governess. Whilst Espartero was\nRegent, she professed unbounded attachment to him, insisted having the\nportrait of her \"_caro amigo_\" hung in her room, and seemed proud of\nshowing it to all her visitors. The wheel went round; Narvaez was at\nMadrid, and the Duke of Victoria a refugee on board the Malabar. The\nSenora de Mina was dismissed, and her royal pupil took leave of her with\nthe same absence of feeling that she had shown when separated from the\nMarchioness of Santa Cruz:--\n\n\"'Since you are leaving me,' she said, 'I must make you a present.' And\naway she ran to take down the portrait of her very 'dear friend'\nEspartero, which precious relic she handed over to her outgoing _Aya_,\nsaying 'Keep this portrait, senora; it will be better in your possession\nthan mine!'\"\n\nTaken to a bull-fight, her youthful majesty of Spain was delighted beyond\nmeasure, enjoying the sufferings of maddened bulls and gored horses with\nas much zest as could have been shown by her illustrious and respectable\nfather. Unfortunately, _auto-da-fes_ are out of date, or they might serve\nto vary her pastimes. As it is, she is obliged to fill up her leisure by\nthe consumption of confectionery, of which she has a constant and abundant\nsupply on hand. \"This pastry-cook museum, which extends over every\napartment of the palace, contains some most interesting specimens--the\n_tortas_, or tarts, of Moron, the most celebrated in Spain; the _panes\npintados_, or painted buns, of Salamanca; the _Paschal ojalores_, or\nCarnival and Easter dainties; the hard _turrones_ of Alicant, composed of\nalmonds, nut-kernels, filberts, and roasted chestnuts, intermixed with\nhoney and sugar; _dulces_ of cocoa-nut frosted with sugar; roasted\nalmonds; _avellanas_, a peculiarly nice sort of filbert, whole and in\npowder; _alfajor_, or spiced bread; the delicious cheese called _jijona_;\npomegranate jelly; _blando de huevos_, or sweetened yolks of eggs,\" &c.\n&c. &c. When in a good humour, she makes presents of these delicacies to\nthe persons about her; and the degree of favour in which her courtiers\nstand, is to be estimated by the amount of cakes and sugar-sticks bestowed\nupon them. No place is secure from the invasion of these sweets; even in\nthe council-chamber, while dispatching business with the ministers, she\nis surrounded by them, \"and the confection of decrees, and discussion of\ndainties, proceed _pari passu_.\"\n\nThe abundance of the comfits and the badness of the counsellors by which\nthe poor child is environed, menace grievous injury both to mind and body,\nheart and stomach. A puppet in the hands of factions, living from her\nearliest childhood in an atmosphere of intrigue and falsehood,--the usual\natmosphere of Spanish courts and camarillas, how was she to escape the\ncontagion? Her education seems also to have been grievously neglected.\nWhen Arguelles was her governor, she was indocile and refractory; under\nthe care of Olozaga she only remained three months. Her female\ninstructors, with the exception of the Countess of Mina, have been women\nof equivocal reputation, seeking to advance themselves and their friends,\nand teaching their pupil few lessons but those of dissimulation. To\naggravate the evil, during the three years of Christina's exile, that\nprincess was allowed to be in constant correspondence with her daughter,\nand of course lost no opportunity of inspiring her with a dislike of her\nown political enemies, the Progresistas. These latter, however, being in\npower, and about the person of the young Queen, she was obliged at least\nto _appear_ friendly with them, and was thus \"taught to be false and\nartful by the force of circumstances, and trained by events to deceit.\"\n\nThe chapter headed \"Narvaez\" is extremely interesting, giving graphic\nsketches of one of the most remarkable of living Spaniards. In Narvaez we\nfind the faults and the virtues of the soldier of fortune; prompt\ndecision, great energy and determination, on the one hand--cruelty,\nimpolicy, and violence, on the other. His character has made him popular\nwith a portion of the army, and over the officers, in particular, he\nexercises great influence. His severities, however, especially his\nshooting eight men the autumn before last, for demanding what had been\nsolemnly promised them, permission to quit the service, have lost him many\nadherents, and made him numerous enemies in the ranks. But his deadly\nfoes, and those from whom he has the most to fear, are the Ex-National\nGuards of Madrid. Their hatred of him is unlimited, and savage beyond\nconception, founded upon various causes, any one of which is, with\nSpaniards, sufficient to account for it. Their confidence betrayed, their\narms taken from them, themselves recklessly sabred and bayoneted when\nassembled for the most peaceable purposes--these and many other injuries\nwill never be forgotten or forgiven by the Madrilenos. We in England are\nnow so accustomed to hear of bloodshedding and outrage in the Peninsula,\nthat we have began to consider it almost as a matter of course, and\nscarcely accord a moment's attention to the horrors of to-day, which are\nno worse than those of yesterday, and may probably be surpassed by those\nof to-morrow. Yet, if we except a portion of the period of Espartero's\nrule, there are no three months in the history of Spain for the last ten\nyears, which would not, if transplanted into the annals of any other\ncountry, form an era of bloodshed. Since the advent of Narvaez to power,\nalthough the vigour of his government has prevented civil war and checked\ninsurrection, that has only been accomplished by a system of despotic\ncruelty worthy of the days of Ferdinand the Well-beloved. Countless\ninstances may be adduced in support of this assertion. Executions, like\nthat of Zurbano and his family, have been defended by the argument, that\nthe sufferers were rebels against the established government of the\ncountry, and as such deserved the fate they met. Rather a flimsy argument,\nit appears to us, in a country in which revolution flourishes as an\nevergreen plant. How is it to be decided which is the rightful governor,\nand which the usurper? who shall say whether those in power are there by\nright as well as might; or whether they are merely successful rebels,\nbanditti on a large scale, who have seized upon place and power with as\nmuch justice, and by the same violent means, as highwaymen of inferior\ngrade possess themselves of the purses of travellers? But even if we\nconcede this point, and admit that whoever holds the reins, though but\nfrom yesterday, and with a bloodstained hand, is justified in slaughtering\nby wholesale all who show a disposition to drag him down again, it will\nstill be impossible to palliate the treacherous and tyrannical proceedings\nof Narvaez. The inhabitants of Madrid, lured out of their houses by the\nbait of some joyous festival, the streets hung with banners and strewed\nwith flowers, the fountains playing wine and milk--on all sides rejoicings\nand festivity; the _insouciant_ light-hearted Castilians forgetting for a\nwhile the misfortunes of their country, and giving themselves up to the\nunrestrained enjoyment of the moment. But there are those amongst them who\nwill soon trouble their pleasures; agents of their rulers, tutored to\nexcite them to some apparently rebellious demonstration. A shout or two,\ninterpreted as indicative of disaffection, and caught up by an excitable\nmob; and immediately battalions appear upon the _plaza_, dragoons gallop\nout of the side streets, bayonets are lowered and sabres bared, and amidst\nthe clatter of the charge, the screams of women and the oaths of men, the\nfestal garlands are trodden under foot, and blood reddens the pavement.\n\"On many a _fiesta_, or day of saints,\" says our author, \"which Spain\nregards as of special holiness, plots and snares were thickly strewn\naround the people's footsteps; murder lurked beneath the wreath of\nfestivity, and the day which began in prayer, concluded with mourning.\"\n\nDuring the three days' rejoicings on occasion of the Queen's majority,\nscenes of this sort occurred. \"They invited us to a ball,\" said the people\nin the true Madrileno spirit--\"they invited us to a ball, and we had to\nassist at a funeral.\" The object sought to be obtained by such barbarous\nmeans, was the intimidation of the populace, and the deterring of\nrevolutionists and progresistas. The suppression of the national guard\nproduced another _alboroto_, or disturbance. A crowd assembled, and moved\nthrough the streets, giving _vivas_ for the constitutional Queen, and\n_mueras_ for the ministers and the traitors. Narvaez asked no better\nchance than this. Out turned the palace guard, composed of strong bodies\nof infantry and cavalry, and, without a moment's delay, charged the mob,\nwhich, although principally composed of national guardsmen, was unarmed,\nsave with a few bayonets and knives. In all the adjacent streets, people\nwere running for their lives; and the congregations, which were then just\nleaving mass--for this occurred on a Sabbath morning--recoiled for safety\ninto the churches.\n\nAs a politician, Narvaez is unquestionably an obstinate and unscrupulous\ndunce, who feels his incompetency to rule by any means but the sword, and\nhas substituted a tyrannical dictatorship supported by bayonets, for the\nlegal and constitutional government of Spain. In a military point of view\nhe is more respectable, although even as a general his exploits have been\nfew and little heard of. In his brief campaign against the Esparterists,\nhe had no opportunity of showing more than activity and daring; since at\nthe very moment when he was on the point of measuring strength and\ngeneralship with Seoane and Zurbano at Torrejon de Ardos, the troops under\nthose two leaders came over to him. During the War of Succession, he gave\nproof of some skill as an organizer of armies of reserve, and even fought\na gallant and successful battle with Gomez at Majaceite in Andalusia, in\nwhich, if one might believe the lying Spanish bulletins, he nearly swept\nthe Carlists from the face of the earth. There is no doubt he mauled them\na little; but neither that nor the various other decisive overthrows\nrecorded by gazettes, prevented Gomez from returning to the Basque\nprovinces with a considerable force at his back, and an immense amount of\nbooty.\n\nIt will be contrary to all precedent in modern Spanish history, if\nNarvaez's career terminates otherwise than by a violent death, met, in all\nprobability, at the hands of the populace, or at those of some disgusted\nadherents of his own. The deaths of Carlos de Espana, slain by his own\nescort on his way to the French frontier; of Moreno--the butcher of\nTorrijos, Lopez Pinto, Florez Calderon, and fifty other martyrs--himself\nmurdered in the wood of Vera by the bandit followers of the savage priest\nEcheverria; these, and fifty similar instances, are events but of\nyesterday. It is still fresh in the memory of the Madrilenos how they\npursued the stern Quesada to his place of refuge--Quesada who, alone and\nby his single energy, had cleared the streets of an excited populace, and\nstopped a revolution for one whole day; how they dragged him forth,\npiecemeal it may almost be said, and with his severed fingers stirred the\nbowl in which they toasted the downfall of tyrants. Between Quesada and\nNarvaez there is more than one point of resemblance. Their deaths, also,\nmay be alike.\n\nThe sketches of Spanish political men, the various party leaders and\nconspicuous senators of the day, are done with much spirit and cleverness,\nand give an excellent idea of the fickle inconsistency, the showy talent\nbut want of steadiness of purpose, that characterize most of the notable\nPeninsular politicians. One is much accustomed to receive information upon\nsuch subjects with doubt and mistrust, it being so often tinctured with\nthe violent party spirit which, in Spain, distorts men's views and\nopinions; and the book before us being published anonymously, we are\nprevented from judging, by circumstances of position or others, to which\nside or men, if to any, the author is likely to incline. But we think we\ndiscern in him the wish to be impartial, and are therefore disposed to\nplace unusual confidence in his statements; the more so as he represents\nno character as entirely bad, but, while laying on the lash for their\nfaults, does not forget to give them credit for their good qualities.\nAccording to his account, Lopez is the most brilliantly eloquent, and, at\nthe same time, one of the most incorrupt members of the Spanish Chambers;\none of the very few Spaniards who have held office without advantage to\nthemselves.\n\n     \"It is a most creditable distinction in Spain, where office is sought\n     almost exclusively for its emoluments, that Lopez has been at three\n     different times a minister of the crown, and retired thrice from that\n     government, of which he was always the most influential member,\n     without any permanent office, or title, or decoration; without even a\n     cross or a riband to display upon his breast, in a country where\n     those favours are most extensively distributed. Even from the\n     premiership of the provisional government, by which high titles and\n     orders were lavishly disseminated amongst the leading instruments of\n     a successful national movement, and from the side of a Queen whose\n     majority had been just proclaimed, he withdrew into private life in a\n     strictly private capacity, without a charge upon the pension list for\n     himself or any of his connexions--without an inscription in the court\n     list or a _real_ of the public money. Five hundred different\n     lucrative and permanent offices were at his disposal, but he\n     preferred a practising lawyer's independence.\"\n\nThis would be rare praise in any country; in Spain it must be almost\nwithout parallel. In striking contrast stands the character of Don Luis\nGonzalez Bravo, or Brabo, as he affects to write himself, who succeeded\nOlozaga in the premiership, for which post he united some of the most\nsingular disqualifications ever possessed by a prime minister.\n\nSpain, while imitating the fashions of England and France in dress and\nsuchlike petty particulars, has also thought proper to copy certain\npolitical peculiarities of those two countries. Thus, while La Jeune\nFrance vapours in long-bearded and belligerent splendour, under the\nspecial patronage of a Joinville, and Young England peeps out, gentlemanly\nand dignified, from beneath the aegis of a less high-born, but, in other\nrespects, equally distinguished character, La Joven Espana, emulous of\ntheir bright example, ranges itself under the patronage of the\ndisreputable editor of a scurrilous journal. It is difficult for us in\nEngland to imagine the state of things existing in a country where such a\nperson can head any party or section, however insignificant, in the\nlegislative assembly, and still more difficult to conceive any amount of\nsatirical and vituperative talent placing within his grasp the portfolio\nof prime minister.\n\nBravo's first introduction to public notice, was as member of the\n\"_Trueno_,\" or Thunder Club--a society that amused itself, of evenings, by\nmolesting peaceable citizens as they returned home to their families,\nthrashing the _serenos_ or watchmen, and suchlike intellectual and\ndignified diversion. He got seriously wounded by a pistol-shot on one of\nthese occasions, and we next find him editing the Guirigay or \"Slang,\" a\npaper remarkable for its personal and unscrupulous tone. For some time its\nattacks were directed against Christina, to whose expulsion from Spain it\nis said to have contributed, so great is the influence of newspaper\nviolence in the Peninsula. During the Queen-Dowager's three years' exile,\nhowever, Bravo wrote himself round from a violent _exaltado progresista_,\nor Radical, into a very decided _moderado_, or Conservative, in which\nlatter character he entered office. Taxed with his renegade conduct, his\ndefence was a most impudent one, highly characteristic of the man. \"_No es\nridiculo_,\" said he, \"_estar para siempre el mismo?_\" Is it not ridiculous\nto be always the same?\n\nBut though he managed to get on while in opposition--and even, by a\ncertain amount of impassioned energy and satirical _verve_, to place\nhimself at the head of a party of young members, who, although not\nexceeding fifty in number, turned the scale in many parliamentary\ncontests--his incapacity became glaringly apparent as soon as he took\noffice.\n\n     \"The prime minister, when he should have been writing sage decrees,\n     was scribbling scurrilous paragraphs; from his portfolio peeped forth\n     old numbers of 'The Slang' and his official robes could not hide his\n     harlequin's jacket. '_Vistan me, dijo Sancho, como quisieren qui de\n     cualquier manera que vaya vestido sere Sancho Panza._' Let them dress\n     me up as they will, quoth Sancho, however I am dressed I shall still\n     be Sancho Panza.\"\n\nBravo, however, did as well as another to be the tool of Narvaez, and\nmoreover he was found pliant, which doubtless prevented his being kicked\nout of office as soon as he got into it. Of course he lost no time in\ntaking care of himself and his friends. His father, who had been dismissed\nfrom a government employment for malversation, received the appointment of\nunder-secretary to the Treasury; his wife's brother, a hanger-on at one of\nthe theatres, was made state-groom to the Queen; while a number of other\nequivocal characters were appointed to the diplomatic corps, and half the\npolitical chiefs and public employes in Spain were dismissed to make room\nfor the new premier's friends, including a considerable number of\nnewspaper scribblers. The power of the newspaper press in Spain is\nenormous, and nearly all the leading politicians in Madrid either are, or\nhave been, editors or proprietors of some one of the principal journals.\n\nThe manners and peculiarities of the lower orders in Spain offer a fertile\ntheme, differing as they do _in toto_ from those of the corresponding\nclasses in any other country. They have furnished our author with\nmaterials for some amusing chapters. The description of a roadside\n_venta_, or inn, and its frequenters, is capital, and reminds us of some\nof Lewis's admirable pencillings of Spanish life and interiors. The\namalgamation of grades of society, which in most countries would be kept\ncarefully distinct, but in the Peninsula hobnob together in perfect good\nfellowship, the mixture of muleteers and alcaldes, priests and banditti,\nsmugglers and custom-house officers, all sitting in the same smoky room,\ndipping in the same dish, exchanging the latest intelligence, local and\npolitical, forms a strange but a characteristic and perfectly true\npicture. _Apropos_ of smugglers, here is a small statement worthy the\nnotice of that sensible party in Spain which opposes the introduction of\nforeign manufactures upon payment of a reasonable duty.\n\n     \"Spain is, of all European countries, the most helplessly exposed to\n     contrabandist operations. With an ill-paid and sometimes ragged army,\n     and with revenue officers directly exposed to temptation by\n     inadequate salaries, she has 500 miles of Portuguese frontier and\n     nearly 300 of Pyrenean; and with a fleet crumbled into ruins, and no\n     longer of the slightest efficacy, she has 400 miles of Cantabrian and\n     700 of Mediterranean coast. Four hundred thousand smugglers are\n     constantly engaged in demolishing her absurd fiscal laws, and some\n     1,600,000 pounds weight of cotton goods alone, are every year\n     illicitly imported.\"\n\nBut things in Spain are now rapidly approaching that happy state when it\nwill become quite unnecessary for the gentlemen contrabandistas to expose\ntheir valuable health to the Pyrenean fogs, or their lives in contests\nwith _aduaneros_. The system is becoming each day more beautifully simple;\nand, strange as it may seem, the direct road for the importation of\ncontraband goods is through the custom-house. \"Bribery is here reduced to\nthe old electioneering simplicity; and the tariff of custom-house\ncorruption is arranged with more uniform regularity, and far more\nperfectly understood, than the tariff of customs' duties--the difference\nbeing, that the customs' revenues may not be paid, but the customs'\nofficers must.\" The due amount of fee being insinuated into the \"itching\npalm\" of the revenue officers, your goods pass with all imaginable\nfacility. By the magic of a four, eight, or sixteen dollar bit, as the\ncase may be, a mist settles over the vision of the complaisant official,\nand either prevents his seeing at all, or else transforms in the most\nremarkable manner the objects that pass before him. Bales of manufactured\ngoods assume the appearance of sacks of potatoes and onions--nay, those\nuseful products of the soil are sometimes even supposed to be contained in\nwooden cases and casks, carefully hooped and nailed; \"and huge canvass\nbales are likewise cleared, and reported to be indubitably filled with the\nsaid potatoes, the softness of the packages to the touch arising probably\nfrom the fact of their being boiled!\"\n\nAt times, however, by a rare chance, an incorruptible custom-house is\ndiscovered; and for that, or some other reason, it is deemed advisable to\nresort to the old, and certainly more sporting plan, of running the\ncargoes, which is accomplished in a most systematic and comfortable\nmanner. The smugglers are usually in sufficient number to deter the\ncarabineros from meddling; and if, by chance, the latter _should_\ninterfere, they almost invariably receive a sound thrashing. There are a\nlarge number of small Portuguese craft constantly employed in running\ncontraband goods; and the quantity of merchandise introduced from\nGibraltar is enormous. The latter town, which, by the census of 1835, had\n15,000 inhabitants, contains _only_ 3000 cigar manufacturers. As our\nauthor says, what a frightful deal they must smoke in Gibraltar!\n\nIt is all nonsense talking in mincing terms about English smuggling in\nSpain. However much our Government might discountenance it, nothing could\nbe done to prevent it, not even if English guarda costas were stationed\nround the whole eleven hundred miles of Spanish coast. The smuggled goods\nwould then go through Portugal, as many of them do now; or any diminution\nin the amount of English merchandise imported, would be made up by a\ncorresponding increase in the quantity of French. Why, even the Germans,\nthe respectable, plodding Germans, supply their quota of indifferent\ncalicoes and dull cutlery to the Spanish consumer. The French, who are\nfond of charging England with being the nation \"_egoiste par excellence_,\"\nwho consults only her own interests, and is equally ready to poison\nantipodean barbarians with opium, or to violate the principles of fair\ndealing that ought to exist between friendly countries, by introducing\ncontraband goods in every possible manner--the French, we say, albeit so\nPecksniffian in their condolences with Spain, and other nations, which\nthey affect to consider victims to the practices of greedy and treacherous\nEngland, are themselves most reckless and determined in their smuggling\ntransactions with their southern neighbours; and the sole circumstance\nwhich \"rises their dander\" is to find English goods obtaining the\npreference in the Peninsula, as every where else. The constant aim of the\nFrench is to irritate Spaniards against England; and the ground upon which\nthey have hitherto gone is, that of representing us, in all our actions,\nas thinking only of our own advantage. The activity and skill of French\npolitical agents were long exerted to bring about a reaction against the\nfriendly feelings which, only a very short time back, were entertained in\nthe Peninsula towards England; and these exertions were at last\nsuccessful, although we may now hope that Spaniards are again opening\ntheir eyes to the deceit that has been practised on them. The friendly\noffices of France are probably by this time beginning to be appreciated\nat their just value; and doubts must be arising in the minds of the\nrational portion of the Spanish people, whether the \"_perfides\ninsulaires_\" did not mean and act as honestly by them as the more\nsmooth-tongued and insinuating allies who have reimposed upon them a\nChristina and a Narvaez.\n\n\"Exaggeration in all things,\" says the English resident, \"is the leading\nvice of Spain. There is not a city in the Peninsula that is not '_muy\nnoble, muy leal, y muy heroica_;' not a corporate body that is not 'most\nexcellent,' or 'most illustrious;' not a military corps that is not\nrenowned, and matchless for its valour; not a ragamuffin in Castile that\ndoes not esteem himself noble, nor a brigand in Andalusia but calls\nhimself a soldier; not a man but is a Don, nor a woman but is a Dona; not\na dunce of a doctor but is profoundly learned, nor a scribbling poetaster\nbut is a European celebrity. Where all are first-rate, how shall there be\nimprovement? Where there is no humility, how shall there be acquisition of\nknowledge? Pangloss might here have found his perfect world.\"\n\nIt is, we fear, this Bobadil vein, this unbounded self-approval and\nvain-gloriousness, entailing an unwillingness to acknowledge obligations,\nand an impatience of feeling that they have received any, which renders a\nlarge proportion of Spaniards less amicably disposed towards England than\nwe might expect them to be, when we look at the recent history of the two\ncountries, and recall all the friendly offices Spain has received at the\nhands of England. We have ourselves noticed amongst Spaniards--even\namongst men of good average intelligence and education--a fretful sort of\nfeeling whenever the support for which their country has been indebted to\nGreat Britain was alluded to. Some of them go so far as to endeavour to\npersuade the world, and more especially themselves, that the parts played\nby English and Spaniards in the Peninsular War were the converse of what\nis usually supposed--that it was Spanish valour, skill, and generalship\nthat swept Napoleon's armies before them, and drove his best commanders\nacross the Pyrenees. The English were there, certainly; they were very\nuseful, but they played second fiddle to their allies on most occasions.\nIn short, to hear many of the present generation of Spaniards talk, one\nmight suppose that it was their ill-disciplined, badly-officered troops\nwhich won the numerous hard-fought fields of the War of Independence.\n\nAnother subject of difference, and a far more serious one than these petty\nranklings of offended pride and ill-borne obligation, is the slave-trade,\nand the right of search. Persuade Spaniards, or Frenchmen, or any nation\nin the world, if you can, that Great Britain added twenty millions to her\ndebt, impoverished her own colonial proprietors, and still goes to a heavy\nannual expense for the suppression of the slave traffic, with any other\nview than a very decided one to her own benefit. To Spain, thanks to the\nwretched administration of her internal resources, the revenue derived\nfrom her few remaining colonies is a great object; and in our hostility to\nthe slave-trade, she beholds a direct attack on that source of income.\nAgain, in the present depressed state of Spanish commerce, a large portion\nof the commercial capital of the country is invested in the slave-trade;\nand a constant bitter feeling towards the English is consequently kept up\namongst the class whose money is thus employed. If they bring one cargo\nout of three to the Havannah, they have, it is said, a profit on the\ntransaction; but at the same time it is not likely to put the\nslave-dealing Dons in particularly good humour to hear of the other two\nhaving been walked off by British cruisers. On the contrary, they curse\nthe meddling Ingleses, who having, they say, cut off their own tail by\nemancipating their negroes, now, like the fox in the fable, wish to\npersuade, or, if necessary, to compel all their neighbours to follow their\nexample.\n\nThe English resident is enthusiastic on the subject of slave emancipation,\nand gives us a lively account of some arguments he maintained on the\nsubject with sundry Gaditano slave-dealers, the result of which was, of\ncourse, that each party remained precisely of the same opinion as before.\nThe abstract philanthropy of English legislation on that question cannot\nbe doubted; and it is to be hoped that the course adopted may eventually\nprove beneficial to humanity, although it seems very doubtful whether such\nhas as yet been the case. Meanwhile, there is small credit given to us for\ndisinterestedness by foreigners, who, in our resolute opposition to the\nslave-traffic, are determined to see nothing but a wish to harass their\ncommerce, injure their colonies, and insure our dominion of the seas.\n\nUnder the favouring auspices of that poor creature, Leopold O'Donnel, who\ndistinguished himself during the War of Succession by the skill with which\nhe managed to get beaten by the Carlists on nearly every possible\noccasion, and who now occupies the important post of Governor of\nCuba--under his auspices the slave-trade is flourishing with renewed\nvigour. Slaves, we are told, can now be legally imported into Cuba upon\npayment of the governor's fee of twenty-five dollars per head, and \"_la\ntraite_ has seldom, of late years, been more successful than under the\nrule of this governor.\" One of the most striking chapters of the book\nbefore us is the one on colonial slavery, in which some curious details\nare given concerning the recent conspiracy of Matanzas. This outbreak,\nlike all others that occur in the Spanish West Indies, was most falsely\nlaid at the door of the English by the whole Spanish press. \"It was\ndirected,\" said they, \"by a committee of five members. Placido was\npresident, two of the other four were mulattoes, _and two Englishmen_.\nThis latter circumstance is worthy of note.\" \"As being an utter\nfalsehood,\" observes our author.\n\nPlacido, the mulatto leader of the insurrection, seems to have been a\nremarkable man, of commanding appearance, great energy of character, and\nsuperior intelligence. One of the means he adopted to rouse the coloured\npopulation of Cuba against their oppressors, was the writing of\nrevolutionary songs and verses. During the whole of 1843 he was busy\nlaying the foundations of his scheme, and, although his designs were known\nto thousands, no one was found to betray them. The plot was finally\ndiscovered by the conversation of some of the conspirators being\noverheard. An obscure warning of it, given by a young negress to her\nmaster, with whom she was in love, also led to enquiry. The project was\nfor nothing less than the total extermination of the white race, and the\nformation of a republic after the example of Hayti The leading posts and\ncommands were assigned to the mulattoes, as well during the revolt as in\nthe organized government that was subsequently to be formed. The Thursday\nin Passion Week was the day fixed for the outbreak; the signal to be given\nby the simultaneous burning of the sugar-canes; the watchword, \"_La Muerte\ny la Destruccion_.\" The domestic servants were in the plot, and were to\naid in various ways. \"The cooks were to poison their masters, and the\ncaleseros, with their coach-horses, to form a corps of cavalry.\"\n\nThe alarm was not given till the morning of the day on which the\nconspiracy was to have broken out. Then the arrests began. Five hundred of\nthe conspirators were thrown into the prison of Matanzas, which town was\nthe headquarters of the conspiracy, and gave its name to it. But the\nnegroes finding themselves discovered, and expecting no mercy, resolved at\nleast to glut their vengeance as far as the time would allow them.\nOverseers were flung into their sugar-boilers, two entire families at\nMatanzas were poisoned, and other excesses took place. The reprisals\nexercised were most horrible; two hundred prisoners were immediately\nbutchered, and numerous straggling parties shot down like dogs; some\nwretched victims were flogged to death to induce them to betray their\naccomplices. Further outbreaks were the result of these severities. The\nplanters who fell into the hands of the negroes were mercilessly\nmassacred; numerous plantations were burned. The insurrectionary movements\nwere, however, isolated and without organization; the Spaniards succeeded\nin repressing them, and then, furious and alarmed at the imminence of the\nperil they had so narrowly escaped, inflicted the most terrible punishment\non the unsuccessful mutineers. Eight hundred prisoners had been secured in\nthe Matanzas Jail; of these two hundred were shot without trial, the\nremainder, for the most part, strangled in their dungeons. The meaning of\nthe Spanish word _Matanzas_ is \"a place of slaughter,\" and such, indeed,\nthe town became. Placido, the chief of the conspiracy, made a tremendous\nresistance before he was taken. \"He fired three pistols, killing or\nwounding a man at each discharge, and then hacked and hewed away with his\nsword, speedily making for himself a ring of more than its span, and\nclearing a space around him as rapidly as an Utreran bull when he rushes\ninto the circus. But a soldier's musket soon brought him to the ground,\nand bleeding and faint he was flung into the Matanzas carcel.\"\n\nAs the prisoners refused to a man to make disclosures, torture was\nresorted to. The lash was applied till they confessed or fainted. Most of\nthem yielded, the plot was acknowledged to be of ancient date, and to have\nPlacido at its head.\n\nPlacido bore, with the resolution of a stoic, the rude and unsparing\nstripes with which his broad shoulders and back were speedily covered. Not\na groan nor a sigh escaped him; but he fainted away at last from loss of\nblood, and with such little apparent change, that the executioners\ncontinued to flog for some time after he was senseless. He was loosed from\nthe triangles, and tied to a neighbouring stake, after the mummery of a\nfive minutes' court-martial. He was still senseless when bound to the\nstake--lifeless, for all that his _verdugos_ knew to the contrary. Ere he\nreceived the fusillade, he recovered from his fainting fit sufficiently to\nexclaim, in an audible tone. \"_Los dias de la esclavitud son contados!_\"\n\"The days of slavery are numbered.\"\n\nA horrible account, but doubtless a correct one. Our author seems to have\nbeen in the south of Spain at the time of the Matanzas insurrection, and\nconsequently in the right place to get at the true particulars of the\naffair.\n\nIn the chapters on the Spanish Army, &c., although amusing enough, we do\nnot consider the English resident to have been so successful as in most\nother parts of his work. We would caution him against believing, or at any\nrate expecting others to believe, the marvels recorded by Spanish gazettes\nof Spanish armies and generals--marvels which usually get repeated and\nmagnified to most preposterous dimensions by the _embustero_ retailers of\nsuch intelligence. We would also warn him against indulging in such\nenthusiasm as he displays in speaking of General Leon--a very fine fellow\nundoubtedly, a good soldier and dashing officer, but yet a little\noverrated in these lines. \"In his unexaggerated feats of war, he eclipsed\nthe Homeric heroes, and rivalled the incredible exploits of Charlemagne\nand his peers. His tremendous lance spread terror and dismay among the\nenemies of his queen and country, and the glorious inequalities of Crecy\nand Azincour were revived in the deeds of Leon, witnessed by living men.\"\nRevived and considerably eclipsed, we should say, judging from the list of\nexploits that follows. If our friend the English resident be in any degree\nacquainted with military matters, he must be aware that the dispersal of\nan army of eleven thousand infantry, and one thousand horse, by a hundred\nand fifty hussars, a feat which he attributes to Leon, is an absurdity;\nand that if such a thing, or any thing like it, did occur, it must have\nbeen when the hundred and fifty dragoons were closely backed by some much\nmore numerous force.\n\nThe Spanish army, as it existed at the close of the Carlist war, was\nperhaps in a higher state of discipline and practical usefulness than it\nhad been at any previous period of the present century. Rendered hardy and\nmartial by six years' unremitting warfare; officered, too, for the most\npart, by men who had something besides title or family interest to\nrecommend them, it only required greater regularity of pay and supplies to\nprove highly efficient. Gradually reduced by Espartero to about fifty\nthousand men, its numbers were doubled by a decree of Narvaez, who felt\nthat so small a force was insufficient to support him in his tyrannical\nrule. At the same time an unprecedented system of conciliation, or of\nadulation it should rather be said, was adopted by the dictator towards\nhis legions. Espartero had done all in his power, and that the disordered\nstate of Spanish finances allowed him to do, for the comfort and\nwell-being of his army; but he had not thought fit to sacrifice to it all\nor any other classes of the state. It had not been necessary for him to\ndo so; _his_ government was not based upon fear, nor dependent on\nbayonets. With Narvaez it was very different. His sole tenure of power was\nin the fidelity of the army, and this he sought to ensure by every\npossible means. \"The priest may starve and the exclaustrado perish; the\nlast rotten planks of the navy may go to pieces; public monuments may\ntotter for want of conservation or repairs; the civil employe may be\npinched, and the very palace pine for its arrears; but money must be found\nto clothe and feed the army, and maintain it like a prancing charger.\" The\nextent to which this courting and propitiation of the soldiery is carried,\nis almost incredible, and often ridiculous. Allowances of cigars, extra\nrations of wine upon holidays, boxes and stalls at the theatre provided\ngratis for the officers upon the Queen's birth-day--these and similar\nindulgences are the sops thrown by Narvaez to his capricious cohorts. But,\nwith all his pains, he obtains no feeling of security. He is well aware\nthat no man in Spain has so many enemies, not mere ill-wishers, but deadly\nfoes thirsting for his blood; he knows that the National Guards of Madrid\nhave sworn his destruction; and he cannot even tell how soon he may be\nturned upon or betrayed by the very army which he takes such trouble to\nconciliate. They may sell Narvaez, as they sold Espartero, to the highest\nbidder.\n\nIn a recent number of this Magazine, we took occasion to animadvert on the\nconceit and presumption of certain tourists who imagine themselves\nqualified by a flying visit to write their opinions concerning a country\nand people, thus doing grievous injustice to those they write about, and\nsadly misleading any credulous portion of the public which may be beguiled\ninto reading and placing confidence in their lucubrations. It has been\nseen that no such reproach can be addressed to the author of the book we\nare now noticing, who has moreover performed his labour, which was no\nlight one, in a conscientious and creditable manner, without prejudice,\nfavour, or affection. We scarcely think he does full justice to Espartero,\nwhom we must still persist in considering the most estimable and\nrespectable of the Spanish public men of the day. He may not possess the\nglowing and fascinating eloquence of an Olozaga, nor the fierce energy of\na Narvaez; but neither has he the versatile insincerity of the former, nor\nthe unscrupulous and brutal recklessness of the latter. He has not, like\nOlozaga, according to the uncontradicted testimony of Roca de Togores in\nthe Cortes, \"broken faith with all parties;\" nor did he ever, like\nNarvaez, cause his dragoons to charge inoffensive crowds, assembled by\ninvitation of their rulers to celebrate saint-days or national festivals.\n\nOur author's general remarks on the state of Spain, of its people and\nprospects, are acute and sensible; and they also coincide in great measure\nwith as much as has been said on those subjects by one or two recent and\nintelligent travellers in the Peninsula. In short, setting aside a slight\noccasional tendency to high colouring, more calculated, however, to amuse\nthan mislead, the principal fault we have to find with the book is its\ntitle. After the deluges of Mysteries and Revelations that has been poured\nupon the shoulders of the reading public during the last two or three\nyears, commencing with the rhapsodies of Sue and company, and continued\nthrough countless varieties by writers of every degree on both sides the\nChannel, we really cannot think that such a title as \"Revelations\" of any\nthing will tend to prepossess the public in favour of the work it\ndesignates. One frequently sees books of very small merit, or of none at\nall, ushered into the world under some highly enticing name, conveying the\nidea that the author has expended at his bantling's christening the whole\nof his diminutive modicum of talent. Here, however, is an example of the\nopposite mode of proceeding; a title that we must decidedly condemn, given\nto a book of much interest and utility--a book which, from its liveliness,\nand the amount of anecdote and light matter it contains, will be read by\nmany who would shrink from the perusal of a mere dry statistical work.\n\n\n\n\nAESTHETICS OF DRESS.\n\nNO. III.\n\nTHE CUT OF A COAT AND THE GOOD OF A GOWN.\n\n\nSo you have got a decent coat on your back, gentle reader! Well, we\ncongratulate you upon this fortunate circumstance, this honourable badge\nof aesthetic distinction; but do not be too proud of it--there are coats,\nand coats--_non ex quovis ligno fit Mercurius_, you know. Wait a bit till\nwe turn you round, and trot you out to see the cut of the thing, ere we\nadmit you to be a well-dressed, or even a sensibly-dressed man. But before\nwe enter into controversy on the superficial appearance of man in the\nnineteenth century, let us hasten to recall attention to our definition of\ngood taste in all matters of dress--utility first and ornament afterwards,\nbut ornament always subservient to utility--and let us also appease the\nindignation of the tailoring world by affirming, that in one grand class\nof coats--we will specify which by and by--the public seem to have arrived\nat a tolerably reasonable result. There certainly are some men, many men\nindeed, in the world who may be said to be sensibly dressed. 'Tis a\nphenomenon when you come to think about it; but the fluctuations of taste\nin this matter have, for the time being, arrived at a normal state. After\nthe variations of centuries, the vagaries of taste in male attire, (which\nmay be measured, for their ups and downs, by curves, with quite as much\nreason as the rise and fall in prices of corn, and various other things\nthat the members of statistical societies delight in portraying)--these\nvariations, in their endless wrigglings and windings, have come back in\nmore cases than one to their points of departure, and there form _nodi_,\npoints of reflection, contrary flexure, &c. At all these points the curve\nof taste may be assumed to be stationary. Pray, excuse us, good reader,\nfor being scientific--do not call it obscure--on so luminous a point. But\nis not the mystery of tailoring become a science? Is not the ninth part of\na man now called an _artiste_? Have we not regular treatises published,\nwith no end of diagrams, on the art of self-measurement? Just look at the\nadvertisements at the back of your Sunday newspaper, or in the fly-leaves\nof your last Maga. And, after all, where is the harm? \"The noblest study\nof mankind is man!\" However, it is a learned point, on which a world of\ntalk may be got up; so we will waive it for the moment, to be resumed in\nthe due course of our ruminations.\n\nNow, there is no man in his sober senses who will not admit that a\nEuropean, but especially a Briton, requires one or more coats to protect\nhim from the varying influences of climate. Whether we suppose him muffled\nup in the skins of the _urus_ and the wolf of the old Hercynian forest, or\nsporting in the soft fabrics woven from the fleeces of Spain and Saxony,\nno one but a sheer madman, in any parallel north of the 40th, ever thought\nof dispensing altogether with a stout upper garment. It has been a\nnecessary thing, rammed into every man's head by Jack Frost, Dan Sol, and\nother atmospheric genii, that he should provide himself with suitable\nupper toggery; and hence we infer that public and private attention has\nbeen directed as much to coats and cloaks as to any other two things that\ncan be mentioned, next after meat and drink. No wonder, then, that men\nhave differed in their tastes as to the manner in which they should best\nadorn their beloved persons. No wonder that caprice and dandyism have\nprevailed in all ages of the modern world. There is plenty of room, and\neven of occasion, for such fickleness. Man is an imitative animal, and the\nclothing propensities of any one European people have always run the round\nof the rest of the family. On the whole, we think that men have been more\nreasonable about their coats than they have about their hats. They have\nbeen absurd enough, it is true, but their are grades of absurdity; and,\nwe fancy, the comfort of the wearer has been of more direct influence in\nkeeping up some degree of good sense concerning the covering of his\ncorporeal trunk, than it has in protecting and adorning his head. Not that\nwe intend going into a long history about coats--excuse the pun, we are\nnot fond of long _tales_--we will rather be quick in giving our opinion as\nto the best manner of settling the _vexata quaestio_ of the clothing\nsystem.\n\nOur modern coats, those _chefs-d'oeuvre_ of Stulz and Co., are to be\ntraced back by their pedigree to about the middle of the seventeenth\ncentury; while our paletots, wrappers, or whatever else you like to call\nthem, may lay claim to a higher antiquity by three hundred years. In the\nbrilliant courts of Louis XIII., Philip IV., and Charles I., the costume\nhad changed from the tight jacket or vest of the sixteenth century, to the\nopen and somewhat _neglige_, though picturesque jerkin, so familiar to the\nlovers of Rubens and Vandyke. Over the linen integuments of his body, a\ngentleman in those days wore only one upper permanent garment, the jerkin\nor vest in question: the sleeves were loose and rather short; the waist\nwas not pinched in; the cut was rather straight; the length extended only\nto the loins, and abundance of fine linen and lace was displayed. Over\nthis garment, which was very plain, was worn a small cloak, more or less\nornamented, in the hall or the hunting field; but in the tented camp, the\ncuirass was buckled on, and the jerkin appeared below, covering the tops\nof the cuissards or thigh-pieces. There is many a charming Vandyke\nportraying our ancestors in this elegant dress; and even the furious\nfanaticism of the Cromwellian times allowed the fashion to remain in\nEngland, till the taste of the French court underwent a change, and\nmodified the habiliments of nearly all civilized Europe. To what cause we\ndo not know, but probably to some degree of additional comfort required by\nLouis XIV. and his courtiers in their earlier campaigns--is to be ascribed\nthe lengthening of the skirts of the jerkin, and the corresponding\nincrease in the dimensions of the cloak, which we find to have taken place\nsoon after 1660. The portraits of Mignard, and the battle-pieces of\nVandermeulen, all show us the change that was then going on at the court\nof Versailles: we find the form of the dress stiffening, the sleeves\nlengthening, pockets either yawning wide, or covered under deep lapels,\nthe cuffs turned up halfway to the elbow, and a glorious display of gold\nlace and ribands, that must have made a fine gentleman of those palmy days\nglitter with the colours of the rainbow. To the easy and languid elegance\nof the Spanish costume, had succeeded a certain degree of military\nstiffness and precision among the French beaux: all Europe was at that\ntime lost in admiration of the Grand Monarque and his brilliant court; and\ntheir fashions were adopted as the universal rule of taste. It was this\nstiff coat of Louis XIV. that was the direct progenitor of two degenerate,\nyet widely differing, sons--the _habit_ or coat, and the frock or\n_surtout_ of the present day. Degenerate descendants truly! Who that ever\nsaw the rustling, heavy, and almost self-supporting coat of Charles II.,\ncould have imagined that the plain, close-fitting, and supple frock, or\nthe be-clipped and almost evanescent _habit pare_ of the nineteenth\ncentury, were to spring from them as types? Scarcely less wide is the\ndifference between the plate armour of an old English baron, and the\nsimple cuirass of a covenanter!\n\nHitherto a man of fashion had worn only one coat; but, towards the end of\nLouis XIV.'s reign, was introduced the superfluous luxury of a second and\nthinner under-covering, universally known in France as a _veste_, but in\nEngland corrupted into a waistcoat, or rather, from its general inutility,\na _waste_-coat. This kind of garment grew in importance throughout the\neighteenth century; and, like its neighbours the coats-proper, indulged in\nenormous lapels, and revelled in all the luxury of lace and brocade. The\nbeaux of the First and Second George's times, knew right well how to\nstiffen out the skirts of their coats; how to dispense with the comfort of\na collar; how to have buttons more than they would ever be patient enough\nto fasten; and how to have button-holes, or rather button-slits, six\ninches long, cut into the rich velvets and silks of their garments. They\nwere grand, solemn times those! There was no such thing as a man taking\nliberties with his toilet; it was a serious piece of business to dress\nproperly; and it must have been a matter of no small difficulty to keep a\ncoat clean and decent. We strongly suspect, notwithstanding those\nflattering rogues the limners, that our great-great-grandfathers had to\nput up with a vast lot of dirt and discomfort; and that their coats, so\nexpensive to purchase, must have been in no very enviable condition by the\ntime they were left off. Fine days those for a valet-de-chambre! An honest\nfellow had then some chance of getting a penny out of the Israelitish\ndealers; and my lord's gentleman might entertain a reasonable prospect of\nretiring upon his means, long before reaching his grand climacteric. But\nevents marched onwards. The coat, originally intended to be buttoned all\nthe way down--and Louis XIV. actually did wear it buttoned below the\nventricular curve--was gradually allowed to flaunt away in an open,\ndissolute manner, and to display the radiant glories of the vest. Men then\ncame to ask themselves that momentous question, What is the use of such\nlarge skirts to our coats, if we do not employ them? And so they took the\nliberty, some of buttoning them back, others of cutting off a good large\ncorner. The tailors found their account in this. Coats kept up at a\nproportionally equivalent price; but the profits of the drapers were much\ndiminished, and by and by dwindled to a mere nothing. It was from that\nfatal period when the waistcoat wheedled itself into fashion, that the\nglory of the coat began to set; and, when once the skirt came to be\nretrenched, the majesty of the coat was gone for ever. Dear old Sir Roger\nde Coverley! gentle Will Honeycombe! ye were the last that knew how to\nunite the graces and the dignity of these two discordant garments: from\nyour times, down to those of poor Beau Brummell, coats and waistcoats have\ndegenerated through all degrees of folly, even to the verge of stark\nstaring madness!\n\nThe noble mantle, and the solemn cloak, its successor, and the comfortable\nroquelaire, its grandson, and the old, farmer-like great-coat, its\n_arriere-petit-fils_, and the pilot-coat, the great-coat's brother that\nran away from home and went to sea, and the paletot, a foreign bastard\nthat could not prove who its father was, nor even tell how it came by its\nname, and the wrapper, the paletot's cousin, a regular commercial\ngent--such is the genealogy of that other family of garments which we\ncherish as our household gods. But, as we hinted above, we can hunt up the\ndescent of some of these articles to times far removed--(the mantle, we\nknow, came to us from the Romans)--we allude to the upper coat, or\nwrapper; for we find that a two-sleeved cloak, with enormously long\nsleeves, by the way, and a most surprisingly scanty allowance of body, was\nworn by the dandies in the days of the rival Roses; and, to go still\nfurther back, we have seen a contemporary portrait of that glorious old\nfellow Chaucer, clad in a grey wrapper that might have been made in St\nJames's Street, A.D. 1845. If the paletot and the wrapper wish to prove\nany claims to gentle birth, they cannot do better than refer their wearers\nto the father of English poets. He was a man of first-rate taste, you may\ndepend upon it.\n\nWith all these changes--and we do not intend to blacken our fathers'\nmemories for having made them--what have we arrived at in this point of\ndress? What are the conveniences of our present garments? in what are they\nuseful? in what are they beautiful? in what do they need to be improved?\nTo begin at the top of the tree--the modern _habit-de-cour_: coat for coat\nof the dress kind, (military coats are, for the present, out of the\nquestion,) this is the most useful, and the most becoming, of any now\nworn. People are inclined to ridicule this coat, not so much on its own\naccount as for the foolish trappings with which it is commonly\naccompanied; but we assert that, in its form, its dimensions, and in its\nsuitableness of purpose, it is far superior to what is vulgarly called a\ndress-coat. The curve of the fronts, and the still somewhat ample sweep of\nthe skirt, the plainness of the collar, and the absence of all pretension\nin its composition--above all, the total absence of any useless,\nunmeaning ornament, such as sham pocket-flaps, &c.--all these qualities\ngive it a claim to superiority. If the opinions of the extremes of mankind\nbe sometimes right, as opposed to those of the majority, then the form of\nthat coat, which is worn alike by the courtier and the Quaker, must have\nsome large share of innate merit.\n\nNothing of this kind can be said of the common short, or dress coat. This\nmost silly and unmeaning habiliment possesses neither dignity nor beauty\nto entitle it to public favour. It is useless on the person of a youth,\nand undignified when worn by a man--an elderly person looks absurd in it,\nand to nobody is it in reality becoming. What is the good of the scanty\nskirts, that barely admit of a pocket being made in their folds? They add\nno symmetry nor grace to the person--they furnish little accommodation to\nthe wearer. What is the good of the rolling lapel in the front, and of the\ncollar never intended to be turned up? This coat is only a debased and\nwithered skeleton of the original garment of the seventeenth century,\ndeprived of all the qualities that recommended its type for general\nadoption; it has neither warmth nor comfort on its side, and it cannot\nstand the scrutiny of elegance for a moment. It may be a difficult thing\nfor a tailor to make, but that is all; and the sooner that men emancipate\nthemselves from the thraldom of its sway the better. If an open coat is to\nbe adhered to, the old _habit-de-cour_ is the thing; utility and ornament\nthere make a much nearer approach to each other, and for comfort there is\nno doubt about the matter. We object, however, to the idea of an open coat\non the score of ornament, though we admit some of its claims to utility.\nTwo surfaces of decoration on the human body are absurd; they distract the\nattention, and often, by the incongruous opposition of colour and\nsubstance, produce a most disagreeable effect. Without wishing to hurt the\nfeelings of Young England--or, as some facetious wag or other has called\nhim, Little Britain--we declare our dissent, _in toto_, from the dangerous\nheresy of the white waistcoat with the black coat. 'Tis a most unnatural\nconjunction. If the colour of the under-garment were only red instead of\nwhite, we should suspect some secret connexion with the old woman in\nscarlet, _ou vous savez_; as it is, we set it down to the account of her\nfriend in black, and we launch against it our aesthetic anathema. True, it\nmakes a man look clean; but cannot a gentleman enjoy the reputation of\ncleanliness without turning himself into a magpie? Carry the point out a\nlittle further--to its ultimate results, in fact--and picture to yourself\nAlbion junior, in a black coat lined with white silk, a white waistcoat,\nwhite cravat, black unmentionables, and white silk stockings--each good\nand legitimate articles of dress in their way--what a figure! No! turn\nrather to one of those splendid old canvasses of Velasquez. Look at the\ngreat Duque de Olivarez, the finest gentleman in Europe; behold him in\nblack velvet and black silk from the chin to the toe--no white but his\nlace collar--all black except this and his face and hands! There is no\neffort at display in his person, no attempt to attract attention by a\nglaring contrast; he knew that his looks proclaimed him a gentleman, and\nthere he stands in quiet dignity, a model of good taste. Philip IV. the\nsame; Charles I. of England, at times, the same. Even the Dutch\nburgomasters knew how to consult unity of dress, and to harmonize the\ncolours of their vestments. We are not speaking of state-robes, but of the\ndress worn in society among men of fashion; and we would recommend any one\nsceptical on the point to compare the evening suits of the middle of the\nlast century with those of the beginning, still more with those of the\nclose of the seventeenth. He will find an immense falling off in good\ntaste. Lord Chesterfield was not half so well-dressed a man as Lord\nWarwick, nor Lord Warwick as Lord Rochester.\n\nTo return, however, to waistcoats. They constitute a class of garments\nthat have fallen into vulgar hands, and are applied to vulgar purposes.\nYour gents in the city, and your Margate-steamer men, know how to display\na yard of velvet or silk to infinite advantage; see how ostentatiously\nthey throw open their coats, and show you half-a-mile of mosaic gold chain\nmeandering over a _champ fleuri_. They are regular tailors'\nadvertisements, and disgust one by their abuse of cheap decoration. We\nnever see a man in a smart waistcoat but we think of what lies at the back\nof it--a yard of silk or calico--all the glory of the front negatived, and\nthe garment so mean behind that he dares not show it. Not so the good old\nsailor who spent his prize-money with honesty of purpose, and, let us add,\nwith real good taste also; he decorated his shattered timbers stem and\nstern alike--there was no make-believe finery about him, and he was not\nashamed to take off his coat before any body! Away, then, with the petty\nvanity of a waistcoat; away with all false idea of its giving decoration\nto the _ensemble_ of the toilet. We know of nothing in its favour except\none single claim on the score of some small utility. To any one living in\na variable climate it is of value, as enabling the wearer to modify the\ntemperature of the body. Is the day unusually warm? he can throw open his\ncoat, and preserve that prim neatness of appearance which is required in\nthe present age, but is at variance with the display of fine linen of the\nCaroline epoch. Or is there a sudden blast of wind from the east,\nsearching his rheumatic limbs to the very bone? he may button his coat\nover his waistcoat, and he has then a double protection for the tenderest\nchest. But if thus anxious for the chest, why not for the back also? Why\nshould there be two thicknesses of cloth or stuff over the one, and only a\nsingle thickness, with some flimsy calico, over the other? In all this\nthere is an inconsistency. Our ancestors, who wore only one coat at a\ntime, had always a small mantle ready against any change of temperature;\nand they wore it either appended to the neck, as in the days of James I.,\nor more constantly on the shoulders, as in the time of Cromwell. The main\nadvantage of the waistcoat consists in its being light and permanently\nworn,--but it should be made of the same stuff throughout, and we think it\nmight well be dispensed with altogether. If Kneller, Lely, Vandyke, and\nRubens could visit the earth again for a moment--and they were good judges\nof what was, or what was not becoming--we have no doubt but they would be\nunanimous against waistcoats.\n\nWe come, therefore, to our last remaining class of coats, and here we halt\nwith a hum of approbation: it would be hard indeed were we to pull the\nmodern dandy to pieces, and leave him no protection against the wintry\nblast. Yes! the frock or surtout is good! we have little or nothing to say\nagainst it,--much in its favour. Utility and elegance are at once seen\ncombined in this garment; it is warm, easy to wear, and comfortable it is\nof graceful and dignified appearance, and it is becoming, to man at all\nperiods of his life. The frock-coat is nothing more than the ancient tunic\nopened in front, and made to sit tight upon the upper part of the body:\nthe superior half of it shows the form of the wearer to advantage, and\nimparts to it a due degree of manly rigidity, while the inferior half\npartakes of the flowing folds of drapery, and gives warmth and covering\ndown to the very knees. Of all garments that are to have any degree of\nfreedom and looseness about them, the frock-coat is the best: it is good\nfor a man in almost any avocation, and may be made suitable for the common\nbusiness of life, as well as for the refinements of society. But then it\nshould not be worn open: it should be buttoned upon the breast. Place an\nofficer in his plain closely-buttoned undress coat by the side of a\ncivilian, with his loose and open frock, and the contrast is so decidedly\nin favour of the former, that the point, as a matter of taste and effect,\nwill not admit of a dispute. The one is a regular sloven compared with the\nother. If any thing can be said against this buttoning, it is on the score\nof inconvenience in civil life:--is a man at his library-table or his\noffice-desk always to be fastened up in buckram? where are we to stow away\nour watches, our knives, our toothpicks, our loose cash (when we have\nany--_par parenthese_)? There is some weight in these objections; for\nthese little articles of comfort cannot be dispensed with; and we have no\nbetter answer than to propose small external pockets with lapels, which\nwould not spoil the symmetry of the figure; or else, if you are\nobstinate, good reader, and are determined on throwing away your money\nupon waistcoats--then keep your frock-coat open; but have a waistcoat\neither of the same colour, or of some respectable hue, and have it made\njacket-fashion, as good behind as before. For ourselves, however, we\nconfess we shall prefer\n\n  \"That you, my friend, whatever wind should blow,\n  Might traverse England safely to and fro,\n  An honest man, close-button'd to the chin,--\n  Broad-cloth without, and a warm heart within.\"\n\nAny quantity of ornament that might be deemed requisite, could easily be\napplied to this kind of coat--so as to make it a fit habiliment for\noccasions of ceremony: in its present state, it retains the stiffness of\nits military origin, (for it may be called an invention of the Great\nDuke's, of him who wore it on the glorious fields of Salamanca and\nWaterloo, and it came into fashion at the close of the Peninsular war:)\nbut it may be embroidered as much as you please, or its stuff may be\nvaried _ad infinitum_, from Manchester fustian to the finest Genoa velvet.\nNot that embroidery is always consonant with good taste, when applied to\nmale attire. A plain, dark, close-buttoned coat, whether of cloth or\nvelvet, fastened with a single row of diamond or steel buttons in front,\nwould be far more effective, as an object of good taste, than if its seams\nwere all covered with gold lace.\n\nAs for the colour of coats, we do not intend to speak of this till we come\nto the subject of military costume. We leave it awhile to the taste of the\nnation,--colours have always served as marks of national differences. We\nbeg leave to subjoin a few words in behalf of a poor little garment that\nhas hardly any grown-up friends to say any thing for it; and which, when\nit left school, either went into a manufactory, or was sent to sea--we\nmean the jacket. In warm weather, for a country walk, for a ride, for a\ngame at billiards or cricket, even for shooting, (_experto crede_)--a\njacket is a capital contrivance; while for a sail, whether down the Thames\nor up the Mediterranean, it is indispensable. We do not appreciate the\njacket as we ought, or rather we do not remember the good service it did\nus at Eton and Harrow--when the limbs were free and supple, and when their\nfull activity was called into constant play, who would have thought of a\ncoat? It was only when we began to fancy ourselves men, and to think that\nour claims to virility lay in the skirts of our coats, that we discarded\nthe jacket. 'Twas an ungrateful proceeding:--school friendships ought not\nto be broken--and we recommend you, courteous reader, some day or other to\nlay your dignity aside for a while, and indulge in the innocent freedom of\na jacket: you will get through any work you have on hand twice as quickly.\nThe beaux of Queen Elizabeth's and King Jamie's courts wore nothing else\nbut jackets, you know, with their short mantles hanging in the most\n_degage_ manner from the shoulders:--and truly we do not see why a man in\na well-cut jacket, properly decorated, should not be entitled to as much\nadmiration in his civil capacity, as when he has the honour to hold her\nMajesty's commission in the Tenth, and avails himself of that privilege to\ndisturb the equanimity of the beauty and fashion of England. Much may be\nsaid upon all sides in this matter: the jacket would now be deemed too\nfamiliar without a sword and sabretache; the frock might be considered as\nslovenly; about the _habit-de-cour_ there can be no dispute; as for the\ndress-coat, it ought to be sent to Monmouth Street; waistcoats should be\ngiven to your valet. Speedily judge for yourself, tasty reader; but let us\nhave a garment calculated for real use, and real ornament; no pretence, no\nsham; a fine manly figure, and a covering worthy of it, _voila la chose\nessentielle!_\n\nTo criticize a gown is always a more pleasing task than to waste one's\npatience upon a coat; and, independently of this, the aesthetician has to\nlay aside nearly all terms of reprobation, in alluding to the habiliments\nof ladies of the present day. Women have never wandered into so many\nabsurdities of form with regard to this main article of dress, as men\nhave; they have been volatile enough in the material, and colour, and\nornament of their gowns; but in shape and cut they have kept much nearer\nto the golden rule of comfort and utility than the lords of the creation.\nThe period of greatest aberration in this matter may be taken as extending\nfrom the latter quarter of the seventeenth century to the end of the\neighteenth. During those long years, absurdity and inconvenience seemed to\nhold paramount sway in the wardrobes of the fair; and to apply the word\n\"taste,\" in its good sense, to any portion of the female dress, at least\nin England, is hardly allowable within the limits mentioned. Look at your\ngrandmothers' pictures, or turn over the leaves of any edition of\nHogarth's works, and the broadness of the caricature cannot fail to strike\nyou. That women should ever have consented so greatly to travestie the\nbeautiful proportions of their fair frames; that they should ever have so\ncompletely lost sight of the main principles of decoration and comeliness,\nis inconceivable. The mischief all originated in France; and it must have\ncome, in the first instance, from the deformity, either of body or mind,\nof some crabbed old dowager at Versailles; no young unsophisticated girl\nwould ever of herself have invented the hoop or the _neglige_. But those\ntimes have happily gone by; and after passing through a transition state\nof minor absurdity--(look to the prints of the _Belle Assemblee_ from 1800\nto 1815)--we have thrown away all unnatural short waists; we have\ndiscarded scanty skirts; stomachers have been sent nearly to the right\nabout; and with the exception of a single opisthodomic folly--to which we\ndo not care to allude more particularly--our better halves, and our fair\nfriends, seem to have entered upon an age of good taste and good sense.\nThe happy change has been brought about partly by some women of good sense\nconsulting their own ideas of utility and simplicity--partly by a return\nof public taste to the dresses of the middle ages, and also of the times\nof Charles the First. Ladies have at length become aware, that novelty of\nform is not essential to beauty of effect--and they have opened their eyes\nto the truth, that the less they disfigure the proportions of their\npersons, the more becomingly and the more comfortably will they be clad.\n\nThe main divisions of lady's gown--every milliner understands what we\nmean--are the _corsage_ or body, and the _jupe_ or skirt. They are as\nindependent of each other as the upper and lower divisions of a\nwasp--(indeed, some giddy girls have carried the similitude too far, and\nhave been seen to approximate in their lacing contractions to that\nwonderfully small animal passage)--and these two divisions of the garment\nare to be formed and ornamented on totally different principles. By the\ncommon practice and consent of all womankind, it appears that the lower\nportion should be loose and flowing; and that the upper should be so\nconformable to the contour of the body, as to show that contour to the\nbest advantage; these must be taken as the fundamental definitions upon\nwhich all laws of female dress are to be tried. And, first of all, of the\nskirt; if its form is to be loose and flowing, it should be made to derive\nits beauty from the curves and breaks and folds which drapery, partly\nsuspended, partly at rest on the ground, will afford. It must be ample and\nsymmetrically proportioned; and its material must have sufficient\nstiffness as well as pliability--drapery always requires a certain volume\nof material to be effective. The extreme limit of a scanty skirt, and its\npoor effect, as well as its great inconvenience, may be judged of from the\nfigures and pictures of the old Egyptian priestesses--they look very\n_statuesque_, and make capital _caryatides_ for temples--but they will not\nbear a comparison with those lovely Athenian virgins, winding round the\nParthenon, in their sacred pilgrimage to the shrine of their tutelar\ngoddess. Drapery, then, must be ample, if it is to fall in graceful folds.\nBut drapery, only suspended, will not produce the entire effect desired;\nit will hang in merely longitudinal lines, whereas one of the most\npleasing effects produced by it is caused by those abrupt breaks in a\nfold, those sudden cuttings off of volutes, which are only to be seen when\npart of the drapery is in horizontal repose, or rests partially on the\nground. Hence short gowns are not so graceful as long ones; they are\nbeautiful at any time, it is true, and when the wearer is seated, produce\nsomewhat of the effect alluded to; but for a woman to be robed with all\nthe combined influences of grace and dignity, she must allow her dress to\ntrail partially around her. Think upon the short garments of many classes\nof peasantry, and think of the train of a lady when dressed for court--we\nspeak of their form, not of their substance--it will easily be seen how\nmuch dignity is conferred by length. The utility of long skirts is not so\neasy to be proved as their beauty; but this is only on the score of the\ndifficulty in keeping them clean; as for warmth and comfort, the advantage\nis quite on their side. Our fair contemporaries, however, seem to have\narrived at a reasonable and happy medium upon that point; they never wore\nbetter-formed skirts than at the present day. A gown, if properly made,\nand without any stinting of stuff, and if that stuff have any thing like\nsubstance, needs no adventitious aids to give it sufficient amplitude of\ncontour; let our gentle readers take the hint; they will otherwise\nmilitate against one of the main laws of good taste. Let them only look at\nthe portraits of their ancestors in the middle of the last century but\none--let them look at Hollar's prints, and if they are open to conviction\nthey will agree in what we say.\n\nIf the skirt is to be ample, the body should be confined to the natural\nshape of the human frame; and the more nearly it is so, the more graceful\nand effective will it become. Do what we will, distort the sleeves and\nwaist as much as we may, we shall never come up to the symmetry of Dame\nNature; she is a better milliner than any in Regent Street; and if the\nladies would have their corsages made after her pattern in all cases, they\nwould find their clothes fitting better, pinching less, and keeping them\nmuch warmer. Women assert--and we are not competent to dispute the point\nwith them--that they need an enveloping support for the body; in fact,\nthat they must have corsets: be it so: there is no harm in the article\nitself, provided the utility of it can be clearly proved; but there is\nmuch harm in it, if, by an abuse of its powers, this same thing is made to\ndistort the body, and to injure the internal organization of the human\nframe. As far as beauty of form is concerned, whatever intrenches on the\nproportion of natural shape is intrinsically contradictory to it: let no\nwoman imagine that she has a fine figure, if she can lace herself into a\ndiameter of nine or ten inches; for by so doing, she disturbs the harmony\nof all the curves--all the lines of beauty, as Hogarth calls them--with\nwhich she has been so richly endowed; she fails of her effect, and,\ninstead of beauty, produces only absurdity. Still the corsage of her dress\nshould fit close; and for this to be possible, there must be a\nwell-fitting corset beneath; but it need not pinch or squeeze the least in\nthe world; let it fit close; that is enough. It is no doubt uncommonly\nconvenient for a lusty alderman's wife of forty to reduce herself to the\nproportions of \"fair seventeen;\" but she ought to be able to reduce the\nwhole frame in the same ratio; otherwise to pull in at the waist till the\nidea of suffocation is painfully evident to the most careless beholder,\nand yet to leave the bust with the symmetry of Minerva Victrix, is a gross\nand palpable absurdity. Far from being the [Greek: to chalon], this is the\n[Greek: to chachon] of all female decoration.\n\nAnd, if the waist should not be metamorphosed into unnatural smallness, so\nthe sleeves should not be puffed out into preternatural enlargement. Those\nabominable gigot-sleeves, so well named from our old familiar\nfamily-joint--they were utter abominations; and those bishop's\nsleeves--they were foolish caricatures. Ladies are doing much better now:\neither, in the evening, they trust to nature herself to set off their arms\nas she pleases, or else, in the morning, they envelope them in a covering\nthat hardly destroys the beauty of their form. This is as it should be:\none of the principal characteristics of female grace consists, as any\nsculptor can tell you, in the narrowness of the shoulders--just as of male\ndignity, in their breadth. What, then, could ever have made ladies suppose\nthat they were ornamenting themselves by extending the upper portions of\ntheir sleeves until they measured full three feet in a direct transversal\nline? We are now witnesses of better ideas; the neck, the shoulders, and\nthe arms are allowed to make a continuous series of curves. The corsage is\nsimple in its form, and the only attempt at enrichment is the pendant\nborder of lace, or other material, that gives due relief, without\ndestroying the harmony of the outline.\n\nAs for form, then, we congratulate the ladies on having attained and\npreserved so much excellence in their habiliments. We have only to\nrecommend, that they do not rashly try to innovate upon what they now\ndelight in; or rather, if new ideas are to be introduced, that they\ncontrol them by a perpetual reference to the form and framework of nature,\nas their best, indeed their only, guide to what is true and beautiful.\nThanks to the manufacturing skill of European nations in general, and of\nour own more particularly, there is no lack of material for women to\nchoose their dresses from. The loom teems with all kinds of substances;\nand every requirement of climate, every caprice of fancy, can now be\ngratified at a reasonable rate. One of the best symptoms of taste amongst\nEnglishwomen is the increasing use of the finer woollen fabrics. They are\nwell suited to the climate, and they are calculated to make graceful\nhabiliments in whatever manner they are employed. But cotton is an immense\nboon for the mass of the population; and, by contributing to the\ncleanliness of the lower orders, has been of great value to the health of\nthe community. The fact is, that it is of little consequence what an\nelegant woman wears, as far as her appearance is concerned. All clothes\nrequire, as the French say, to be _bien portes_. An awkward woman will\nnever look well in any thing, however fine. Let ladies consult their own\ncomfort, their own purposes, and the material they hit upon will certainly\nbecome them. We have now, too, ample means of decoration: furs, and lace,\nand ribands, and embroidery, are gradually coming within the grasp of\nlarge classes of society; we have to fear rather a deluge of ornament than\nthe opposite; and, if caution is to be used in any direction, it is in\nthis. The true secret of female ornament is, that it should be genuine: no\nsham flowers; no make-believe lapels; no collars only stitched on to the\nedge of the gown; no bows that do not untie; no ribands without some\npositive use; all false ornament should be avoided as the direct contrary\nto what is tasteful and becoming. If lace is worn, let it be of thread or\nsilk--not of cotton; if fur, let it be from the real animal--not dyed or\nimitated; if jewels, let them be few but good, and set in real gold--no\nabominable sham decoration.\n\nAnd what are we to say about cloaks, and pelisses, and shawls, and the\nother preservers of gowns, that correspond to the outward comforters of\nman? They flutter about in shop windows, thick as gnats in a summer\nsunbeam: many of them are elegant; not a few useful; some are quite\nloves!--witness the polka-pelisse--others are frumpy and old-fashioned;\nsuch as the cloak with a deep cape of ever-to-be-respected maternal\nmemory. But there are two which we single out as simple and unspoiled, and\nindeed unspoilable, items of dress, which ought to be in fashion as long\nas women love pretty things. One is the Spanish mantilla; that plain black\nscarf which forms the sweetest disguisement a woman can put on: by its\nsimplicity, and its obvious utility, it claims our approbation at the\nfirst glance. The other is the Indian shawl; that marvellous product of\nthe mountain loom, fit for any climate, for any temperature, for any\ncomplexion, and for any purpose; women may rack their inventions for ever,\nbut they never will invent a garment more generally useful, more\nconstantly becoming, than this.\n\n\n\n\nNORTH'S SPECIMENS OF THE BRITISH CRITICS.\n\nNO. IV.\n\nDRYDEN ON CHAUCER.\n\n\nNothing is gained by attempting to deny or to disguise a known and plain\nfact, simply because it happens to be a distasteful one--Time has\nestranged us from Chaucer. Dryden and Pope we read with easy, unearned\npleasure. Their speech, their manner of mind, and their facile verse, are\nof our age, almost of our own day. The two excellent, graceful, and\nmasterly poets belong, both of them, to THIS NEW WORLD. Go back a little,\nstep over an imperceptible line, to the contemporary of Dryden, Milton,\nand you seem to have overleaped some great chronological boundary; you\nhave transported yourself into THAT OLD WORLD. Whether the historical\ndate, or the gigantic soul, or the learned art, make the separation, the\nfact is clear, that the poet of the \"Paradise Lost\" stands decidedly\nfurther off; and, more or less, you must acquire the taste and\nintelligence of the poem. Why, up to this hour, probably, there are\nthree-fifths of the poem that you have not read; or, if you have read all,\nand go along with all, you have yourself had experience of the progress,\nand have felt your capacity of Milton grow and dilate. So has it been with\nyour capacity for Shakspeare, or you are a truant and an idler. To\ncomprehend with delight Milton and Shakspeare as poets, you need, from the\nbeginning, a soul otherwise touched, and gifted for poesy, than Pope\nclaims of you, or Dryden. The great elder masters, being original, require\nof you springs of poesy welling in your own spirit; while the two latter,\nimitative artists of luxury, exact from you nothing more, in the way of\npoetical endowment, than the gusto of ease and luxurious enchantment. To\nprefer, for some intellectual journey, the smooth wafture of an\nair-gliding ear--to look with pleasure upon a dance of bright-hued\nimages--to hear more sweetness in Philomela's descant than in a Turkish\nconcert--to be ever so little sensible to the bliss of dreams--ever so\nlittle sick of reality, and ever so little glad to be rid of it for an\nhour--is qualification enough to make you a willing and able reader of\nverse in the latter school. But if you are to prefer the style of the\nantecessors, other conditions must come in. It is, then, not a question\nmerely whether you see and love in Imogen the ideal of a wife in love with\nher husband, or take to the surpassing and inimitable portraiture of the\n\"lost archangel\" in Satan; but whether you feel the sweetness of Imogen's\nsoul in the music of her expressions--whether you hear the tones of the\nWill that not the thunder has quelled, in that voice to which all \"the\nhollow deep of hell resounded.\" If you do, assuredly you will perceive in\nyourself that these are discernments of a higher cast, and that place you\nupon a higher degree when critics on poetry come to be ranked, than when\nyou had nothing better to say for yourself than that your bosom bled at\nthe Elegy on an Unfortunate Young Lady, or that you varied with Alexander\nto the varying current of the Ode of St Cecilia's Day.\n\nWe call Chaucer the Father of our Poetry, or its Morning Star. The\npoetical memory of the country stretches up to him, and not beyond. The\ncommanding impression which he has made upon the minds of his people dates\nfrom his own day. The old poets of England and Scotland constantly and\nunanimously acknowledge him for their master. Greatest names, Dunbar,\nDouglas, Spenser, Milton, carry on the tradition of his renown and his\nreign.\n\nIn part he belongs to, and in part he lifts himself out of, his age. The\nvernacular poetry of reviving Europe took a strong stamp from one\nprincipal feature in the manners of the times. The wonderful political\ninstitution of Chivalry--turned into a romance in the minds of those in\nwhose persons the thing itself subsisted--raised up a fanciful adoration\nof women into a law of courtly life; or, at the least, of courtly verse,\nto which there was nothing answerable in the annals of the old world. For\nthough the chief and most potent of human passions has never lacked its\nplace at the side of war in the song that spoke of heroes--though two\nbeautiful captives, and a runaway wife bestowed by the Goddess of Beauty,\nand herself the paragon of beauty to all tongues and ages, have grounded\nthe _Iliad_--though the Scaean gate, from which Hector began to flee his\ninevitable foe, and where that goddess-born foe himself stooped to\ndestiny, be also remembered for the last parting of a husband and a\nwife--though Circe and Calypso have hindered homebound Ulysses from the\nlonging arms of Penelope--and Jason, leading the flower of a prior and yet\nmore heroic generation, must first win the heart of Medea before he may\nattain the Golden Fleece--though the veritable nature of the human being\nhave ever thus, through its strongest passion, imaged itself in its most\nexquisite mirror, Poetry--yet there did, in reawaking Europe, a new\nlove-poetry arise, distinctively characterised by the omnipotence which it\nascribed to the Love-god, legitimating in him an usurped supremacy, and\nexhibiting, in artificial and wilful excess, that passion which the older\npoets drew in its powerful but unexaggerated and natural proportions.\n\nThenceforwards the verse of the South and of the North, and alike the\nforgotten and the imperishable, all attest the predominancy of the same\nstar. Diamond eyes and ruby lips stir into sound the lute of the\nTroubadours and the Minnesingers. Famous bearers of either name were\nknights distinguished in the lists and in the field. And who is it that\nstole from heaven the immortal fire of genius for Petrarch? Laura. Who is\nthe guide of Dante through Paradise? Beatrice. In our own language, the\nspirit of love breathes, more than in any other poet, in Spenser. His\ngreat poem is one Lay of Love, embodying and associating that idealized,\nchivalrous, and romantic union of \"fierce warres and faithful loves.\" It\nhovers above the earth in some region exempt from mortal footing--wars\nsuch as never were, loves such as never were--and all--Allegory! One\nethereal extravagance! A motto may be taken from him to describe that\nascendancy of the love-planet in the poetical sky of renewed Europe. It\nalludes to the love-freaks of the old Pagan deities upon earth, in which\nthe King of the Gods excelled, as might be supposed, all the others.\n\n  \"While thus on earth great Jove these pageants play'd,\n  _The winged boy did thrust into his throne_;\n  And scoffing thus, unto his mother sayde,\n  '_Lo! now the heavens obey to me alone\n  And take me for their Jove, now Jove to earth is gone_.'\"\n\nThe pure truth of the poetical inspiration which rests upon Spenser's\npoems, when compared to the absolute departure from reality apparent in\nthe manners of his heroes and heroines, and in the physical world which\nthey inhabit, is a phenomenon which may well perplex the philosophical\ncritic. You will hardly dare to refuse to any true poet the self-election\nof his materials. Grant, therefore, to Spenser knight-errantry--grant him\ndragons, and enchanters, and enchanted gardens, satyrs, and the goddess\nNight on her chariot--grant him love as the single purpose of human\nlife--a faery power, leading with a faery band his faery world! But while\nyou accept this Poem as the lawful consummation and ending of that\nfabulous intellectual system or dream which had subsisted with authority\nfor centuries, it is wonderful to see how, in the very day of Spenser, the\nSTAGE recovers humanity and nature to poetry--recalls poetry to nature and\nhumanity! Shakspeare and Spenser, what contemporaries! The world that\n_is_, and the world that _is not_, twinned in time and in power!\n\nThis exaggeration of an immense natural power, Love--making, one might\nalmost say, man's worship of woman the great religion of the universe, and\nwhich was the \"amabilis insania\" of the new poetry--long exercised an\nunlimited monarchy in the poetical mind of the reasonable Chaucer. See the\nlongest and most desperate of his Translations--which Tyrwhitt supposes\nhim to have completed, though we have only two fragments--seven thousand\nverses in place of twenty-two thousand--the \"ROMAUNT OF THE ROSE,\"\notherwise entitled the \"Art of Love,\" \"wherein are shewed the helps and\nfurtherances, as also the lets and impediments, that lovers have in their\nsuits.\" Then comes the work upon which Sir Philip Sydney seems to rest the\nright of Chaucer to the renown of an excellent poet having the insight of\nhis art--the five long books which celebrate the type of all true lovers,\nTroilus, and of all false traitresses, Creseide. Then there is \"The\nLegende of GOODE Women,\" the loving heroines, fabulous and historical, of\nLempriere's dictionary. The first name is decisive upon the signification\nof \"_goode_\"--Cleopatras, Queene of Egypt--Tisbe of Babylon--Dido, Queene\nof Carthage--Hipsiphile and Medea, betrayed both by the same \"root of\nfalse lovers, Duk Jason\"--Lucrece of Rome--Ariadne of\nAthens--Philomen--Phillis--Hypermnestra.\n\nThe \"Assemblee of Foules\" is all for love and allegory. Chaucer has been\nreading Scipio's dream. Whereon he himself dreams that \"Affrican\" comes to\nhim, and carries him away into a sort of Love's Paradise. There were trees\nwith leaves \"grene as emeraude,\" a garden full of \"blossomed bowis,\"\nrunning waters in which small fishes light, with red fins and\nsilver-bright scales, dart to and fro, flowers of all tinctures, all\nmanner of live creatures, and a concert commingled of stringed\ninstruments, of leaves murmuring to the wind, and of singing-birds. Under\na tree, beside a spring, was \"Cupide our Lord\" forging and filing his\narrows--his daughter (_who is she?_) assisting, and tempering them to\nvarious effects. A host of allegorical persons are in attendance of\ncourse; and there, too, stands a Temple of Venus, described from the\nTeseida of Boccaccio. But the principal personage whom Chaucer encounters,\nand the most busily engaged, is the great goddess, NATURE. It is St\nValentine's Day, whereon all the birds choose their mates for the coming\nyear. The particular business to which _this_ anniversary of the genial\nSaint is devoted was intelligible, no doubt, to the quick wits of\nChaucer's age, if to the dull ones of ours a little perplexing. Nature\nheld in her hand \"a formell eagle, of shape the gentillest,\" benign,\ngoodly, and so full of every virtue, that \"Nature herself had blisse to\nlooke on her, and oft her beeke to kisse.\" The question is, who shall be\nher mate? Three \"tercell eagles\" offer themselves, and eagerly plead their\nclaims. The four orders of fowl, those \"of ravine,\" those that feed on\ninsects, the water-fowl, and those that eat seed, are by nature required\nto elect each a delegate that shall opine on the matter. The birds of prey\ndepute \"the tercelet of the faucon.\" He gives the somewhat startling if\notherwise plausible advice, that the worthiest of knighthood, and that has\nthe longest used it, and that is of the greatest estate, and of blood the\ngentlest, shall be preferred, leaving the decision of those merits to the\nlady eagle. The goose, on the behalf of the water-fowl, merely advises\nthat he who is rejected shall console himself by choosing another love;\nwhich ignominious and anserine suggestion is received by the \"gentill\nfoules\" with a general laugh. The \"turtle-dove,\" for the seed-eating\nbirds, indignantly protests against this outrageous and impracticable\nproposal. The cuckoo, for the worm-eaters, provided that he may have his\nown \"make,\" is willing that the three wooers shall live each solitary and\nsullen. The \"sperhawke,\" the \"gentle tercelet,\" and the \"ermelon,\"\nseverally reply in high scorn to the goose, to the duck, who seconds the\ngoose, and to the cuckoo. Dame Nature ends the plea by referring the\nchoice to the \"formell eagle\" herself, who begs a year's respite, which is\ngranted her. The rest, for the day is now well spent, choose their\nmates--an elect choir sing a roundel in honour of Nature; and at the\n\"shouting\" that, when the song was done, the fowls made in flying away,\nthe Poet awoke! Amongst the hard points of this enigmatical love-allegory\nare, that when the first lover, a \"royal tercell,\" has ended his plea, the\n\"formell eagle\" _blushes_! as does afterwards the turtle upon the proposal\nmade of changing an old love for a new, and that the duck swears by his\n_hat_. Be the specific intent what it may, the general bearing speaks for\nitself, namely, the unmeasured lifting-up of Love's supremacy--though we\ncannot help feeling how much nearer Chaucer was to the riddling days of\npoetry than we are. Did the old Poet translate from plain English into the\nlanguage of Birds, and expect us to re-translate? Or are these blushes and\nthis knighthood amongst birds merely regular adjuncts in any fable that\nattributes to the inferior creation human powers of reason and speech? It\nis curious that the _rapacious_ fowls are presented as excelling in high\nand delicate sentiment! They are the aristocracy of the birds, plainly;\nyet an aristocracy described as of \"ravine\" seems to receive but an\nequivocal compliment.\n\nThe HOUSE OF FAME is in Three Books. The title bespeaks Allegory; and the\nmachinery which justifies the allegory, as usual is a Dream. But the title\ndoes not bespeak, what is nevertheless true, that here, too, love steals\nin. During the entire First Book, the poet dreams himself to be in the\ntemple of Venus, all graven over with AEneas's history, taken point by\npoint from the Mantuan. The history belongs properly to its place; not\nbecause AEneas is the son of Venus, but because the course of events is\nconducted by Jupiter consonantly to the prayer of Venus. Why the House of\nVenus takes up a third part of the poem to be devoted to the House of Fame\nis less apparent. Is the poet crazed with love? and so driven against\nmethod to dream perforce of the divinity who rules over his destiny, as\nshe did over her son's? Or does the _fame_ conferred by Virgil upon AEneas\nmake it reasonable that the dream should proceed by the House of one\ngoddess to that of the other? Having surveyed the whole, the poet goes out\nto look in what part of the world he is, when Jupiter's eagle seizes upon\nhim, and carries him up to the city and palace of Fame, seated above the\nregion of tempests, but apparently below the stars, and there sets him\ndown. The Second Book is spent in their conversation during their flight.\nSome singular inventions occur. Every word spoken on earth, is carried up\nby natural reverberation to the House of Fame; but, there arrived, puts on\nthe likeness of the wight, in his habit as he lives, that has uttered it.\nThe palace itself stands upon a rock of ice, inscribed with names. Those\non the southern face are nearly melted away by the heat of the sun; those\non the northern stand sharp and clear. Some of the minstrels--Orpheus of\nold, and the later Breton Glaskirion, he hears playing yet. The great\nEpopeists are less agreeably occupied. 'Omer,' and aiding him, 'Dares,'\n'Titus,' 'Lolius,' 'Guido' the Colempnis, that is, of Colonna, and English\nGalfrida, standing high upon a pillar of iron, 'are busie to bear up Troy'\nupon their shoulders. Virgil, upon a pillar 'of tinned iron clere,'\nsupports 'the fame of pius AEneas.' Near, upon a pillar of iron, 'wrought\nfull sternly,' the 'grete poete, Dan Lucan' bears upon his shoulders the\n'fame of Julius and Pompee.' An innumerable company kneel before the\ngoddess herself, beseeching her for renown. She deals out her favours\ncapriciously--to one company of well-deservers, utter silence and\noblivion--to another, like meritorious, loud slanders and infamy--to\nanother assembly, with similar claims, golden, immortal praises. A fourth\nand a fifth company have done good for the pure sake of goodness, and\nrequest of her to hide their deeds and their name. To the one set she\nreadily grants their asking. To the other not--but bids her trumpet\n\"Eolus\" ring out their works so that all the world may hear, which happens\naccordingly. Another throng have been sheer idlers on the earth, doers of\nneither good nor ill. They desire to pass for worthy, wise, good, rich,\nand in particular for having been favourably regarded by the brightest\neyes. The whole of this undeserved reputation is instantaneously granted\nthem. Another troop follow with like desert and with like request. Eolus\ntakes up as bidden his \"black clarioun,\" and blazons their dishonour. A\ntroop of evil-doers ask for good fame. The goddess is not in the humour,\nand takes no notice of them. The last comers of all are delighters in\nwickedness for its own sake, and request their due ill fame. Amongst them\nis \"that ilke shrewe that brente the temple of Isidis in Athenes.\" This\nis, no doubt, the gentleman who burned the Temple of Diana at Ephesus for\nthat laudable purpose. The goddess is complaisant, and grants them exactly\ntheir desire.\n\nThere stands by the first, a second House of Fame of a strange sort. It is\nbuilt cage-like of twigs, is sixty miles in length, whirls incessantly\nabout, and is full of all imaginable noises--the rumours of all events,\nprivate and public, that happen upon earth, including murrains, tempests,\nand conflagrations. The eagle gets the dreamer in, and he notes the\nhumours of the place. This is most remarkable, that as soon as any one of\nthe innumerable persons, in press, there hears a tiding, he forthwith\nwhispers it with an addition to another, and he, with a further eking, to\na third, until in a little while it is known every where, and has attained\nimmeasurable magnitude--as from a spark the fire is kindled that burns\ndown a city. The tidings fly out at windows. A true and a false tiding\njostled in their way out, and after some jangling for precedency, agreed\nto fly together. Since which time, no lie is without some truth, and no\ntruth without some falsehood. An unknown person of great reverence and\nauthority making his appearance, the poet, apparently disturbed with awe,\nawakes, wonders, and falls to writing his dream.\n\nThe criticism of so strange a composition is hardly to be attempted. It\nshows a bold and free spirit of invention, and some great and poetical\nconceiving. The wilful, now just, now perverse dispensing of fame, belongs\nto a mind that has meditated upon the human world. The poem is one of the\nsmaller number, which seems hitherto to stand free from the suspicion of\nhaving been taken from other poets. For Chaucer helped himself to every\nthing worth using that came to hand.\n\nThe earlier writings of Chaucer have several marks that belong to the\nliterature of the time.\n\nFirst, an excessive and critical self-dedication of the writer to the\nservice of LOVE, this power being for the most part arrayed as a sovereign\ndivinity, now in the person of the classical goddess Venus, and now of her\nson, the god Cupid. Secondly, an ungovernable propensity to allegorical\nfiction. The scheme of innumerable poems is merely allegorical. In others,\nthe allegorical vein breaks in from time to time. Thirdly, a Dream was a\nvehicle much in use for effecting the transit of the fancy from the real\nto the poetical world. Chaucer has many dreams. Fourthly, interminable\ndelight in expatiating upon the simplest sights and sounds of the natural\nworld. This overflows all Chaucer's earlier poems. In some, he largely\ndescribes the scene of adventure--in some, the desire of solace in field\nand wood leads him into the scene. Fifthly, a truly magnanimous\nindifference to the flight of time and to the cost of parchment, expressed\nin the dilatation of a slender matter through an infinite series of\nverses. You wonder at the facility of writing in the infancy of art. It\nseems to resemble the exuberant, untiring activity of children, prompted\nby a vital delight which overflows into the readiest utterance; and, in\nproportion to its display, achieving the less that is referable to any\npurpose of enduring use. Even the admired and elaborately-written\n_Troilus_ and _Creseide_ is a great specimen. The action is nearly null;\nthe discoursing of the persons and of the poet endless. It is not, then,\nsimply the facility of the eight-syllabled couplet, as in that\ninterminable _Chaucer's Dreme_, that betrays; there is a dogged purpose of\ngoing on for ever.\n\nOf the poems expressly of Love, are, \"The Romaunt of the Rose--Troilus and\nCreseide--The Legende of Goode Women--The Assemblee of Foules--Of Queen\nAnnelida and False Arcita--The Complaint of the Blacke Knight--The\nComplaint of Mars and Venus--Of the Cuckou and the Nightingale--The Court\nof Love--Chaucer's Dreme--The Flour and the Leaf--The First Book of the\nHouse of Fame\"--and, if you choose, the \"Boke of the Duchess,\" which is\nJohn of Gaunt's mourning for his lost wife. There must be something like\nthirty thousand verses, long, short, in couplets or stanzas, which may be\nsaid to be dedicated to LOVE!\n\nAnd of them all, only the four following Poems tread the plain\nground--have their footing upon the same earth that we walk--Troilus and\nCreseide, The Legende of Goode Women, Queen Annelida and False Arcita,\nthe Complaint of the Blacke Knight. We grant them for human and real,\nnotwithstanding that most of the persons are of a very romantic and\napocryphal stamp--because they are not presented in dreams or visions, and\nare not allegorical creations of beings out of the air, Impersonations of\nIdeas. They are offered as men and women, downright flesh and blood, and\nso are to be understood. Nevertheless even here, when Chaucer is nearest\nhome, taking his subject in his own day, and putting his own friend and\npatron in verse, there is a trick of the riddling faculty, since the\nBlacke Knight lodging, during the love-month of May, in the greenwood, and\nbemoaning all day long his hard love-hap, represents, it is presumed, old\nstout John of Gaunt in love, who might utter his passion, uncertain of\nrequital,\n\n  \"In groans that thunder love, in sighs of fire;\"\n\nbut who, most assuredly, did not build himself a forest bower, and\nannually retire from court and castle, to spend there a lovesick May.\n\nOf absolutely fanciful creations are, as we have seen, the \"Assemblee of\nFoules,\" and the \"Complaint of Mars and Venus,\" which the poet overhears a\nfowl singing on St Valentine's Day ere sunrise. \"Of the Cuckou and\nNightingale:\" the poet, between _waking and sleeping_, hears the bird of\nhate and the bird of music dispute against and for love. When the\nnightingale takes leave of him, he wakes. \"The Court of Love.\" The poet,\nat the age of eighteen, is summoned by Mercury to do his obeisance at the\nCourt of Love, \"a lite before the Mount of Citheree,\" called further on\nCitheron. He is, on this occasion, not asleep at all, but dreams away like\nany other poet, with his eyes open, in broad daylight.\n\nIn Chaucer thus we find every kind of possible allegory. There is the\nthoroughly _creative_ allegory, when thoughts are turned into beings, and\nimpersonated abstract ideas appear as deities, and as attendants on\ndeities. This is the unsubstantial allegory, which has, it must be owned,\na different meaning to different climes and times. For example, to the\nbelief of the old Greeks, Aphrodite and Eros, albeit essentially thoughts,\nhad flesh that could be touched, wounded even, and veins, in which for\nblood ran ichor. In the verses of our old poet and his contemporaries,\nVenus and Cupid are as active as they were with Homer and Anacreon; only,\nthat now their substance has imperceptibly grown attenuate. So that in the\n\"Assemblee of Foules,\" for example, these two celestial potentates are\nupon an equal footing, for subsistency and reality, with the great goddess\nDame Nature, who seems to be more of modern than of ancient invention, and\nwith Plesaunce, Arrai, Beautee, Courtesie, Craft, Delite, Gentlenesse, and\nothers enow, whom the poet found in attendance upon the Love-god and his\nmother. With or without belief, this belongs to all the ages of poetry,\nfrom the beginning to the consummation of the world.\n\nThen there is the _disguising_ allegory--for by no other appellation can\nit be described--which may be of a substantial kind. For example, the\nBlack Knight, as we have seen, forlorn in love, builds himself a lodge in\nthe wild-wood, to which he resorts during the month of May, and mourns the\nlivelong day under the green boughs. If the conjecture which Tyrwhitt\nthrows out, but without much insisting upon it, that John of Gaunt, wooing\nhis Duchess Blanche, is here figured, this is a _disguising_ allegory of\nthe lowest ideal idealization. The conjecture of Tyrwhitt, whether exact\nor not, quite agrees to the art of poetical invention in that age.\n\nThat old and deeply-rooted species of fable, which ascribes to the\ninferior animals human mind and manners, was another prevalent allegory.\nUsually, the picture of humanity so conveyed is of a general nature. But\nif, as has been guessed, the first and noblest of the Three Tercels that\nwoo the \"formell eagle,\" in the Assemblee of Foules, be the same John of\nGaunt wooing the same Blanche, here would be two varieties of\nallegory--the disguising of particular persons and events, and the veiling\nof human actions and passions, under the semblance of the inferior\nkinds--mixed in this part of the poem, which, in as much as it also\nintroduces wholly ideal personages, would, if the key to the enigma has\nbeen truly found, very fully exemplify the allegorizing genius of the old\npoetry.\n\nCertainly, many of the old poems, unless they are interpreted to allude,\nin this manner, to particular persons and occurrences, appear to want due\nmeaning, such as this Complaint of the nameless Black Knight, this Wooing\nof the Three Tercels, and the faithless Hawk whom Canace hears. We may\noften feel ourselves justified in presuming an allusion, although in\nregard to the true import of the allusion it may be that Time has first\nlocked the door, and then thrown the key over the wall.\n\nOf one Poem, to which we have hitherto but alluded, we feel ourselves now\ncalled on to give an analysis, both for sake of its own exquisite beauty\nand surpassing loveliness, and for sake of Dryden's immortal\nparaphrase--THE FLOURE AND THE LEAF.\n\nThere is in the plan of \"The Floure and the Leaf,\" a peculiarity which is\nnot easily accounted for. In the other poems of Chaucer, which are thrown\ninto the form of an adventure or occurrence personal to the relater, he\nrelates in person his own experience. Here the parts of experiencing, and\nof relating an adventure, are both transferred to an unknown person of the\nother sex. It is also remarkable that this difference in the personality\nof the relater does not appear until the very close of the poem, and then\nincidentally, one of the imaginary persons addressing the relater as\n\"Daughter.\" In the adventure, which is simply the witnessing a Vision,\nthere is nothing that might not as well have happened to Chaucer himself\nas to dame or damsel.\n\nIn a sweet season of spring, a lady who, for some cause unknown to\nherself, cannot sleep, rises at the peep of day, and wanders out into a\nlofty and pleasant grove, where a slender unworn path, not easily seen,\nleads her to a fair arbour of elaborate workmanship, and so framed as that\nthe sitter within sees, unseen, whatsoever passes without; adjoining which\nis a singularly beautiful medlar-tree in full blossom. A goldfinch leaps\nfrom bough to bough, eating buds and blossoms his fill, and then sings\nmost 'passing sweetly,' and is answered by an unseen nightingale, in a\nnote 'so merry' that all the wood rang again. Whilst the lady adventuress\nsits upon the turfed seat listening, a new burst, as if of angelical\nvoices, is heard. The harmony proceeds from \"a world of ladies,\" who march\nout from a neighbouring grove, clad in richly-jewelled surcoats of white\nvelvet, each wearing on her head a chaplet of green leaves, laurel, or\nwoodbine, or Agnus Castus. They dance and sing soberly, surrounding one\nwho wears on her head a crown of gold, has a branch of Agnus Castus in her\nhand, excels them all in beauty, appears to be their queen, and sings a\nroundel having some allusion to the Green Leaf, and advance, dancing and\nsinging, into a meadow fronting the arbour. The song is not given--its\nname is in half unintelligible French. Now a thundering of trumpets is\nheard: and innumerable \"men of arms\" issue from the grove from which the\nladies came. Trumpets, kings-of-arms, heralds, and pursuivants clad in\nwhite, and wearing chaplets of leaves, ride foremost. Then follow Nine\nKnights magnificently armed, excepting that on their unhelmed heads are\nset crowns of laurel. Upon each three henchmen attend, clad in white, with\ngreen chaplets, and severally carrying the casque, the shield, and the\nlance of him they serve. Last, issue a great rout of knights,\nwell-mounted, wearing chaplets, and bearing boughs of oak, laurel,\nhawthorn, woodbine, and other kinds. They joust gallantly for an hour or\nmore: the laurel-wearers overbearing all opposition. At last, the whole\ncompany dismount, and move by two and two towards the ladies, who, at\ntheir approach, break off song and dance, and go to meet them. Every lady\ntakes a knight by the hand, and in this fashion they pace towards a fair\nlaurel, of such prodigious amplitude as that a hundred persons might rest\nat ease under the shadow of its diffused branches. All incline with\nobeisance to the tree; and then sing and dance around it; ever a lady and\na knight going together. All these are, (but as is only afterwards at the\nclose made known to the spectatress of these occurrences,) as you may\neasily surmise, the homagers of the Leaf. Now the homagers of the Flower\nenter upon the stage. From the depth of the wide champaign there come\nroaming in a great company, ladies and knights, and ever a knight and a\nlady hand in hand. They are all richly clad in green, and wear chaplets of\nflowers; green-robed minstrels, with instruments of all sorts, and wearing\nvariegated chaplets of flowers precede. They dance up to a great tuft of\nflowers in the midst of the mead; about which they incline reverently, and\none sings the praise of the \"Margarete\" or Daisy, the others answering in\nchorus; meanwhile the hour grows to noon; the sun waxes hot; the\nunsheltered flowers wither; the ladies and the knights of the Flower are\nscorched with his rays; then the wind rises, and furiously blows down all\nthe flowers; then comes on a terrible storm of mixed hail and rain; wets\nthe knights and ladies of the Flower to the skin, and at last blows over.\nBut the white-habited servants of the Leaf have stood under their laurel,\nshaded from the fiery noon beams, and shrouded from the tempest; and now,\nmoved with ruth and pity, come forwards to tender their aid. The Queen of\nthe Leaf greets, with loving sisterly compassion, the Queen of the Flower.\nThe party of the Leaf proceed to more effectual relief than soothing\nwords--hewing down boughs and trees to make \"stately fires\" for drying\ntheir wet clothes, and searching the plain for virtuous herbs to make for\nthe blistered and drouthy sufferers salves and salads. She of the Leaf now\ninvites Her of the Flower to supper, who accepts as courteously. The Leaf\ncompany, at the bidding of their mistress, provide horses for the Flower\ncompany. At this juncture the Nightingale, who all day long, sitting\nhidden in the laurel, sang \"the service longing to May,\" flies to the hand\nof the Leaf-queen, and sings on as diligently as before--the Goldfinch,\nwhom the heat had forced from his blossom of \"medle-tree\" into the cool\nbushes, betakes himself in like manner to his Flower-queen's hand, and\nsings there; and fast by the arbour, where our spectatress has remained\nall the while seeing and unseen, ladies and knights ride along and away.\nOnly one lady in white rides alone after the rest. To her she comes out,\nand enquires what the wandering show means. The answer, given with\ncourteous explicitness, imports in sum that those who wear chaplets of\nAgnus Castus are virgins; the laurel wearers, knights who were never\nconquered; the Nine most distinguished knights being the Nine Worthies;\nwith whom are the Twelve Peers of Charlemagne, and many \"knightes olde\" of\nthe Garter. Those who wear woodbine\n\n              \"Be such as never were\n  To love untrewe in word, thoghte, ne dede.\"\n\nThey wear the Leaf, because the beauty of the Leaf lasts. But the\nfollowers of the Flower are \"those that loved idlenesse and not delite of\nno besinesse, but for to hunte and hawke and pley in medes, and many other\nsuch idle dedes.\" They wear the perishable Flower accordingly. The\ninformant ends with enquiring of her auditress, whether she will, for the\nyears to come, serve the Leaf or the Flower; who in answer vows her\nobservance to the Leaf. The deep implication of the ancient mythology in\nthe reviving poetry, here again discovers itself. It appears the lady of\nthe Leaf is the goddess Diana; the lady of the Flower, Flora in person.\n\nThe invention is remarkably well purposed, and well carried through. The\ndivision of the world into those who follow virtue and those who pursue\ntheir own delight, is a good general poetico-ethical view, and the\ndelicate emblems happily chosen for expressing the contrast. The heat and\nthe tempest which overwhelm the dainty voluptuaries, and are harmless to\nthe deed-worthy, express the true wisdom of virtue, even for this world,\nwhich moves not at our will; and the gentle healing kindness of the wiser\nto the less wise, whom they equalize with themselves, might almost seem\nprofoundly to signify the recovery to the better wisdom of those who had\nset out with choosing amiss--a gracious hidden Christian lesson of charity\nand penitence. The contact of the simply human spectatress with beings\nbrought from the world of imagination, is boldly designed. Here is no\nDream. She walks down from her own house into the wood, and the vision\ncomes and goes, in all the strength of true flesh and blood. The\nsolitariness of her stealing out from a sleepless bed, \"about the\nspringing of the day, long or the brighte sonne uprisen was\"--therefore,\nwhilst common mankind lie buried in sleep--is all the saving partition\nthat the poet has deigned betwixt the coarse and harsh Real and the\nsplendid Unreal. As for the poetical working-out--the descriptive\nnarrative--it is elaborate and full of beauty. The natural scene is\npainted with exquisite sensibility to the influences of nature, and with\nsuch determinate strokes as show a conversant eye. For example, the mixed\nand illuminated spring-foliage, the\n\n              ----\"levis new\n  That sprongin out _agen the sonne shene_:\n  Some _very rede_, and some a _glad light_ grene,\"\n\nwould seem fresh and vivid from the hand of Coleridge or Tennyson--and the\n\n            ----\"path of _litil brede_,\n      ----that _gretly had not usid be_,\n  For it _forgrowin was with gras and wede_,\"\n\n--which beguiles the foot of the vision-favoured away from the usual beat\nof men, leading her into the unvisited sequestration due to the haunting\nof an embodied Allegory--might, in its old simplicity, pass for well\ninvented by whichsoever Priest of Imagination in our day can the best\nread, in the Sensible, the symbolized Spiritual and Invisible.\n\nYou wonder withal, if Chaucer was the poet, how the spectator was turned\ninto a spectatress; and you are somewhat concerned at finding an unwilling\nword of the judicious Tyrwhitt's, which owns to a doubt on the authorship\nof the most beautiful minor poem, admitted into the volume of Chaucer.\n\nDryden felt the effusion of beauty, and has rendered and enhanced it. One\nmay question the fitness of a material alteration which he has ventured\nupon. The allegory of the old Poem is pure. Dryden has changed the Knights\nand Ladies, collectively, into Fairies; for any thing that appears,\nindeed, of good human stature. The thought came to him apparently as\nmaking the beauty more beautiful, and possibly as obtaining, to an\notherwise indefinite sort of imaginary beings, a known character and a\nrecognized hold upon poetical--succeeding to popular--belief. A\ncontradiction is--that the company of the Leaf have, in emphatic and\nchosen terms, been described as INNUMERABLE. The laurel is of such\nenormous diffusion, that A HUNDRED persons might repose under it. Yet IT\nSHELTERS THEM ALL FROM THE STORM.\n\nIt is also singular to us, that the Margarete or Daisy should suffer any\nslight from Chaucer, seeing the reverence with which he elsewhere regards\nit. It is here, too, no doubt raised into reverence by the observance of\nthe Flower party; but then it suffers disparagement inasmuch as they are\ndisparaged.\n\nTruly does the amiable Godwin say--\"In a word, the Poem of Dryden,\nregarded merely as the exhibition of a soothing and delicious luxuriance\nof fancy, may be classed with the most successful productions of human\ngenius. No man can read it without astonishment, perhaps not without envy,\nat the cheerful, well-harmonized, and vigorous state of mind in which the\nauthor must have been at the time he wrote it.\"\n\n    \"Now turning from the wintry signs, the sun\n  His course exalted through the Ram had run\n  And whirling up the skies, his chariot drove\n  Through Taurus, and the lightsome realms of love,\n  Where Venus from her orb descends in showers\n  To glad the ground, and paint the fields with flowers;\n  When first the tender blades of grass appear,\n  And buds, that yet the blast of Eurus fear,\n  Stand at the door of life, and doubt to clothe the year;\n  Till gentle heat, and soft repeated rains,\n  Make the green blood to dance within their veins:\n  Then, at their call, embolden'd, out they come\n  And swell the gems, and burst the narrow room;\n  Broader and broader yet their blooms display,\n  Salute the welcome sun, and entertain the day.\n  Then from their breathing souls the sweets repair\n  To scent the skies, and purge the unwholesome air.\n  Joy spreads the heart, and with a general song,\n  Spring issues out, and leads the jolly months along.\n    \"In that sweet season, as in bed I lay,\n  And sought in sleep to pass the night away,\n  I turn'd my weary side, but still in vain,\n  Though full of youthful health, and void of pain.\n  Cares I had none to keep me from my rest,\n  For love had never enter'd in my breast;\n  I wanted nothing fortune could supply,\n  Nor did she slumber till that hour deny.\n  I wonder'd then, but after found it true,\n  Much joy had dried away the balmy dew:\n  Seas would be pools, without the brushing air\n  To curl the waves, and sure some little care\n  Should weary nature so, to make her want repair.\n    \"When Chanticleer the second watch had sung,\n  Scorning the scorner sleep, from bed I sprung;\n  And dressing by the moon, in loose array,\n  Pass'd out in open air, preventing day,\n  And sought a goodly grove, as fancy led my way.\n  Straight as a line in beauteous order stood\n  Of oaks unshorn, a venerable wood;\n  Fresh was the grass beneath, and every tree,\n  At distance planted in a due degree,\n  Their branching arms in air with equal space\n  Stretch'd to their neighbours with a long embrace;\n  And the new leaves on every bough were seen,\n  Some ruddy-colour'd, some of lighter green.\n  The painted birds, companions of the spring,\n  Hopping from spray to spray, were heard to sing.\n  Both eyes and ears received a like delight,\n  Enchanting music, and a charming sight.\n  On Philomel I fix'd my whole desire,\n  And listen'd for the queen of all the quire;\n  Fain would I hear her heavenly voice to sing,\n  And wanted yet an omen to the spring.\n    \"Attending long in vain, I took the way,\n  Which through a path, but scarcely printed, lay;\n  In narrow mazes oft it seem'd to meet,\n  And look'd as lightly press'd by fairy feet.\n  Wand'ring I walk'd alone, for still methought\n  To some strange end so strange a path was wrought;\n  At last it led me where an arbour stood,\n  The sacred receptacle of the wood;\n  This place unmark'd, though oft I walk'd the green,\n  In all my progress I had never seen;\n  And seized at once with wonder and delight,\n  Gazed all around me, new to the transporting sight.\n  'Twas bench'd with turf, and goodly to be seen,\n  The thick young grass arose in fresher green:\n  The mound was newly made, no sight could pass\n  Betwixt the nice partitions of the grass;\n  The well-united sods so closely lay,\n  And all around the shades defended it from day;\n  For sycamores with eglantine were spread,\n  A hedge about the sides, a covering over head.\n  And so the fragrant briar was wove between,\n  The sycamore and flowers were mix'd with green,\n  That nature seem'd to vary the delight,\n  And satisfied at once the smell and sight.\n  The master workman of the bower was known\n  Through fairylands, and built for Oberon;\n  Who twining leaves with such proportion drew,\n  They rose by measure, and by rule they grew;\n  No mortal tongue can half the beauty tell,\n  For none but hands divine could work so well.\n  Both roof and sides were like a parlour made,\n  A soft recess, and a cool summer shade.\n  The hedge was set so thick, no foreign eye\n  The persons placed within it could espy;\n  But all that pass'd without with ease was seen,\n  As if nor fence nor tree was placed between.\n  'Twas border'd with a field; and some was plain\n  With grass, and some was sow'd with rising grain,\n  That (now the dew with spangles deck'd the ground)\n  A sweeter spot of earth was never found.\n  I look'd, and look'd, and still with new delight,\n  Such joy my soul, such pleasures fill'd my sight;\n  And the fresh eglantine exhaled a breath,\n  Whose odours were of power to raise from death.\n  Nor sullen discontent, nor anxious care,\n  Even though brought thither, could inhabit there;\n  But thence they fled as from their mortal foe;\n  For this sweet place could only pleasure know.\n  Thus as I mused, I cast aside my eye,\n  And saw a medlar-tree was planted nigh.\n  The spreading branches made a goodly show,\n  And full of opening blooms was every bough:\n  A goldfinch there I saw with gaudy pride\n  Of painted plumes, that hopp'd from side to side,\n  Still pecking as she pass'd; and still she drew\n  The sweets from every flower, and suck'd the dew.\n  Sufficed at length, she warbled in her throat,\n  And tuned her voice to many a merry note,\n  But indistinct, and neither sweet nor clear,\n  Yet such as sooth'd my soul and pleased my ear.\n    \"Her short performance was no sooner tried,\n  When she I sought, the nightingale, replied;\n  So sweet, so shrill, so variously she sung,\n  That the grove echo'd and the valleys rung;\n  And I so ravish'd with her heavenly note--\n  I stood entranced, and had no room for thought,\n  But all o'erpower'd with ecstasy of bliss,\n  Was in a pleasing dream of Paradise;\n  At length I waked, and looking round the bower,\n  Search'd every tree, and pry'd on every flower,\n  If any where by chance I might espy\n  The rural poet of the melody;\n  For still methought she sung not far away:\n  At last I found her on a laurel spray,\n  Close by my side she sate, and fair in sight,\n  Full in a line against her opposite;\n  Where stood with eglantine the laurel twined,\n  And both their native sweets were well conjoin'd.\n    \"On the green bank I sat, and listen'd long;\n  (Sitting was more convenient for the song:)\n  Nor till her lay was ended could I move,\n  But wish'd to dwell for ever in the grove.\n  Only methought the time too swiftly pass'd,\n  And every note I fear'd would be the last.\n  My sight, and smell, and hearing were employ'd,\n  And all three senses in full gust enjoy'd.\n  And what alone did all the rest surpass,\n  The sweet possession of the fairy place;\n  Single, and conscious to myself alone,\n  Of pleasures to the excluded world unknown;\n  Pleasures which nowhere else were to be found,\n  And all Elysium in a spot of ground.\"\n\nThe Lake poets--Heaven bless them!--have one and all--Wordsworth,\nColeridge, Southey--loudly and angrily denied to Dryden a poetical eye for\nnature, quoting in proof some inflated passage or another from his rhyming\nplays. Pope, too, according to them, was blind, and had never seen the\nmoon and stars. Where, we ask, in all the poetry of the Lakes and Tarns,\nis there such a strain--so rich and so sustained--as that yet ringing in\nyour ears? And \"the ancient woman seated on Helmcrag\" answers--\"where?\"\nTrue, the imagery is all in Chaucer. But had not Dryden's heart 'rejoiced\nin nature's joy,' not thus could he have caught the spirit of his master.\nAy--the spirit; for there it is, in spite of the difference of\nmanner--transfused without evaporation or other loss, from the 'rhime\nroial' in which Chaucer rejoiced, into the couplet in which Dryden, in his\nold age, moved like a giant refreshed with gulps of the dewy morn.\nAgain:--\n\n    \"The ladies left their measures at the sight,\n  To meet the chiefs returning from the fight,\n  And each with open arms embraced her chosen knight.\n  Amid the plain a spreading laurel stood,\n  The grace and ornament of all the wood;\n  That pleasing shade they sought, a soft retreat\n  From sudden April showers, a shelter from the heat.\n  Her leafy arms with such extent were spread,\n  So near the clouds was her aspiring head,\n  That hosts of birds, that wing the liquid air,\n  Perch'd in the boughs, had nightly lodging there:\n  And flocks of sheep beneath the shade from far\n  Might hear the rattling hail, and wintry war;\n  From heaven's inclemency here found retreat,\n  Enjoy'd the cool, and shunn'd the scorching heat;\n  A hundred knights might there at ease abide,\n  And every knight a lady by his side:\n  The trunk itself such odours did bequeath\n  That a Moluccan breeze to these was common breath.\n  The lords and ladies here, approaching, paid\n  Their homage, with a low obeisance made,\n  And seem'd to venerate the sacred shade.\n  These rites perform'd, their pleasures they pursue,\n  With songs of love, and mix with measures new:\n  Around the holy tree their dance they frame,\n  And ev'ry champion leads his chosen dame.\n    \"I cast my sight upon the farther field,\n  And a fresh object of delight beheld.\n  For from the region of the west I heard\n  New music sound, and a new troop apppear'd,\n  Of knights and ladies mix'd, a jolly band,\n  But all on foot they march'd, and hand in hand\n    \"The ladies dressed in rich symars were seen,\n  Of Florence satin, flower'd with white and green,\n  And for a shade betwixt the bloomy gridelin.\n  The borders of their petticoats below\n  Were guarded thick with rubies in a row;\n  And every damsel wore upon her head\n  Of flowers a garland blended white and red.\n  Attired in mantles all the knights were seen,\n  That gratified the view with cheerful green:\n  Their chaplets of their ladies' colours were,\n  Composed of white and red, to shade their shining hair.\n  Before the merry troop the minstrels play'd,\n  All in their masters' liveries were array'd,\n  And clad in green, and on their temples wore\n  The chaplets white and red their ladies bore.\n  Their instruments were various in their kind,\n  Some for the boy, and some for breathing wind;\n  The sawtry, pipe, and hautboy's noisy band,\n  And the soft lute trembling beneath the touching hand.\n  A tuft of daisies on a flowery lea\n  They saw, and thitherward they bent their way;\n  To this both knights and dames their homage made,\n  And due obeisance to the daisy paid.\n  And then the band of flutes began to play,\n  To which a lady sang a virelay;\n  And still at every close she would repeat\n  The burden of the song, _The daisy is so sweet_.\n  _The daisy is so sweet_, when she begun\n  The troop of knights and dames continued on.\n  The concert and the voice so charm'd my ear,\n  And sooth'd my soul, that it was heaven to hear.\"\n\nO bardlings of Young England! withhold, we beseech you, from winsome\n_Maga_, your verse-offerings, while thus the sons of song, evoked from the\nvisionary land, coming and going like shadows, smile to let drop at her\nfeet the scrolls of their inspiration. Poetry indeed! \"You lisp in\nnumbers, for the numbers come.\" But in big boobies a lisp is only less\nloathsome than a burr. Some of you have both, and therefore deserve to\ndie. Readers beloved! prefer you not such sweet, strong strains as these\nsounded by Dryden, when he had nearly counted threescore and ten? \"Yet was\nnot his natural force abated\"--while his sense of beauty, instructed and\nrefined by meditations that deepen amongst life's evening shades, became\nholier within sight of the grave. You will thank us for another quotation;\nfor much do we fear, O lady fair! that thou hast no copy of Dryden in thy\n_boudoir_, and yet life is fast flowing on with thee, for thou art--nay,\nthere's no denying--yea, thou art--in thy twentieth year--and _if you\ncontinue to refuse our advice_--will soon be an old woman.\n\n    \"The Lady of the Leaf ordain'd a feast,\n  And made the Lady of the Flower her guest:\n  When lo! a bower ascended on the plain,\n  With sudden seats adorn'd, and large for either train.\n  This bower was near my pleasant arbour placed,\n  That I could hear and see whatever pass'd:\n  The ladies sat with each a knight between,\n  Distinguish'd by their colours, white and green;\n  The vanquish'd party with the victors join'd,\n  Nor wanted sweet discourse, the banquet of the mind.\n  Meantime the minstrels play'd on either side,\n  Vain of their art, and for the mastery vied.\n  The sweet contention lasted for an hour,\n  And reach'd my secret arbour from the bower.\n  The sun was set; and Vesper, to supply\n  His absent beams, had lighted up the sky:\n  When Philomel, officious all the day\n  To sing the service of th' ensuing May,\n  Fled from her laurel shade, and wing'd her flight\n  Directly to the queen array'd in white;\n  And hopping, sat familiar on her hand,\n  A new musician, and increased the band.\n    \"The goldfinch, who, to shun the scalding heat,\n  Had changed the medlar for a safer seat,\n  And hid in bushes 'scaped the bitter shower,\n  Now perch'd upon the Lady of the Flower;\n  And either songster holding out their throats,\n  And folding up their wings, renew'd their notes;\n  As if all day, preluding to the fight,\n  They only had rehearsed, to sing by night.\n  The banquet ended, and the battle done,\n  They danced by starlight and the friendly moon:\n  And when they were to part, the laureat queen\n  Supplied with steeds the lady of the green,\n  Her and her train conducting on the way,\n  The moon to follow, and avoid the day.\"\n\nWhatsoever merit of thought or of poetry may be found in the poems of\nwhich we have spoken, the world has rightly considered the CANTERBURY\nTALES as the work by which Chaucer is to be judged. In truth, common\nrenown forgets all the rest; and it is by the Canterbury Tales only that\nhe can properly be said to be known to his countrymen. Here it is that he\nappears as possessing the versatility of poetical power which ranges from\nthe sublime, through the romantic and the pathetic, to the rudest\nmirth--choosing subjects the most various, and treating all alike\nadequately. Here he discovers himself as the shrewd and curious observer,\nand close painter of manners. Here he writes as one surveying the world of\nman with enlarged and philosophical intuition, weighing good and evil in\neven scale. Here, more than in any other, he is master of his matter,\ndisposing it at his discretion, and not carried away with or mastered by\nit. Here he is master, too, of his English, thriftily culling the fit\nword, not effusing a too exuberant stream of description. Here he has\nacquired his own art and his own style of versification, which is here to\nbe studied accordingly. Well therefore, and wisely, did Tyrwhitt judge,\nwhen undertaking to rescue the \"mirrour of Rethoures alle\" from the dust\nand rust of injurious time, he laid out his long and hard, but not\nuncheerful labour upon the Canterbury Tales alone.\n\nEvery soul alive knows something of them--but not very many more than\nStothard, in his celebrated Picture, has informed their eye withal. Their\nplan ranks them among works which are numerous, early and late, but which\nrather belong to early literature. East and West such are to be found, but\nthey belong rather to the Oriental genius. A slender narrative, the\ncontainer of weightier ones--a technical contrivance, which gave to a\nnumber of slighter compositions, collectively taken, the importance of a\ngreater work--which prolonged to the tale-teller who had once gained the\near of his auditory his right of audience--and which, in a world where the\ntongue was more active in the diffusion of literature than the quill,\nafforded to each involved tale a memorial niche that might save it from\ndropping entirely away into oblivion.\n\nTo Chaucer, the scheme serves a higher purpose of art, which of itself\nallies him to the higher poets. By it he is enabled to comprehend, as if\nin one picture, a more diversified and complete representation of\nhumanity. The thought is genial and sprightly. A troop of riders, who have\nbeen stirred severally from their firesides by the searching spirit of\nspring, have casually fallen into company, and who pace along, breathing\nan air which \"sweet showers\" have embalmed--exhilarated by the brightening\nradiance of \"the young sun,\" and made loquacious by the very power which\npours out the song of the glad birds from the newly-leaved boughs by the\nlong wayside.\n\nAnd who are the riders? And what is the charm that has drawn together a\ncompany of thirty to ride on the same road at the same hour of the same\nday? The suddenly-spun band of a union that will be as hastily dissolved,\nsquares happily with the large purpose of the poet, by unforcedly bringing\ntogether persons of both sexes, and of exceedingly diverse conditions,\nhigh, low, learned, unlearned, military, civil, religious, from city and\nfrom country, land and sea, of unlike occupations, buoyant with youth,\ngrave with years. The momentary tie has poetical vitality, from the fact\nthat it is borrowed from the heart of the time and of England. They are\nPilgrims from all quarters to the shrine of England's illustrious and\nfavourite Saint, the martyr of Canterbury. They have gradually mustered\ninto cavalcade in coming up from the shires to the metropolis, one\nexcepted--the Poet. He falls into their party, by the hap of sleeping the\nnight preceding the journey out from the capital at the same inn, in the\nsuburb towards Canterbury--Southwark.\n\nThe specific incitement of the Tale-telling is thus invented in a natural\nspirit, and aptly to the vivacity of the whole conception. Mine host of\nthe Tabard, Henry Bailey, a hearty fellow no doubt, since Chaucer has\nthought his name worthy of his immortalizing, contrives the proceeding,\nand this half in good fellowship, and half in the way of his trade. To\nshorten the tediousness of the road, he proposes that each of them shall\ntell, on the way to Canterbury, one tale, and on the way back,\nanother--or, for here the poem a little disagrees with itself, two tales\ngoing and two returning; and that he or she who tells the best tale shall\nhave, on their return, a supper, for which all the others shall pay, and\nwhich of course, he, Henry Bailey, shall provide. Upon these terms he\nwill, without fee, perform the part of their conductor to Canterbury and\nback again. In assenting, the Pilgrims constitute him the judge of the\ntales; and thus mine host, with his joyous temper, courtesy, where\ncourtesy needs, worldly sense, rough, sharp, and ready wit, and\nunappealable dictatorship in all matters of the commonwealth, becomes a\ndramatic person of the very first consequence, the animating soul of the\npoetical action; and who, continually stepping in between the finishing of\none tale and the beginning of the next, organically links together the\notherwise disunited and incomposite Series.\n\nThe General Prologue contains, as was unavoidable, besides the scheme of\nthe poem, the description of the several Pilgrims, and constitutes in\nitself, by the versatile feeling with which the portraits are seized, by\nthe strength, precision, peculiarity, liveliness, rapidity, and number of\nthe strokes with which each is individualized--a masterpiece of poetical\npainting. One lost generation of Old England moves before us in the warmth\nand hues of life.\n\nThe Knight, his son the Squire, his servant the good Yeoman--a gallant\nthree--the Clerke of Oxenford, the \"poure Person of a toun,\" and his\nbrother the Ploughman, are, each in his estate, of thorough worthiness,\nand are all, accordingly, drawn in a spirit of full affection. The\nPrioress and the Franklin are laughed at a little--she for the pains she\ngives herself to display her _imitative_ high breeding, and for--only\nthink it!--A.D. 1489--her SENTIMENTALITY!--he for his love of a\nplenteously-spread board, and for his \"poignant sauces!\" But the two are\ngood at heart; and the satire of the poet leaves to them undisturbed their\nplace in your good esteem. His other men of some condition--the Monk, the\nFriar, the \"Sergeant of the Lawe,\" the Merchant, the \"Doctour of\nPhysike\"--he lashes with a more vigorous wrist. But not like a\nfarce-monger, who, to gain your laugh, must utterly abase his characters,\nand make them merely ridiculous. The hunting Monk wants nothing but his\nhood off to be a distinguished country squire. He is \"_a manly man_ to be\nan abbot able!\" and, if he keeps greyhounds, they are \"as swift as fowl of\nflight.\" And look but at his horse's points and condition! The rascal of a\n\"Frere,\" if, by his perseverance and persuasiveness in begging, he\nimpoverishes the county, is a noble post of his order, and well beloved\nand familiar with franklins, and with worthy women. The Merchant has an\nassumed air of importance--magnifies his gains--thinks the protection of\nthe sea betwixt the ports from which his vessels run the first duty of\ncivilized governments--and keeps his wit set upon the main chance. But\nthat is the worst of him--\"For sothe he was _a worthy man_ withalle.\" The\nLawyer is at the top of his profession--wise, witty, perfect in statutes\nand in precedents, high in honours. What are his faults? You can hardly\ntell. There is a slight ostentation of wisdom. He has got a deal of money\ntogether--he is full of business--but he \"_seems_ yet busier than he is.\"\nThe Doctor, too, is an excellent physician. He calls the stars in to his\naid. But that may be Chaucer's belief, not his mirth. He knows the\ndisease, and has the remedy at command. To be sure, he and his\napothecaries understand one another. He is learned in a thousand books;\nbut not in THE BOOK. Gold is of high esteem in medicine as a cordial.\nTherefore he loves gold.\n\nWhy go on? Like Shakspeare, Chaucer portrays men in a spirit of humanity.\nHe paints his fellows; and, if he is amused with our follies, he prefers\nshowing the fairer side of our nature. Even the merry, warm-blooded Wife\nof Bath, with her five wedded husbands, earns some goodwill of us by her\njoyous and invincible spirit. Imagine the daring, the vigour, and the\nstirring wit of the west-country cloth-manufacturess, who cannot rest easy\ntill she has been three times in pilgrimage to Jerusalem!\n\nThere is a visible purpose of keeping up the RESPECTABILITY of the\ncompany. If the MILLER, the COKE, the REVE, and the SOMPNOUR, stand on a\nsomewhat low step of the social stair--the HABERDASHER, the CARPENTER, the\nWEBBE (Weaver)--the DYER and the TAPISER--who are lumped in the poet's\ndescription--\n\n  \"Were al yclothed in ye liveree,\n  _Of a solempne and gret fraternitee_.\n\n      *       *       *       *\n\n  _Wel semed ech of hem a fayr burgeis_,\n  _To sitten in a gild halle_, ON THE DEIS.\"\n\nThey are of wisdom qualifying them to stand for Aldermen of their wards.\nTheir wives are 'ycleped Madame'--take precedency in going to vigils--and\nhave\n\n  ----\"A mantel reallich (_i.e._ royally) yborne.\"\n\nEven our honest friend the Southwark innkeeper, Henry Bailey, has an air\nof dignity thrown over him. He was\n\n  \"A semely man--\n  For to have ben _a marshal in an halle_.\n  _A large man_ he was, with eyen stepe,[30]\n  _A fairer burgeis is ther non in Chepe_.\n  Bold of his speche, and wise and _wel ytaught_,\n  And of manhood him lacked righte nought.\"\n\nMoreover, even that chief of poetical Taverns, the TABARD, is designated\nas\n\n  \"This _gentil_ hostelrie.\"\n\nNo wonder! since\n\n  \"The _chambres and the stables weren wide_,\n  And _wel we weren esed_ ATTE BESTE.\"\n\nThe Tales are, in some respect, like an extension of the Prologue. They\ncarry out the characters, or the spirit of the characters, there drawn.\nThus, if the chivalry of the time is impersonated, in respect of its\nvalour, honour, and courteous demeanour, in the Knight, in his Tale it\nmounts into poetical aspiration, and shines out in regal splendour. The\ncontrast, due to the different years of the father and the son, is in part\ndisappointed by the cross destiny which has\n\n          ----\"left half-told\n  The story of Cambuscan bold.\"\n\nThe youthful fancy, dipped or drenched in romance, of the twenty-year old\nSquire, shows itself, indeed, in the two sections which we have of his\nchivalrous narrative. The Sword, which, with its edge, hews through all\narmour, and with its \"plat\" heals the else incurable wounds of its own\ninflicting--the Mirror, which discloses the plotting of the kingdom's\nenemies, the truth or disloyalty of a distant lover--the Ring, which\nenables its wearer to understand the \"leden\" of all birds, and to answer\nthem in the same--and the marvellous Horse of Brass, which, with turning\nof a pin, and with a whisper in the ear, carries his rider whither he\nwould through the air, vanishes and comes with a wish, and, farthermore,\nbehaves and comports himself wholly after the best fashion of a\nhorse;--these four gifts from the King of Arabie and Inde to the Tartar\nking and his daughter, transport us, as with a flight of the magical\ncourser himself, into the deep, wild, and mystical heart of that region,\nunplaced by geographers, explored by the host of dreamers, Romance. So,\nthe love-story of the forsaken Bird, with whom the Ring brings the\nPrincess acquainted, is Eastern, is amorous, is high-fantastical, fit for\nthe 'lover and lusty bacheler,' who\n\n  ----\"Coude songes make, and well indite,\n  Juste and eke dance\"--\n\nand stands off in complete distinction from the love-debate, with\nargumentation and with arms, of Palamon and Arcite. What is it, then, that\nwe would have more? Truly, we fear, that for once we are half\nunreasonable. The Tale, with beginning, middle, and end, to satisfy the\nheart of Aristotle, in the Knight's mouth--and the finely-begun fragment\nin the Squire's--are, by their temper, allied and opposed, quite up to the\ndramatic propriety of the two speakers. What would we have more? Simply\nthis, that Chaucer, by carrying to an end the unfinished fiction in the\ntone in which he has begun it, should have demonstrated himself the master\nof his art, which, by his project, he seems to be. The Knight's is a\nlove-tale, as well; but there is, in the love-story, an involving of\npolitical interests, which, together with the known historical names, or\nsuch as are so reputed, tempers the romantic, confers a gravity, and mixes\nin a tone of the world's business that suits the sedate reason, and the\nvarious observation of the veteran warrior, tried in high services. It\nwould have been a pleasant feat of poetical understanding and skill,\nespecially for that unpractised day, if a second equally gallant recital\nof love and war--long and complex it would, by the intimations thrown out,\nhave been--could have been pursued throughout its natural evolutions and\nvicissitudes, as resolutely as thus far it is, upon its own meet\nself-sustained wing. It would have been! Oh, vex not the shade of the true\nMaker with saucy doubts and fears! \"Call up Him!\" Yes--were there\nevocations of such potency; but \"call Him\" in the simplicity of your soul,\nbecause he has moved in you the lawful desire of hearing--because you\nlong, insatiably, to know what was done, found, suffered, enjoyed, by\nCambalo, Algarsif, Canace: which none other segger, disour, maker, harper\nand carper, that shall ever arise shall have wit to tell you--not because\nyou would fain sit in the chair of criticism, awarding or withholding the\npalm of dramatic skill, claimed by Dan Geffrey. Ay! \"call up Him!\" But\ncall up no substitute for Him.\n\nThe Sergeant of Laws' Tale, and the Clerke of Oxenford's, have an\naffinity. Each describes a tried wife, an exemplar for all her sex, two\nperfectly pure-souled women. And nothing is more honourable to Chaucer\nthan the love with which he has dwelt upon the story of both. Both suffer\nto extremity; but Custance, the Sergeant's heroine, under the hand of\nProvidence, who proves her with strange calamities, and when she has\nwell-endured the ordeal, restores her to deserved happiness. For the\nloving wife, whom the Clerke of Oxenford praises, a loving husband is\npleased to devise a course of sharp assaying, which might have been\nconveniently spared. The manner of telling in the two stories is marked\nwith a difference. In both it is somewhat of the copious kind; and it may\nbe observed, generally, that the style of the narrative, in the\nseven-lined stanza, or \"rime roiall,\" is more diffuse than in the\ncouplets. There is a difference between the two which appears to belong to\nthe characters of the speakers. The Man of Law has not a few passages of\nexclamatory and apostrophical moral and sentimental rhetoric. They compel\nyou to recollect his portrait--\n\n  \"Discret he was, and of gret reverence\n  He _seemed_ swiche, his _wordes were so wise_.\"\n\nThe Clerk has nothing of the kind. The largeness in his manner of\nrelating, is rather an explicit and lucid fulness in representing an\ninteresting subject, than what is properly called diffuseness. Chaucer has\nsaid of him--\n\n  \"Not a word spake he more than was nede;\"\n\nand you will see accordingly, that although he _details_ his narrative,\nevery word, in its place, is pertinent and serviceable. He ends with a\nfreak, which carries him, you are disposed to think, out of his character.\nHe has related, after Petrarch, the story of patient Griseldis, with\nbeautiful earnestness and simplicity. He has conducted her through all the\ntrials which the high-born lord thought good to lay upon the low-born\nwife, has displayed and rewarded her inimitable \"wifly pacience,\" and then\nconfesses, that not being imitable, neither is it intended that it should\nbe imitated. In short, he \"stints of ernestful matere;\" and to \"gladen\"\nhis audience, ends with \"saying them a song,\" in six quaintly-rhymed\nstanzas, in which he counsels the wives to stand upon the defensive\nagainst their husbands, and take all natural care of themselves--\n\n  \"Be ay of chere as light as lefe on linde,\n  And let _him_ care, and wepe, and wringe, and wail.\"\n\nThe ironical counsel does not belie the moral of the story; but it comes\nunexpectedly from him whom the Hoste has called upon for his tale, with\nremarking, that he \"rides as still and coy as a maid newly espoused sits\nat her bord.\"\n\nThe Franklin has at home a graceless cub and heir of his own. If good\nliving were one and the same thing with holy living, this should the less\neasily have happened. The Franklin is wonderfully captivated with our\nyoung Squire's breeding, grace, and eloquence. The contrast brings his own\n\"burdane\" painfully into his mind, and wrings from him a mortified\nexclamation. The old man, with his sanguine complexion, and his beard\n\n  \"White as is the dayesie,\"\n\nhas--notwithstanding the sharp censorship which he exercises over his\ncook--a heart in his bosom. The pleasure with which he has heard the\nSquire, vouches as much; and more decisively so does the story, which he\nhimself tells from the old Breton lays; another story of a virtuous wife,\nstrangely tried, of all the three the most strangely. Her husband, a\nknight, is on a voyage, and she takes a horror of the perilous rocks that\nedge their own shore. Meanwhile, a youthful squire pursues her with love.\nOne day, in a mockery, she promises to grant him his suit if he will\nremove all the rocks in a morning. After some perplexity of thought he\nresorts to an able magician at Orleans; who, for the consideration of a\nthousand pounds, undertakes, and accomplished the feat. Who is now hard\nbestead, but the lady? She, in her strait, consults her husband, who has\nreturned; and the honourable husband says--you must keep your word. The\nsquire comes for his guerdon. \"My husband says that I must keep my word.\"\n\"Indeed!--and shall a squire not know how to do a 'gentil dede,' as well\nas a knight? I release you your promise.\"--He carries L500--all of the\nagreed sum that he can muster to the conjurer, and prays of him time for\nthe rest. \"Have I performed my undertaking?\" \"Yes!\"--\"And the lady\nhers?\"--The squire is obliged to relate the sequence of events.--\"And is a\nclerk,\" exclaims the master, \"less able to do a gentil dede, than squire\nand knight? Keep thy money, Sir Squire!\"\n\nThat is a creditable tale for a country gentleman--\n\n  \"Whose table dormant in the halle alway\n  Stood redy covered alle the longe day.\"\n\nThere is much feeling in the detail of the story, and the magical shows,\nby which the enchanter, before striking his bargain, demonstrates his\ncompetency, and by which he afterwards executes his engagement, are\ndressed out with vivid imagination.\n\nBut now it is really high time that you should hear Dryden on Chaucer. For\nis not this Number IV. of our Specimens of the British Critics?\n\n     \"With Ovid ended the golden age of the Roman tongue; from Chaucer the\n     purity of the English tongue began. The manners of the poets were not\n     unlike: both of them were well bred, well natured, amorous, and\n     libertine, at least in their writings; it may be also in their lives.\n     Their studies were the same--philosophy and philology. Both of them\n     were knowing in astronomy; of which Ovid's _Books of the Roman\n     Feasts_, and Chaucer's _Treatise of the Astrolabe_, are sufficient\n     witnesses. But Chaucer was likewise an astrologer, as were Virgil,\n     Horace, Persius, and Manilius. Both writ with wonderful facility and\n     clearness; neither were great inventors; for Ovid only copied the\n     Grecian fables, and most of Chaucer's stories were taken from his\n     Italian contemporaries, or their predecessors--Boccace his\n     'Decameron' was first published; and from thence our Englishman has\n     borrowed many of his 'Canterbury Tales.' Yet that of _Palamon and\n     Arcite_ was written, in all probability, by some Italian wit, in a\n     former age, as I shall prove hereafter. The tale of _Grisilde_ was\n     the invention of Petrarch; by him sent to Boccace, from whom it came\n     to Chaucer. _Troilus and Cressida_ was also written by a Lombard\n     author, but much amplified by our English translator, as well as\n     beautified; the genius of our countrymen, in general, being rather to\n     improve an invention than to invent themselves, as is evident not\n     only in our poetry but in many of our manufactures. I find I have\n     anticipated already, and taken up from Boccace before I come to him;\n     but there is so much less behind; and I am of the temper of most\n     kings, who love to be in debt, are all for present money, no matter\n     how they pay it afterwards; besides, the nature of a preface is\n     rambling, never wholly out of the way, nor in it. This I have learned\n     from the practice of honest Montaigne, and return at my pleasure to\n     Ovid and Chaucer, of whom I have little more to say. Both of them\n     built on the inventions of other men; yet since Chaucer had something\n     of his own, as _The Wife of Bath's Tale_, _The Cock and the Fox_,\n     which I have translated, and some others, I may justly give our\n     countryman the precedence in that part; since I can remember nothing\n     of Ovid which was wholly his. Both of them understood the manners;\n     under which name I comprehend the passions, and in a larger sense the\n     descriptions of persons, and their very habits. For an example, I see\n     Baucis and Philemon as perfectly before me as if some ancient painter\n     had drawn them; and all the pilgrims in the _Canterbury Tales_, their\n     humours, their features, and their very dress, as distinctly as if I\n     had supped with them at the Tabard, in Southwark. Yet even there,\n     too, the figures of Chaucer are much more lively, and set in a better\n     light; which, though I have not time to prove, yet I appeal to the\n     reader, and am sure he will clear me from partiality. The thoughts\n     and words remain to be considered in the comparison of the two poets,\n     and I have saved myself one-half of that labour by owning that Ovid\n     lived when the Roman tongue was in its meridian; Chaucer, in the\n     dawning of our language; therefore, that part of the comparison\n     stands not on an equal foot, any more than the diction of Ennius and\n     Ovid, or of Chaucer and our present English. The words are given up,\n     as a post not to be defended in our poet, because he wanted the\n     modern art of fortifying. The thoughts remain to be considered; and\n     they are to be measured only by their propriety; that is, as they\n     flow more or less naturally from the persons described on such and\n     such occasions. The vulgar judges, which are nine parts in ten of all\n     nations, who call conceits and jingles wit, who see Ovid full of\n     them, and Chaucer altogether without them, will think me little less\n     than mad, for preferring the Englishman to the Roman. Yet, with their\n     leave, I must presume to say, that the things they admire are only\n     glittering trifles, and so far from being witty, that in a serious\n     poem they are nauseous, because they are unnatural. Would any man who\n     is ready to die for love, describe his passions like Narcissus; would\n     he think of _inopem me copia fecit_, and a dozen more of such\n     expressions, poured on the neck of one another, and signifying all\n     the same thing? This is just John Littlewit, in 'Bartholomew Fair,'\n     who had a conceit (as he tells you) left him in his misery; a\n     miserable conceit. On these occasions, the poet should endeavour to\n     raise pity; but, instead of this, Ovid is tickling you to laugh.\n     Virgil never made use of such machines when he was moving you to\n     commiserate the death of Dido; he would not destroy what he was\n     building. Chaucer makes Arcite violent in his love, and unjust in the\n     pursuit of it; yet when he came to die, he made him think more\n     reasonably: he repents not of his love, for that had altered his\n     character; but acknowledges the injustice of his proceedings, and\n     resigns Emilia to Palamon. What would Ovid have done on this\n     occasion? He would certainly have made Arcite witty on his\n     deathbed;--he had complained he was farther off from possession by\n     being so near, and a thousand such boyisms, which Chaucer rejected as\n     below the dignity of the subject. They who think otherwise, would by\n     the same reason prefer Lucan and Ovid to Homer and Virgil, and\n     Martial to all four of them. As for the turn of words, in which Ovid\n     particularly excels all poets, they are sometimes a fault, and\n     sometimes a beauty, as they are used properly or improperly; but in\n     strong passions always to be shunned, because passions are serious,\n     and will admit no playing. The French have a high value for them; and\n     I confess they are often what they call delicate, when they are\n     introduced with judgment; but Chaucer writ with more simplicity, and\n     followed nature more closely, than to use them. I have thus far, to\n     the best of my knowledge, been an upright judge betwixt the parties\n     in competition, not meddling with the design nor the disposition of\n     it; because the design was not their own; and in the disposing of it\n     they were equal. It remains that I say something of Chaucer in\n     particular.\n\n     \"In the first place, as he is the father of English poetry, so I hold\n     him in the same degree of veneration as the Grecians held Homer, or\n     the Romans Virgil. He is a perpetual fountain of good sense; learned\n     in all sciences, and therefore speaks properly on all subjects. As he\n     knew what to say, so he knows also when to leave off, a continence\n     which is practised by few writers, and scarcely by any of the\n     ancients excepting Virgil and Horace. One of our late great poets is\n     sunk in his reputation because he could never forgive any conceit\n     which came in his way, but swept like a drag-net great and small.\n     There was plenty enough, but the dishes were ill sorted; whole\n     pyramids of sweetmeats for boys and women, but little of solid meat\n     for men. All this proceeded, not from any want of knowledge, but of\n     judgment. Neither did he want that in discerning the beauties and\n     faults of other poets, but only indulged himself in the luxury of\n     writing; and perhaps knew it was a fault, but hoped the reader would\n     not find it. For this reason, though he must always be thought a\n     great poet, he is no longer esteemed a good writer; and for ten\n     impressions which his works have had in so many successive years, yet\n     at present a hundred books are scarcely purchased once a twelvemonth;\n     for as my last Lord Rochester said, though somewhat profanely, 'Not\n     being of God, he could not stand.'\n\n     \"Chaucer followed nature every where, but was never so bold to go\n     beyond her; and there is a great difference of being _poeta_ and\n     _nimis poeta_, if we may believe Catullus, as much as betwixt a\n     modest behaviour and affectation. * * *\n\n     \"He must have been a man of most wonderful comprehensive nature,\n     because, as it has been truly observed of him, he has taken into the\n     compass of his _Canterbury Tales_ the various manners and humours (as\n     we may now call them) of the whole English nation, in his age. Not a\n     single character has escaped him. All his pilgrims are severally\n     distinguished from each other; and not only in their inclinations,\n     but in their very physiognomies and persons. Baptista Porta could not\n     have described their natures better, than by the marks which the poet\n     gives them. The matter and manner of their tales, and of their\n     telling, are so suited to their different educations, humours, and\n     callings, that each of them would be improper in any other mouth.\n     Even the grave and serious characters are distinguished by their\n     several sorts of gravity; their discourses are such as belong to\n     their age, their calling, and their breeding; such as are becoming of\n     them, and of them only. Some of his persons are vicious, and some\n     virtuous; some are unlearned, or (as Chaucer calls them) lewd, and\n     some are learned. Even the ribaldry of the low characters is\n     different; the Reeve, the Miller, and the Cook, are several men, and\n     distinguished from each other as much as the mincing Lady Prioress,\n     and the broad-speaking gap-toothed Wife of Bath. But enough of this;\n     there is such a variety of game springing up before me, that I am\n     distracted in my choice, and know not which to follow. It is\n     sufficient to say, according to the proverb, that here is God's\n     plenty. We have our forefathers and great-granddames all before us,\n     as they were in Chaucer's days; their general characters are still\n     remaining in mankind, and even in England, though they are called by\n     other names than those of monks, and friars, and canons, and\n     lady-abbesses, and nuns; for mankind is ever the same, and nothing\n     lost out of nature, though every thing is altered. May I have leave\n     to do myself the justice, (since my enemies will do me none, and are\n     so far from granting me to be a good poet, that they will not allow\n     me so much as to be a Christian, or a moral man,) may I have leave, I\n     say, to inform my reader, that I have confined my choice to such\n     tales of Chaucer as savour nothing of immodesty. If I had desired\n     more to please than to instruct, the Reeve, the Miller, the Shipman,\n     the Merchant, the Sumner, and, above all, the Wife of Bath, in the\n     prologue to her tale, would have procured me as many friends and\n     readers as there are beaux and ladies of pleasure in the town. But I\n     will no more offend against good manners. I am sensible, as I ought\n     to be, of the scandal I have given by my loose writings; and make\n     what reparation I am able, by this public acknowledgment. If any\n     thing of this nature, or of profaneness, be crept into these poems, I\n     am so far from defending it, that I disown it, _totum hoc indictum\n     volo_. Chaucer makes another manner of apology for his broad speaking\n     and Boccace makes the like; but I will follow neither of them.\"\n\nAn English reader is likely to have held his way through the Palamon and\nArcite of Dryden, ere arriving at the knight's Tale of Chaucer. It will\nnot easily happen that he overleaps that Version, so full of the fire and\nvigorous grace which he delights in, and couched in the very choicest of\nthat English on which his ears habitually feed, to introduce himself all\nat once to the antique and to him obsolete Original. The pure impression,\ntherefore, with which he would read the Tale in its proper place, if he\nthere first got acquainted with it, is hardly to be obtained. No matter!\nForget Dryden, and plunge yourself into Chaucer.\n\nBe surprised, if you can, as you surely will be amused, at encountering\nthe inextricable commixture of manners, usages, tones, thinkings, and\nspeakings, which time and space have done their best at keeping\nasunder--the chivalry of modern Europe, and of the middle ages,\ntransplanted into the heroic age of old Greece, and to the Court of\nTheseus, \"Duk of Athenes.\" Be surprised and amused, but do not therefore\nlay the book out of your hand, or laugh the old master to scorn, or do him\nother than reverent and honourable justice. Take rather the story to\npieces, convince yourself step by step how strangely at every turn the old\nworld and the new, the Christian and the Heathen, are confounded together,\nand feel at every step how the vitality which the good poet has infused\ninto his work, reconciles and atones discordancies and discrepancies; and\nin spite of the perplexing physiognomy, how that must needs be one body\nwhich is informed and actuated, through all its joints and members, by one\nspirit.\n\nTake in pieces the story--untwist the intertwined classical and romantic\nthreads. Make sure of the fault, and then hasten to forgive it. The fault!\nAre you quite sure that it is one? Recollect that it is not Chaucer who\nrelates the Knight's Tale. Chaucer is here a dramatic poet, and his Knight\nrelates his own tale. What!--Shall he, who has \"full often time the bord\nbegun,\"--\n\n  \"Aboven alle natiouns in Pruce;\"\n\nwho has \"reysed in Lettowe, and in Ruce,\" has been--\n\n  \"In Gernade at the siege\n  Of Algesir, and ridden in Belmarie;\"\n\nwho was--\n\n  \"At Leyes and at Satalie,\n  When they were wonne; and in the Grete See,\n  At many a noble armee;\"--\n\nhe who has been at--\n\n  \"Mortal battailes fiftene,\n  And foughten for our faith at Tramisene,\n  In listes thries, and ay slain his fo\"--\n\nshall he, upon the qualm of a queasy criticism, not be allowed to transfer\nsomething of the\n\n                  \"Chevalrie,\n  Truth and honor, fredom and courtesie,\"\n\nwhich, \"from the time that he first began to riden out,\" he has\nloved--across a gap of a few hundred leagues and years? To what end else,\nit may be asked, has he approved himself, \"full worthy in his lordes\nwerre,\" and \"ridden thereto no man ferre,\"--\n\n  \"As well in Christendom as in Hethenesse,\n  And ever honor'd for his worthinesse?\"\n\nWhy, the Knight would have been no knight at all if he had been Richard\nBentley or John Milton, and not, as there is every reason to hope he was,\n_le noble et vaillant Chivaler_ MATHEU DE GOURNEY, whose marble tells us\nthat he had fought at Benamaryn and Algezire, and been at abundance of\nbattles and sieges, named and unnamed, in Christendom and\nHeathenesse--\"_en les quex il gaigna noblement graunt los et honour_\"--and\nwho \"died in 1406 at the age of 96.\" It is therefore Sir Matheu de Gourney\nwho speaks, like a knight, of knighthood--and let him speak--\n\n  \"Who never yet no vilainie ne sayde,\n  In all his life unto no manere wight.\"--\n\nLet him speak, justifying his eulogist, and showing us, as well as may be\nby his words, what his deeds showed the world, that--\n\n  \"He was a veray parfit gentil knight!\"\n\nThe first transaction that is related with some full process, is the\nchivalrous enterprise of Theseus against Creon; King of Thebes. This\ndispiteous and abominable tyrant prohibits the bodies of the warriors\nfallen in the celebrated siege of that city from burial. The widows of the\nslain princes and nobles move Theseus for vengeance and redress, which he\ninstantly undertakes, and forthwith executes. And now mark the admixture\nof times and manners. In the first place, the heinousness of the crime,\nand even the imagination of such an impiety, are purely antique, as, in\ntruth, the fact itself is on classical record in the \"Antigone\" of\nSophocles. Again, the suppliant, bereaved, and woebegone wives have\nawaited Theseus's coming \"in the temple of the goddess Clemency,\" than\nwhich nothing can be more classical; and the manner in which, at his\nreturn home from his victorious war upon the \"Amasones,\" the sorrowful\ncompany receive him, kneeling by two and two clothed in black, along the\nhighway, might persuade you that Sir Matheu had read the OEdipus\nTyrannus, and successfully imitated OEdipus's dolorous and picturesque\nreception in the streets of Thebes, by the kneeling, plague-smitten\npopulation of the city.\n\nOn the other hand, the claim of redress at the hand of the warrior carries\nyour imagination to the interesting volumes of St Palaye; and clearly\nrefers to the obligation by which the knight, at his investiture, bound\nhimself to redress all wrongs, especially those of the ladies. And Theseus\nis nothing slack in acknowledging the obligation. He dismounts, takes them\neach and all up in his arms,\n\n  \"And swore his oth, _as he was trewe knight_,\"\n\nthat he will do his endeavour that the world shall applaud the chastising\nof the \"false king.\"--Again, when the one day's demolishing fight has\ngiven Creon to death, and his Land into Theseus's hand, and the two right\nHeroes of the Tale, the Theban cousins, Palamon and Arcite, are dragged\nout, half-alive and half-dead, from the heap of the slain, the \"herauds\"\nknow them, by the \"cote-armoure,\" to be of the blood-royal. Of course,\nthey are designated \"knights.\"--Again: Theseus will take no ransom for\nthem. That is perhaps, indifferently, ancient or modern; but it sounds to\nour ears rather modern, that he shuts them up in a high tower, which\noverlooks the Garden of his Palace.\n\nBut now we plunge into the bosom of our own Heroic times. To do observance\nto the May is a rite that we find continually occurring in the poetry of\nthe middle ages. It is on May morning that Emelie, going into the garden\nto gather flowers, and wreathe for herself a coronal, is first seen by the\ntwo captive Theban kinsmen. Again, when Arcite, liberated by the\nintervention of Pirithous, has returned, and is living unrecognized in the\nservice of Theseus, it is precisely upon the same occasion of going into\nthe wood to gather \"grenes\" for May morning, that he falls in with\nPalamon, who has the night before broken prison, and hides himself during\nthe day in the forest--which encounter leads to their set encounter in\narms the next day, and so to the interruption of their duel by Theseus\nhimself, and so to all the consequent course of events. Whatever the true\nrites of returning May may have been, in classical antiquity, the\nobservance comes into this tale from the manners of mediaeval Europe, not\nof ancient Greece.\n\nWith what glad and light ritual, the Athenians, in the first years after\nthe war of the Seven Chiefs against Thebes, did homage to their king and\nqueen of the May, we do not remember to have seen distinctly described. At\nthis day the young folk of old Hellas parade the streets, shouting the\nclassical [Greek: chelidonisma], or song of the swallow, on the 1st of\nMarch. The Romans held their Floralia from the 28th of April to the 1st of\nMay, danced and sang, and had games, and crowned themselves with garlands\nand with flowers. Nevertheless, you instinctively feel that the singularly\ngraceful picture of Emelie, called up from slumber by the dawning May\nmorning, and proceeding to pluck in the royal garden the dew-fresh and\nbright materials of her own coronal, owes nothing to the lore of books,\nbut is breathingly imaged from some gracious original of our own good\nfourteenth century. You remain assured, that the trustworthy poet records\nhis own proper love-experience in adjusting the occasion that is to vivify\nwith a new passion the dolorous prison of the two Thebans, and turn the\nsworn brothers-in-arms into rivals at deadly feud with each other. That\nrougher age of the world--rude the day was not that produced and cherished\nChaucer--had this virtue, that the grown-up men and women were still, by a\npart of their heart, children. The welcoming-in of the May is described by\nthe old poets in different countries of Europe as a passion--seizing upon\nyoung and old, high and low. All were for the hour children--children of\nnature. When, therefore, that love at first sight, which immediately\nbecomes a destiny to the two kinsmen, governing their whole after-life, is\nin this manner attached by our poet to the visit made upon this occasion\nby Emelie to the garden which their tower overlooks, the reader is\nentitled to understand that the poet does for him the very best thing any\npoet can do, that he infuses into his poetical dream his own pulsating\nlife-blood.\n\nThe immense joy and universal jubilee of nature, called out by the annual\nrenewing of warmth, light, life, and beauty, and the share and the\nsympathy of man in the diffusive and exuberant benediction, fix themselves\nand take form in stated and ordered celebrations all the world over. It\nseems hard to deny to any nation the rejoicing on the return of summer.\nAll have it. Yet certainly Chaucer paints from his own experience, and not\nfrom erudition. The poem of \"The Cuckou and the Nightingale\" is a mere\nextolling of love and the May. The exordium is a sort of incidental hymn\nto the Love-god, and runs into affirming and arguing at some length the\npeculiar energy of his dominion in this month.\n\n  \"And most his might he shedeth ever in May.\"\n\nThe Complaint of the Black Knight--love is his complaint--falls in May.\nThe unhappy lover has built himself a lodge or bower in the greenwood,\nwhether with returning May he withdraws himself from all feasts,\nsocieties, and throngs of men, to dedicate himself to love-mourning, and\nwhere, under the trees, whilst the month of love lasts, he remains\nabandoned to his love-martyrdom. That 'Dreme of Chaucer,' which has been\nsupposed, although Tyrwhitt thinks fancifully, to refer to the marriage of\nJohn of Gaunt with the Lady Blanche, happens as he lay alone on a night of\nMay thinking of his lady. The opening of the Flower and Leaf puts you in\ndoubt whether you are not rather in April than in May; but by and by you\nfind that the nightingale has been all the day long singing the service of\nMay. All this amorous and poetical caressing of the May discovers, in the\ntwice resting the process of events in \"The Knight's Tale\" upon the\nobservance of May-day, a significancy otherwise perhaps less evident.\nShakspeare, in the verse--\n\n  \"As full of spirits as the month of May,\"\n\nexpresses the natural ground which ceremony and eulogy, solemn or quaint,\nhave artificially displayed in the usages of old times, and in the poetry\nof Chaucer.\n\nBut to return to our two knights. They are _brothers-in-arms_--by the by,\nrather a romantic, than a classical institution--and so pledged to help\none another in love; and the question arises, as the ground of a long\nargument, which is traitor to the other. Yet here, too, is intermixed the\nclassical with the romantic. For Palamon, who first sees Emelie, takes her\nfor the goddess Venus; on which Arcite ingeniously founds his own plea,\nthat _he_ first loved her as a woman, and so is entitled to the help of\nthe other. Their silent arming of one another, for mortal duel, in the\nforest, each\n\n  \"As frendly as he were his owen brother,\"\n\nreminds you of chivalrous loyalty and faith; although it would be hard to\ndeny that the antique warriors might have been as honest. But the truth\nis, that in Homer every knight arms himself, and the two Thebans must have\nworn modern armour to need this help. And yet here what a classical relief\nin the simile of the hunter! Of all transplantation from the modern to the\nancient, tempered nevertheless with antiquity, their great listed Duel\nstands foremost. Take it, with all the circumstances that introduce it.\nWhilst the kinsmen are fighting, Theseus rides up, \"pulled out a sword,\nand cried, Ho!\" This is the language of the 14th century, and the western\nside of Europe. But he swears by \"mighty Mars,\" that the first who strikes\nanother stroke shall lose his head. Both are liable to death. Palamon for\nhaving broken prison, and Arcite, because his avoiding Athenian ground on\npain of death was an original condition of his liberation. Theseus'\nchallenge to them, \"Tell me who ye are that are so bold as to fight here\nwithout judge or officer,\" is the manner of the poet's day. In the time of\nTheseus, fighting in a wood near Athens was free to all the world.\n\nWhat saves them? The interposition of the ladies! Queen, princess, court\nand all, who think it a pity two gallant young \"gentil men\" of \"gret\nestat\" shall die, and all for love. The duke is moved; for pity soon melts\nin a \"gentil herte.\" And he appoints a regular Tournament--that at the\nyear's end they shall meet, each bringing a hundred knights, and fight it\nout. He pledges himself 'upon his troth, and as he is a knight,' that he\nwho shall slay his adversary, or 'out of listes him drive,' shall have\nEmelie to wife.\n\nThe lists are--from the hint of antiquity--a regular Amphitheatre, a mile\nabout--walled, and the seats in steps to the height of sixty paces. Art\nand wealth have been lavished in making the field worthy of the fight.\nOver the Eastern gate is an altar and an \"Oratorie\" to Venus--over the\nWestern, to Mars--on the North side is one to Diana. The description of\nthe three Fanes is of surpassing power. Among the portraitures in that of\nMars is the Suicide, for whom the relater, poet or knight, forgets himself\nin his vivid conception, and says that he _saw it_.\n\nThe allies of the two knights are both classically and romantically\nchosen. With Palamon comes \"Licurge, the grete king of Trace.\" That is\nclassical. With Arcite \"the grete Emetrius, the king of Inde.\" That is\nromantic. The persons of the two kings are described at large, with great\nstrength and fecundity of painting. And here again, in the way of art, the\ncontrast is admirably sustained and effective. Licurge is the older, more\nuncouth, and giant-like. The youthful Emetrius is more splendid and\nknightly. Both are thoroughly regal and formidable. Licurge is\nblack-bearded, for the sake of more savage effect; wherefore the monarch\nof Inde, contrariwise to the actual distribution of races over the earth,\nor more properly speaking to the known influence of climate, is fair. His\ncrisp and ringed locks are yellow, and glitter like the sun. His\ncomplexion may trouble the physiologists; but is not likely to discompose\nthe poetical reader under the tuition of Christopher North. The \"foure\nwhite bolles\" that draw the 'char of gold' upon which the Thracian\n_stands_, are as antique as you can devise. The tamed eagle as any lily\nwhite, which Emetrius carries \"for his deduit\"--therefore, in lieu of a\nhawk upon his hand, is of manners that are almost our own.\n\nEach king brings his own hundred knights. They arrive \"on the Sonday\nabouten prime.\" The tilting will be next day. The three persons\nprincipally interested in the issue of the impending combat perform, in\nthe interval, their devotions at the three several shrines, which have\nbeen aptly provided for them in the building of the lists. Each of them\nobtains an answer from the respective deity. Two hours ere the day,\nPalamon visits the oratory of Venus. He prays that he may win Emelie,\nalthough he should lose what comparatively he regards with indifference,\nthe palm of the conflict. The statue of the goddess renders, after a long\ndelay, the signal of acceptance. Emelie, at sunrise, worships Diana. Her\nfirst prayer is, that she may remain till death the virgin servant,\nherself a huntress, of the divine huntress; and if that may not be, that\nhe may win her who best loves her. Upon the altar she kindles two fires,\nwhich burn ominously. One goes out and revives again. Then the other is\nwholly quenched--drops of blood falling out from the hissing and burning\nbrands. All this the process of the combat and its consequences afterwards\nelucidate; as the appearing goddess forewarns her chaste worshipper. The\n'nexte hour of Marte'--whereof anon--Arcite offers prayer and incense to\nthe God of War. He is accepted, and victory promised; but the oracular\nvoice murmurs the words faintly and hollowly.\n\nAll this intricate omination comes forcibly out in the sequence of events;\nand is in itself, as you feel, at all events right classical. The\ntreatment of the Hours lies deeper. It is astrological. For the twelve now\nlonger and now shorter hours, into which the time from sunrise to\nsunset--and the twelve now shorter and now longer, into which the time\nfrom sunset to sunrise was divided, belonged to the Seven Planets, in the\norder Saturn, Jupiter, Mars, Sol, Venus, Mercury, Luna--by following out\nwhich order, you will discover that, since the first hour of Sunday\nbelongs to the Sun, giving name to the day--the twenty-third hour, or the\nsecond before sunrise of the following day, will belong to Venus, to whom\nPalamon then prays--and the hour of sunrise, next day, belongs to the\nMoon, or Diana, to whom Emelie then addresses herself. Following the\ncircle, you find that the fourth hour of Monday belongs to Mars. This is\nArcite's hour. And if you wonder how such Chaldaic and Egyptian lore\nshould come into your tale of chivalry, you will be relieved by\nunderstanding that these dedications had, in our poetical ages, due\npopularity for infusing into them a poetical efficiency; forasmuch as an\nold French \"Shepherds' Calendar,\" cited by Tyrwhitt, alleges the very rule\nwhich we have given, for the instruction of him \"who will weet how the\nShepherds do wit which planet reigneth every hour of the day and of the\nnight.\" This timing, therefore, of sacrifice and orison to the planetary\nhours, is pertinently and speakingly feigned by Chaucer.\n\nThe Tournament follows, which is mediaeval enough. Arcite, according to the\npromise of Mars, is victorious. Palamon is taken and bound. But here is\nthe difficulty. Venus has promised Emelie to Palamon. Saturn, the [Greek:\nagchylometis], finds a remedy, and gratifies his grand-daughter. As\nArcite, the victor, having taken off his helmet, rides along the lists to\nshow himself to all, and especially to Emelie, Pluto, at the request of\nSaturn, sends an infernal fury who starts up out of the ground before him.\nThe scared horse plunges and stumbles; Arcite is thrown upon his head, and\ntaken up for dead. He is not dead; but he dies, and is burned, after the\nfashion of Patroclus and Hector; and twelve months after, his virgin widow\nis by Theseus given in marriage to Palamon.\n\nWhat is the real effect of all this commixture? The truth is, that under\nsuch circumstances, after a little resistance and struggling, you give in,\nand let the poet have his own way, provided that he is a poet. There is\nbut one condition--that the poet put, into whatever manners, true life.\nThen you willingly give up your own dull book-learning, and accept his\npainting for the authentic record of reality. You are, in fact, gradually\nconducted to this pass, that you look upon history as useful for\nministering materials to poetry, not upon poetry as bound to teach\nhistory. But Chaucer _has_ wonderfully put life into the classical part of\nthe poem, so that you can hardly say that he seems more at home in giving\nthe manners which he had seen, than in reviving the manners which he had\nonly read. He has this in common with Shakspeare. In common with\nShakspeare he has, too, the apology for the confusion of manners--of\nhaving lived before we were as critical in the costume of ages and nations\nas we now are.\n\nThe 'Knight's Tale,' after the requisition usually laid upon an epic\nfable, makes use, and skilfully, of preternatural machinery. And here we\nwill venture a vindication against an illustrious critic. The first\nsuggestion to the banished Arcite of returning to Athens, comes to him in\nsleep. There is a slight invoking of the supernatural--at least of the\nfabulous. He dreams that Mercury appears, and announces to him an end of\nhis woe at Athens. On awaking, he casts his eyes on a mirror, and sees\nthat he is so changed with love-pining that he no longer knows\nhimself--goes in disguise to Athens, offers himself to serve in the\nhousehold of Emelie, and is accepted. Sir W. Scott blames this\nintroduction of Mercury as needless, but let it be remembered:----\n\n_First_, That this is introductory to far more important divine\ninterpositions, is in keeping with them, and prepares the imagination for\nthem.\n\n_Secondly_, That, so managed, it is the least violent intervention of a\ngod; the apparition being ambiguous between a natural dream and a real\ndivine manifestation: an ambiguity which, by the by, is quite after the\nantique. So, Mercury appears to AEneas in a dream in the Fifth Book of the\nAEneid: and compare Hector's Ghost, &c.\n\n_Thirdly_, That a psychological fact may be understood as here \"lively\nshadowed:\"--namely, that active purposes have often their birth during the\nmystery of sleep; and it would be a very felicitous poetical expression of\nthis phenomenon to turn the oracular suggestion of the soul into a\ndeity--_Sua cuique_ DEUS _fit dira cupido_.\n\n_Fourthly_, It is completely probable, that the fancy of a believer in\nMercury would actually shape his own dreaming thought into the suitable\ndeity.--The vision is lightly touched by Chaucer, and gracefully\ntranslated by Dryden. The classical inventions throughout appear to be\nvery much from Boccaccio; but the poetry of the relation Chaucer's own.\n\nDo you wish to see Dryden in his majesty? Look here:--\n\n    \"But in the dome of mighty Mars the red,\n  With different figures all the sides were spread.\n  This temple, less in form, with equal grace,\n  Was imitative of the first in Thrace:\n  For that cold region was the loved abode,\n  And sovereign mansion of the warrior god.\n  The landscape was a forest wide and bare,\n  Where neither beast nor human kind repair;\n  The fowl that scent afar, the borders fly,\n  And shun the bitter blast, and wheel about the sky.\n  A cake of scurf lies baking on the ground,\n  And prickly stubs, instead of trees, are found;\n  Or woods with knots and knares deform'd and old,\n  Headless the most, and hideous to behold;\n  A rattling tempest through the branches went,\n  That stripp'd them bare, and one sole way they bent.\n  Heaven froze above severe, the clouds congeal,\n  And through the crystal vault appear'd the standing hail.\n  Such was the face without; a mountain stood\n  Threat'ning from high, and overlook'd the wood;\n  Beneath the lowering brow, and on a bent,\n  The temple stood of Mars armipotent;\n  The frame of burning steel, that cast a glare\n  From far, and seem'd to thaw the freezing air.\n  A straight long entry to the temple led,\n  Blind with high walls, and horror overhead;\n  Thence issued such a blast and hollow roar,\n  As threaten'd from the hinge to heave the door;\n  In through that door, a northern light there shone;\n  'Twas all it had, for windows there were none.\n  The gate was adamant, eternal frame!\n  Which, hew'd by Mars himself, from Indian quarries came,\n  The labour of a God; and all along\n  Tough iron plates were clench'd to make it strong.\n  A ton about was every pillar there;\n  A polish'd mirror shone not half so clear;\n  There saw I how the secret felon wrought,\n  And treason labouring in the traitor's thought,\n  And midwife Time the ripen'd plot to murder brought.\n  There the red Anger dared the pallid Fear;\n  Next stood Hypocrisy, with holy leer;\n  Soft-smiling, and demurely looking down,\n  But hid the dagger underneath the gown;\n  The assassinating wife, the household fiend;\n  And, far the blackest there, the traitor-friend.\n  On t'other side, there stood Destruction bare,\n  Unpunish'd Rapine, and a waste of war;\n  Contest, with sharpen'd knives, in cloisters drawn,\n  And all with blood bespread the holy lawn.\n  Loud menaces were heard, and foul disgrace,\n  And bawling infamy in language base,\n  Till sense was lost in sound, and silence fled the place.\n  The slayer of himself yet saw I there,\n  The gore congeal'd was clotted in his hair,\n  With eyes half closed, and gaping mouth he lay,\n  And grim, as when he breathed his sullen soul away.\n  In midst of all the dome Misfortune sate,\n  And gloomy Discontent, and fell Debate,\n  And Madness laughing in his ireful mood;\n  And arm'd complaint on theft, and cries of blood.\n  There was the murder'd corpse in covert laid,\n  And violent death in thousand shapes display'd,\n  The city to the soldiers' rage resign'd,\n  Successless wars, and poverty behind:\n  Ships burnt in fight, or forced on rocky shores,\n  And the rash hunter strangled by the boars;\n  The new-born babe by nurses overlaid;\n  And the cook caught within the raging fire he made.\n  All ills of Mars his nature, flame and steel;\n  The gasping charioteer beneath the wheel\n  Of his own car; the ruin'd house that falls\n  And intercepts her lord betwixt the walls.\n  The whole division that to Mars pertains,\n  All trades of death that deal in steel for gains,\n  Were there; the butcher, armourer, and smith,\n  Who forges sharpen'd faulchions, or the scythe.\n  The scarlet conquest on a tower was placed\n  With shouts, and soldiers' acclamations graced;\n  A pointed sword hung threat'ning o'er his head,\n  Sustain'd but by a slender twine of thread.\n  There saw I Mars his Ides, the Capitol,\n  The seer in vain foretelling Caesar's fall;\n  The last Triumvirs, and the wars they move,\n  And Antony, who lost the world for love:\n  These, and a thousand more, the Fane adorn,\n  Their fates were painted ere the men were born;\n  All copied from the heavens, and ruling force\n  Of the red star, in his revolving course.\n  The form of Mars high on a chariot stood,\n  All sheathed in arms, and gruffly look'd the God:\n  Two geomantic figures were display'd\n  Above his head, a warrior and a maid,\n  One when direct, and one when retrograde.\"\n\n\"The Knight's Tale, the longest and most laboured of Chaucer's stories,\npossesses a degree of regularity which might satisfy the most severe\ncritic. It is true that the honour arising from thence must be assigned to\nthe more ancient bard, who had himself drawn his subject from an Italian\nmodel; but the high and decided preference which Dryden has given to this\nstory, although somewhat censured by Trapp, enables us to judge how much\nthe poet held an accurate combination of parts, and coherence of\nnarrative, essentials of epic poetry.\" This is in Sir Walter's happiest\nnatural vein; not so the astounding passage that follows it. \"_That a\nclassic scholar_ like Trapp should think the plan of the Knight's Tale\nequal to that of the Iliad, _is a degree of candour not to be hoped for_;\nbut surely to an unprejudiced reader, a story which exhausts in its\nconclusion all the interest which it has excited in its progress; which,\nwhen terminated, leaves no question to be asked, no personage undisposed\nof, and no curiosity unsatisfied, _is abstractedly considered more\ngratifying than the history of a few weeks of a ten years' war, commenced\nlong after the siege had begun, and ending long before the city was\ntaken_!\" Why, is not this the true and magnificent praise of the Iliad,\nthat from the heart of the immense war it has taken out a story of\nindividual interest, which begins where your curiosity asks, and where\nyour sympathy finds repose? Achilles--his quarrel with Agamemnon--his loss\nof Patrocles--his vengeance on Hector--accomplished when he willingly\nrelinquishes the body to burial? That is the integrity of an epic fable,\nwhich employs the Ten Years' War, not for its subject, but for the\nillimitable field in which its gigantic subject moves. He was the greatest\nof the poets, who knew how to make the storms, rising and falling, in the\nsingle breast of the goddess-born _more_ to you, his hearer, than the war\nwhich has encamped a hundred thousand Greeks in siege before the imperial\ncity of Priam. From a great poet, the most Homeric of modern poets--what a\njudgment on the Iliad! Trapp's words are--\"Novimus judicium Drydeni de\npoemate quodam Chauceri pulchro sane illo, et admodum laudando, nimirum\nquod non modo vere epicum sit, sed Iliada etiam atque AEneada aequet, imo\nsuperet. Sed novimus eodem tempore viri illius maximi non semper\naccuratissimas esse censuras, nec ad severississimam critices normam\nexactas: _illo judice, id plerumque optimum est, quod nunc prae manibus\nhabet, et in quo nunc occupatur_.\" Perfectly true. What says Dryden? \"It\nis of the epic kind, and perhaps not much inferior to the 'Ilias' or the\n'AEneid.' The story is more pleasing than either of them, the manners as\nperfect, the diction as poetical, the learning as deep and various, and\nthe disposition full as artful, only it includes a greater length of time,\nas taking up seven years at least.\" Godwin says truly, \"This eulogium must\nbe acknowledged to be written in a spirit of ridiculous and impertinent\nexaggeration.\" And he then says as truly, that it is \"full of novelty and\nsurprise, is every where alive, comprises the most powerful portrait of\nchivalry that was perhaps ever believed, and possesses every thing in\nsplendour and in action that can most conspicuously point out the scenes\nof the narrative to the eye of the reader.\" Dryden's version is indeed\nwhat Warton has pronounced it to be--\"the most animated and harmonious\npiece of versification in the English language.\"\n\nIf you ask what reconciles you to the prevalent confusion of manners in\nthis noble poem, it is the earnest simple spirit with which the Knight\ngoes on relating as if he believed every word. It is, as we said, with\nChaucer as with Shakspeare. Shakspeare mixes times of the world, and we\nbear it. Iachimo, a complete modern Italian--a more courtly Iago--serves\nunder Lucius, general to some emperor--we forget which, if we ever\nknew--of old Rome; and beguiles, to the death almost, that Posthumus\nLeonatus--a Celt, by the by, with two Latin names--to whom Jupiter--not\nexactly the supreme deity of the Celto-British Pantheon--descends in\nactual presence. We, the auditors, or the readers, meanwhile, breathe no\nwhisper of doubt or dissatisfaction. Why should we? We believe with eye,\nand ear, and imagination, and heart; and are as fain of our\nwildly-compounded--_real-unreal_--dream, as the birds are of the dawning.\nHamlet, born and bred in the court of our own Elizabeth, and abruptly\ncalled up to Town, on the point of graduating with honours at Oxford, is\nshown to our credulous apprehension rooted upon a soil and in a century\nwhen and where there were no human shapes to be met with but bloodthirsty\nVikings and invulnerable Berserkers. And we take all in excellent part.\nWhy shall we not? We gain past all computation by the slight intellectual\nconcession. Besides, we cannot well help ourselves; for we are not the\nMasters. The enchanter is the Master:--who sets us down, not after the\nsaying of Horace, now in Greece and now in Britain--but in Britain and in\nGreece at one and the same moment.\n\nShakspeare commingles widely divided times; and why, two hundred years\nbefore him, shall not Chaucer? It requires practice to read Chaucer. Not\nonly do you need familiarizing to a form of the language, which is not\nyour own, but much more to a simplicity of style, which at first appears\nto you like barenness and poverty. It seems meagre. You miss too much the\nrich and lavish colours of the later time. Your eye is used to\ngorgeousness and gaudiness. The severe plainness of the old manner wants\nzest for you. But, when you are used to Chaucer, can accept his\nexpression, and think and feel with him, this hinderance wears off. You\nfind a strong imagination--a gentle pathos--no lack of accumulation, where\nneeded--but the crowding is always of effective circumstances or images--a\nplayfulness, upon occasion, even in serious writing--but the special\ncharacteristic of the style is, that the word is always to the purpose. He\namply possesses his language, and his sparing expression is chosen, and\nnever inadequate--never indigent. His rule is, that for every phrase there\nbe matter; and narrative or argument is thus constantly progressive. He\ndoes not appear to be hurried out of himself by the heat of composition.\nHis good understanding completely goes along with him, and weighs every\nword.\n\nDryden's rendering of Chaucer is a totally distinct operation from his\nEnglishing of Virgil--Homer--Lucretius--Juvenal--Ovid. And you are\nsatisfied that it should be so. He could not transfer these poets,\naccomplished in art, and using their language in an age of its perfection,\nwith _too_ close a likeness of themselves. He translates because the\nlanguage is unknown to his presumed reader. This is but half his motive\nwith Chaucer. The language would be more easily got over; but the mind is\nof another age, and that is less accessible--more distant from us than the\nobsolete dialect. We are contented to have the style of that day\ntranslated into the style of our own. Is this a dereliction of poetical\nprinciple? Hardly. The spirited and splendid verse and language of Dryden\nhave given us a new poem. Why should our literature have forborne from so\nenriching herself? Hear Dryden himself.\n\n     \"But there are other judges, who think I ought not to have translated\n     Chaucer into English, out of a quite contrary notion. They suppose\n     there is a certain veneration due to his old language, and that it is\n     little less than profanation and sacrilege to alter it. They are\n     farther of opinion, that somewhat of his good sense will suffer in\n     this transfusion, and much of the beauty of his thoughts will\n     infallibly be lost, which appear with more grace in their old habit.\n     Of this opinion as that excellent person whom I mentioned, the late\n     Earl of Leicester, who valued Chaucer as much as Mr Cowley despised\n     him. My lord dissuaded me from this attempt, (for I was thinking of\n     it some years before his death,) and his authority prevailed so far\n     with me as to defer my undertaking while he lived, in deference to\n     him; yet my reason was not convinced with what he urged against it.\n     If the first end of writer be to be understood, then as his language\n     grows obsolete his thoughts must grow obscure.\n\n         '_Multa renascentur, quae jam cecidere; cadentque\n         Quae nunc sunt in honore vocabula, si volet usus,\n         Quem penes arbitrium est et jus et norma loquendi!_\n\n     \"When an ancient word, for its sound and significancy, deserves to be\n     revived, I have that reasonable veneration for antiquity to restore\n     it. All beyond this is superstition. Words are not like landmarks, so\n     sacred as never to be removed. Customs are changed, and even statutes\n     are silently repealed, when the reason ceases for which they were\n     enacted. As for the other part of the argument--that his thoughts\n     will lose of their original beauty by the innovation of words--in the\n     first place, not only their beauty but their being is lost, where\n     they are no longer understood, which is the present case. I grant\n     that something must be lost in all transfusion--that is, in all\n     translations; but the sense will remain, which would otherwise be\n     lost, or at least be maimed, when it is scarce intelligible, and that\n     but to a few. How few are there who can read Chaucer, so as to\n     understand him perfectly! And if imperfectly, then with less profit\n     and no pleasure. It is not for the use of some old Saxon friends that\n     I have taken these pains with him--let them neglect my version,\n     because they have no need of it. I made it for their sakes who\n     understand sense and poetry as well as they, when that poetry and\n     sense is put into words which they understand. I will go further, and\n     dare to add, that what beauties I lose in some places, I give to\n     others which had them not originally. But in this I may be partial to\n     myself; let the reader judge, and I submit to his decision. Yet I\n     think I have just occasion to complain of them, who, because they\n     understand Chaucer, would deprive the greater part of their\n     countrymen of the same advantage, and hoard him up as misers do their\n     granddam gold, only to look on it themselves, and hinder others from\n     making use of it. In sum, I seriously protest, that no man ever had,\n     or can have, a greater veneration for Chaucer than myself. I have\n     translated some part of his works, only that I might perpetuate his\n     memory, or at least refresh it, amongst my countrymen. If I have\n     altered him any where for the better, I must at the same time\n     acknowledge, that I could have done nothing without him. _Facile est\n     inventis addere_ is no great commendation; and I am not so vain to\n     think I have deserved a greater.\"\n\nYou are an Englishman, and a scholar in your mother-tongue. Good! You have\ndabbled, it may be, in Anglo-Saxon, Alfred's English. It is all very well.\nYou read Chaucer easily. We congratulate you. You will, we hope, love the\nspeech, and the soul, and the green, grassy mould of old England all the\nbetter. We praise you for searching England near and far, high and low. Do\nthis heartily; do this understandingly; and you are excellently engaged.\nBut do not grudge your next neighbour, who is merely a modern\nEnglishman--a thorough good-fellow of one, however--_his_ Chaucer, in a\ntongue and manner that he can read without stepping out of himself--his\nChaucer, for his possession of whom he thanks Dryden, and from his\ngrateful heart ejaculates \"glorious John!\"\n\n\n\n\nMAYNOOTH.\n\n\nIt is due to the character of this Journal, unflinching in its\nConservative politics through one entire stormy generation, that, in any\ngreat crisis of public interest, or in any fervent strife of public\nopinion, it should utter its voice strongly; under the shape of a protest\nand a parting testimony to the truth, where the case practically may be\nhopeless; under the shape of a hearty effort, co-operating with other\nefforts, where the case is _not_ hopeless. There is nothing more\ndepressing to patriotic honour and loyalty than the cowardice of\ndespondency, even when a cause has touched the very brink of defeat; and\nwe believe that no spectacle of firmness is more naturally congenial to\nthe temper of our countrymen, than the fidelity which still makes signal\nof its affection in circumstances desperate for resistance, and which in\nmortal extremities will not relax its hold from a cause once\nconscientiously adopted. Do we insinuate by this that the anti-Maynooth\ncause looks desperate? Our trust is otherwise. But if it were, what we say\nis, that not the less the duty remains sacred of hoping after all light of\nencouragement seems to have departed. This in any case; whilst, in the\npresent, that duty is trebly sacred, because a whole succession of objects\nwill remain upon which our future hopes must retreat, even if this\nforemost intrenchment should be forced. Maynooth will be no _solitary_\naggression on the great cause of Protestanism: that carried, others will\nrapidly follow: their \"aspiring heads\" are already above the horizon; and\nit is necessary to defend the first line in a spirit of gaiety and\nconfidence, were it only that the second line and the third may not be\nabandoned under the contagion of dismay.\n\nOf late this Journal has a good deal retired from the strife of politics.\nOur readers must not misunderstand this. It was not through any treachery\nto that duty of hope which we have been insisting on as sacred: it was\nthrough a change in the public rather than in ourselves. Ireland had for\nsome time narrowed itself into Mr O'Connell; domestic feuds had dwindled\ninto the corn question. Neither of these subjects, it is true, was so\nutterly exhausted that we could not have found something new to say. But\nby the intolerable persecution of much speaking and much writing upon two\nwearisome topics, the public attention at last fell into a mere lethargy,\nfrom which it could not be roused to vibrate or react under any amount of\nstimulation. The audience fell away to nothing as the garrulity of the\nspeakers increased; the public patience languished as its abusers\nmultiplied. Now, however, Ireland is again restored to us as a fountain of\ninterest under a new and most agitating impulse. Never, for many years,\nhas the public mind fermented with so uncontrollable a fervour. Ascendency\nupon one field at least for Popery is now felt to be making a forward\nrush; the balance of the constitutional forces, for a government\nessentially Protestant, is threatened with overthrow; and, if this\nMaynooth endowment prospers, Protestantism will receive a deadly wound in\nthe empire which is, and _has_ been, and by Providence was appointed to\nbe, its main bulwark.\n\nIn speaking to this question, it is our purpose to array briefly before\nthe reader its gravest aspects; to press upon his attention one or two\nwhich have been entirely neglected; to do this with the utmost rapidity\nthat is consistent with distinct explanation of our meaning; but all\nalong, with no purpose of rousing angry prejudices, or appealing to any\none sentiment that a candid man of any one party could describe as\nbigotry. We disapprove entirely, as a needless irritation to Roman\nCatholic feelings, of going back to the Revolution of 1829. If that great\nevent were now pending, instead of being sixteen years in the rear, it\nwould be our duty, at any cost of possible offence in any quarter, to\nspeak of it as our conscience might require us to speak. But, as things\nare, this would be to offer a wanton provocation, utterly useless for any\npractical end, and tending towards the continued alienation of many\nexcellent fellow-subjects. Wrong or right, the policy of \"Emancipation\"\nhas triumphed; the thing is done, and cannot be undone; we must now adapt\nourselves to a system which has become the law of the land. It is in such\na case as with the past errors of a man's life: if he is wise, he will not\nsuffer his energies to waste themselves upon unavailing regrets. To revoke\nthe irrevocable being an effort so manifestly childish, he will apply\nhimself to an effort which is rational, manly, and full of hope--to the\ncorrecting or mitigating of those consequences from his errors which are\nmost threatening for his future welfare.\n\nSocial forms often show the same principle of vitality and reproduction;\nand, after the deadliest convulsions, put forward corresponding tendencies\nto restoration of their natural health and equilibrium. It is one, indeed,\namongst the tests of excellence in any political constitution, that it can\nstand very rude shocks, and that it has internal resources for healing all\ninjuries not organically destructive. Catholic emancipation, whatever\nmight be thought of it if viewed from a station of unlimited power to\nchoose or to reject, must now be reconciled to our minds for better and\nworse; and in peaceable times will gradually adjust itself to the working\nof our political system, settling into the general economy of the machine.\nBut this Maynooth endowment tends to other results. The steps are\ninevitable from this centre to the very outermost periphery that bounds\nthe ambition of Irish Popery; viz. to absolute ascendancy for itself, to\nabsolute overthrow of Protestantism in Ireland, and therefore to ultimate\nseparation of that island from the British empire, so far as the dreadful\neffort is concerned. For we must not overlook the modern symptoms of the\ncase. Formerly, as in 1782 for instance, Ireland dreamed not of any\nfurther advantages than such as could be extorted from the occasional\ndifficulties of England under foreign hostility, and such as should be\nsanctioned by English parliamentary concession. But under the long\nagitation of Mr O'Connell a new party has grown up, which regards\nIreland--however inferior for aggressive war--as strong enough, by means\nof its excessive population, and the local advantages inherent in every\n_possessor_ of the soil, for throwing off the connexion with England.\nIndependence, on the footing of a separate nation, is seriously aimed at\nby the young blood of Ireland; not with a view to any imaginary advantages\nfrom development of native resources or alleviation of taxes, but on the\nsingle excitement of nationality. And by this ultimate object, as\nundoubtedly a favoured object working underground and extensively in the\nIreland of 1845, we must measure the tendencies of an endowment conferred\nby Parliament upon the Popish religion.\n\nRightly to judge of any favour or privilege whatever conceded to Popery,\nwe must consider the position of Popery with respect to the altered\nprospects of the world as it now is, and the duties of Protestantism,\npermanently as well as specially, in relation to the changed and changing\nattitude of our own particular crisis. But these being the capital aspects\nof the case, we will first of all notice those more manageable and\nrememberable topics which are flying abroad upon the popular breath\namongst our antagonists.\n\nIt is alleged that we, the confederate opponents of the grant, are not\nnatural allies. Being heterogeneous, our opposition cannot be cordial. Why\nnot? If comprehensive unanimity, and undistinguishing unanimity, were an\nindispensable condition towards a legitimate confederacy, then it would be\nan impossibility that any combined action of men (which is one main\npurpose of human society) should ever arise. Some of us think it a high\nduty of the state to endow and favour that form of Christianity which the\npredominant opinion (as collected from the _total_ empire) pronounces the\ntrue one. This is our own creed; and it is our further belief that this\nduty is strengthened where not only the general opinion has pronounced\nitself strongly for that particular religious system, but where also the\nhistory and the institutions of the land have unfolded themselves for\ncenturies, and through memorable struggles, under the inspiration of that\nsystem, conforming to it, and receiving its impress. On the other hand,\nconsiderable masses of those who now pull together with ourselves, are\npermanent protesters against all state endowments of any one particular\nchurch; and not only so, but they object to any possible mode of connexion\nbetween the government and the functions of ecclesiastical bodies. What of\nthat? Those are most thoughtless, or else incapable of self-control, who\nat such a moment of common peril remind us of differences utterly\nimpertinent to the question. Can we not abstract? If we are in discord\nupon political points, are we not agreed upon the great interests of our\ncommon Protestantism? Why must we be in harmony further than as to the one\nvast cause which we jointly defend? Upon this logic, Whigs and Tories\nmeeting upon the same deck must not unite to \"sink, burn, and destroy\" the\nenemies of their common country; or two households, Radical and\nConservative, in the same village, must not work the same engine for the\nextinction of a fire which threatens every hearth. As to the case of those\nwho oppose the grant _exclusively_ on the principle of hostility to state\nendowments of religious bodies, all of us see clearly that they travel on\nour road no inch further than it leads to a private purpose of their own,\nand that they will violently wheel away from us at the point where our\npurposes begin to divide. But, in the mean time, our purposes at this\nmoment, and for the instant result, do _not_ divide; and their support is\ngood for so much of the struggle as they are conscientiously able to share\nwith us.\n\nBut surely, say another class of objectors, though it is a pity that the\nIrish are not Protestants, it is better that they should have Popery for\ntheir form of religion than no religion at all. True. And if this were the\nalternative necessity, viz. that, Popery decaying, all religion must decay\nin Ireland; then we also should cordially support any _safe_ mode (but not\n_this_ mode) of raising the standard of education for the priestly\ninstructors of Ireland. But we are not called upon to legislate for that\ndilemma. If, indeed, the case were that of a Popish regiment, it is\nclearly the duty of government to provide a Popish chaplain, and to see\nthat he is properly qualified for his office; because, if you do not open\na regular channel to Popish instructions, you are sure that both\nconscience and worldly honour, paramount principles for cherishing amongst\nsoldiers, will lead them to withdraw from all other instructions. Not\nbeing Papists, the men will become practically infidels. But the case is\nfar otherwise for the Irish people. Government is not summoned to provide\nany part of an improved equipage for an Irish religious establishment.\nThat is done, or done sufficiently. Whether as Protestant or Catholic,\nevery man has access to religious instructions and religious consolations.\nThere is no call to improve the quality of the priestly ministrations;\nfor, considering the quality of the doctrines and usages which are\nessential to Popery, we do not believe that the Irish priesthood is much\nopen to improvement as a machinery for carrying out its own indefeasible\npurposes. To raise the standard of respectability at Maynooth, would not\nalter the character of the creed which Maynooth teaches. And when it is\nsaid that, with a higher education, the Romish priesthood would be more\nlikely to breed schism or incipient reformation within their own order, we\ndoubt greatly as to the interpretation of the facts upon which that\nspeculation is grounded. The Reformation, which shook the sixteenth\ncentury, did not arise, (as we see it alleged,) because Luther or\nMelanchthon was so much above the standard of monkish education. Men quite\nas extensively learned as they, and even more highly endowed by nature,\nhad but the more passionately undertaken the cause of Papal Rome in\nconsequence of those great advantages. Luther was strong in the strength\nof his forerunners. The men of Luther's age _inherited_ the zeal and the\nlight kindled by three centuries of growing truth. And what put the crest\nand plumage upon the aspiring hopes of that period, was the providential\nmadness of Rome, and the towering altitude of her corruptions, which just\nthen, from mercenary causes, soared aloft more audaciously than ever\nbefore. In the present state of the Papal church, and under the new hopes\nwhich we shall point out further on, as just now opening upon her, it is\nmore than ever improbable that any laxity of discipline at Maynooth, or in\nthe general government internally of the Irish church, will be suffered to\nleave openings for heresies to arise. Essentially, Rome is aware that, for\nthe next half century, beyond all the churches of earth, she will be a\nchurch militant. Escaping decay during that critical period from the\nimmense diffusion of _general_ knowledge, [but of knowledge not by any\nmeans concurrently connected with spiritual knowledge]--Rome is likely (as\nwe shall soon argue) to take a prodigious bound forward. And if, on the\nother hand, any great fermentation of truth _should_ commence in the\nPopish church of Ireland, and that a vacuum should thus be created, into\nwhich the priests could no longer carry their minstrations acceptably,\nthat vacuum would be instantly filled by zealous Protestants. Such a\nchange would be so far from leaving any part of the Irish poor denuded of\nspiritual aid, or in any way exposed to the risk of infidelity, (according\nto the objection,) that Protestant help would arise (we are well assured)\nin a ratio more than corresponding to a necessity that must naturally have\nbeen gradual in its development. And thus it would appear--that, by\nstrengthening Maynooth, Government, so far from protecting the people\nagainst the chances of infidelity, would (in the case supposed) have been\nintercepting the fair chances of our own Protestant missions. Besides,\nthat (according to a constant reproach of our antagonists, which they must\nnot be allowed to forget exactly when it furnishes an argument\ninconvenient to themselves,) the _regular_ clergy of the Irish Protestant\nestablishment, having churches (as they insist) without congregations,\nwill always compose a staff large enough to intercept any possible\nexpansion of infidelity that could attend the declension of Popery through\none generation at the least. Fully agreeing, therefore, that Popery is a\nblessing to Ireland by comparison with any risk of no religion at all, we\ndeny firmly that she exposed to such a risk. And if unhappily she were, a\nmost Irish mode of averting that risk it would be--to fortify the claims\nof Maynooth, that last asylum of unhallowed and fraudulent casuistry, a\ncasuistry which, like the traditions of the Scribes and Pharisees, makes\nvoid the pure law of God.\n\nBut a more cogent objection at first sight to us, the opposers of the\nMaynooth grant, seems this: \"In 1796 your party it was that originally\nproposed and founded any grant at all. If it was right then, it is right\nnow. And, as to the increase from nine thousand pounds _per annum_ to\ntwenty-six thousand, that is a consideration for accountants rather than\nfor statesmen; the sum cannot affect the principle.\"\n\nHere are our answers; for there are more points to answer than one.\n\n_First_, It is not true, or near to being true, that the sum at issue\ncould not affect the principle concerned. Many are the cases in which the\nquantities of the objects concerned in acts entirely vary the qualities of\nthe acts. The law itself, which professedly neglects trifles, [_de minimis\nnor curat lex_,] and which, in criminal cases, will not entertain a charge\nwhere the injury is below a certain money amount, shows how essential to\nthe moral estimate of acts is the quantity of the value in issue. Money\nbeing power, quite as much as ever knowledge was power, and much less\nrestrictedly so, there arises with the variations of the sum the largest\nrange of variations in the interpretation of the understanding between the\nparties as to the intention of giver and receiver. That sum is a bribe,\nwhich, divided by ten, is a fair acknowledgment of services performed.\nThat sum in other cases is an insult, which, being centupled, would be an\nhonourable expression of distinguished merit. Nine thousand pounds might\nhave been given, and (if we go back to the facts) really _was_ given as a\ndonation to an abject pauper; whilst an addition of seventeen thousand\nmore may be accepted--and (if we consult the facts) _will_ be accepted--in\nthe haughty spirit of one who affects to regard as a testimony to his own\nmerit what secretly he believes to be offered in trembling propitiation.\nIt was Burke who suggested the first endowment of a Popish College; but\nhow different are acts nominally the same! _His_ motives were the motives\nof a reflecting patriot; Sir Robert Peel's are the motives of a\ncompromiser between adverse interests, whose heart, though honourable as\nregards intentions, does not prompt him to give a preponderating weight to\neither side, however opposed in principle. The _motives_, however, belong\nto our next head. At present, we are dealing with the money amount. It is\nalleged that seventeen thousand added to nine thousand can make no\ndifference as to principle, and that all we, who reverence Burke and Pitt,\nare bound by their precedent. Now to that point the distinct answer\nis--that the nine thousand of Burke and Pitt was given as an eleemosynary\ndole to a body too poor, and at that time too abject, in political\nconsideration, to move jealousy in any quarter. But the sum now asked is\nvery nearly threefold of that fixed by Mr Pitt, and (if we add the\ninterest of the outfit for the new furniture, appointments, &c.) is _more_\nthan threefold. The small sum was given as charity; was given as an\n_annual_ vote; and the large one will be given (if it _is_ given) as an\nendowment in perpetuity to a haughty political interest, to a corrival of\nTrinity college, to a body that _has_ moved jealousy in every quarter, and\nfinally, (which sickens us to recollect,) to a body that will have the\naudacity, in concert with Mr O'Connell, one year after every favour shall\nhave been received, to disown it as a subject for gratitude--acknowledging\nit only as the pledge and monument of English panic.\n\n_Secondly_, As to the motives, these grew out of the perils diffused by\nthe French Revolution. The year 1797, which followed the suggestion of\nthis pecuniary aid to the Irish priests, was the last year of Burke's\nlife. In what light he viewed the contagion from the anti-social frenzy\nthen spreading over Europe, may be seen from the oracular works through\nwhich he spoke his mind both in 1796 and 1797. He was profoundly impressed\nwith the disorganizing tendencies of the principles, but still more of the\nlicentious cravings for change, which from the centre of Paris had crept\nlike a mist over the whole face of Europe. France was in a less tumultuous\nstate then than in 1792-3-4; but, as respected Europe generally, the\naspect of things was worse; because naturally the explosion of frenzy in\nParis during the Reign of Terror, took a space of two or three years to\nreproduce and train the corresponding sympathies in other great capitals\nof the Continent. By 1797, the contagion was mature. Thence came the\nnecessity for some _domestic_ establishment where Irish priests should be\neducated: it was no longer safe that they should resort to St Omers: both\nbecause the unsettled license of thinking upon all things established\nwould form the very worst atmosphere for clerical sobriety; and more\nspecifically because all the Jacobins of the time bore deadly hatred to\nEngland. The priests trained at St Omers, would in fact have become a\ncorps of spies, decoys, and conspirators in the service of France. The\nrebellion of '98 read a commentary on this text. And no policy, therefore,\ncould have been wiser than to intercept such a result by a periodical\ngrant to Maynooth; whilst the requisite dependency of the institution was\nsecured by making the grant annual. Now, however, not only is it proposed\nto make it permanent, which (together with the enlarged amount) totally\nchanges its character, but a greater change still is--that the original\nreason for any grant at all, the _political_ reason, has entirely passed\naway. The objection to a continental education may be strong as regards\nthe convenience of the Irish; but the inconvenience has no longer any\nrelation to ourselves. No air in Europe can be tainted with a fiercer\nanimosity to England than the air of Ireland. In this respect the students\nof Maynooth _cannot_ be more perilously situated. Whilst we all know by\nthe Repeal rent and the O'Connell yearly tribute, that the Irish Papists\ncould easily raise three times the money demanded for Maynooth, if they\nwere as willing to be just in a service of national duty as they are to be\nliberal in a service of conspiracy.\n\n_Thirdly_, Connected with this question of _motives_, arises another\naspect of the case. A college, it may be said, cannot do much in the way\nof modifying the political temper of a country, whether for the better or\nthe worse. If disaffection to the government prevails in Ireland, that may\nargue no participation in such a spirit by the rules of Maynooth. But in\nanother direction, Maynooth cannot plead innocence. The O'Connell\nagitation would at any rate, with or without Maynooth, have distempered\nall public loyalty amongst the lower classes. _They_ could present no\nresistance to influences operating too strongly upon their nationality.\nBut the priestly order, if originally by their training at all adorned\nwith the graces proper to their profession, would not have fallen under\nthe influence of acts so entirely mobbish. Yet we know that by no other\nengine has Mr O'Connell so powerfully operated on the Irish mind as\nthrough the agency of the priests. Not O'Connell moulded _them_ for his\nservice, but they presented themselves ready moulded to _him_; and with\nexceptions so rare as to argue a more extensive secularisation of the\npriestly mind throughout Ireland, than has ever been witnessed in the\nstrongholds of Popery. This early preoccupation by a worldly taint of the\nclerical mind amongst the Irish Catholics, could not possibly have reached\nan excess so entirely without parallel in Europe, unless chiefly through\nprofligate systems of training at Maynooth. In all Ireland there was found\nwith difficulty any specimen of the simple rural pastor (so common in\nFrance) who withdrew himself from political strife. The priest who\nconsidered his spiritual character degraded by partisanship, (no matter in\nwhat service,) was nowhere to be heard of. Wherever Mr O'Connell wanted an\nagent, an intriguer, an instrument for rousing the people, he was sure of\none in the parish priest. Now this fact is decisive upon the merits of\nMaynooth. It matters not what latitude may be allowed to variety of\npolitical views; no politics of _any_ sort can be regarded as becoming to\na village pastor. But allow him to be a politician, how could a priest\nbecome a tool without ruin to his spiritual character? Yet this is the\nMaynooth, training its _alumni_ to two duties, the special duty of living\n_in procinctu_ and in harness for every assault upon the Protestant\nestablishment of their country, and for the unlimited duty of taking\norders in any direction from Mr O'Connell--this is the Maynooth to which,\nfor such merits, we have been paying nine thousand pounds annually for\nexactly fifty years, and are now required to pay three times as much for\never.\n\nBut from these narrower questions, directed to circumstantialities local\nand transitory, we wish to draw the reader's attention upon certain other\nquestions larger and more philosophic. And, first of all, let us say a\nword upon one point continually raised, and not at all limited to Irish\ncases; viz. the latitude allowed by conscience to a Protestant in\npromoting the welfare of Papists, where it happens that the personal\nservice is associated unavoidably with some service to the Popish cause.\nAs individuals, or even as a collective body in the commonwealth, every\nliberal man would wish to protect and to favour his Catholic\nfellow-citizens, if he could do so without aiding them in their natural\npurpose of making proselytes. There are cases undoubtedly in which these\nmixed advantages for the person and for the creed would so blend as to\noffer a difficult problem in casuistry to a delicate conscience. Sir\nRobert Peel in the final debate on the second reading of the Maynooth\nbill, attempted to throw dust in the eyes of the House upon the principle\nconcerned in cases of this nature; and even if he had been right in his\nargument, we believe that he would have gained little for the particular\nquestion concerned in the Maynooth grant. He argued, by way of showing how\nuntenable was the notion that we could not conscientiously support a\nreligion which we believed erroneous, that upon that hypothesis we should\ncut the ground from below our feet in the mode of supporting our own\nreligion. The law of England insists upon the Dissenters paying\nchurch-rates and tithes to the English church; now, argued Sir Robert, the\nDissenter might turn round and plead, in bar of this claim, the English\nchurchman's demur to supporting Popery by supporting Maynooth. But the\ncase accurately stated is--that no English churchman ever _did_ demur to\npaying his quota towards Maynooth; on the contrary, he has paid it quietly\nfor fifty years. What some few churchmen _have_ demurred to was--not\npaying after the law had said \"_pay_,\" but legislating for the payment;\npassing the annual vote for the payment. Now, if a Dissenter happens to be\nin Parliament, he is quite at liberty to make the same demur as to\nchurch-rates; but he makes his demur in the wrong quarter if he addresses\nit to the collector. So again, as regards the increased grant, and the\npermanent grant to Maynooth, if it passes the two Houses, we shall all of\nus pay our share without scruple; neither will our consciences be at all\nwounded, for we pay under the coercion of a distress-warrant, contingent\nupon our refusing to pay. It is the suffering the law to pass, without\nopposing it in one way or other, that _would_ wound our consciences. And,\nagain, the English law does not require a Dissenter to concur in the\npropriety of paying church-rates, it requires him only to pay them.\n\nBut we Protestants, in paying to Maynooth, supposing that we made\nourselves parties to the payment by consenting to the bill, feel that we\nshould be wilfully abetting the propagation of error. It is true that the\nPapist finds himself in the same necessity of contributing to what he\nregards as heresy by contributing to the support of the Protestant\nEstablishment. But if a Protestant resorts to a country, or acquiesces in\na country where Popery is established, he does not complain that he falls\nunder the relation of a tributary to a system which did not seek _him_,\nbut which _he_ sought.\n\nThere are other casuistical points, arising out of these practical\nrelations to systems of religious belief, which are often unskilfully\nmingled with cases like this of Maynooth; but they cannot disguise the\nbroad distinction between the principle in that question and the principle\nin the question of Catholic emancipation. There the object was purely\nnegative, viz. to liberate a body of men from certain incapacities.\nSuccessive penal laws had stripped the Papist of particular immunities and\nliberties. These were restored by emancipation. A defect was made good.\nBut no _positive_ powers were created by that measure. Now, on the other\nhand, when a large revenue is granted, (as by the pending Maynooth grant,)\nthis is in effect to furnish artillery for covering advances upon hostile\nground. This gives positive powers to Popery for propagating its errors.\nThat Sir Robert Peel should hold such a mode of collusion with falsehood\nto be lawful--would be astonishing, were it not that he manifestly\nconfounds the case of promoting, a law by votes, or any mode of active\nsupport, which is a true and substantial assent, with the case of paying\nunder a demand of the law. Now this is no assent at all, any more than the\nsurrendering your person passively to the arrest of a police-officer is an\nassent to the justice of the accusation, or to the reasonableness of the\nlaw under which you will be tried. To pay on the demand of the law is no\nassent at all, but an abridged process of yielding to the physical\ncoercion of the law. You are aware of the steps through which the\ncompulsory action of the law will travel, and it cannot make any\ndifference as to the principle of your submission, that, for the sake of\nsaving time, you yield to the first step, instead of waiting for the last.\nIt is, therefore, no duty of a Protestant, in any circumstances, to abet\nPopery by any mode of support, but only seems to be so by confounding\ncases essentially different.\n\nNext arises for notice, the very interesting question on the prospects of\nPopery at this moment and its chances of a great restoration, by means of\ncombination with various forms of human power. One cause of error upon\nthis subject lies in the notion that conspicuous obscurations of civil\ngrandeur, jurisdiction, and wealth, which Popery has suffered of late\nyears in almost every state, have therefore, been absolute losses of\nspiritual power. On the contrary, these losses are likely to strengthen\nPopery. Precisely in the most bigoted of Popish kingdoms--Austria,\nBavaria, Spain, and Portugal--the Popish religion has been shorn, during\nthe last fifty years, of it most splendid temporalities. The suppression\nof the Inquisition in Spain, &c., the extinction of religions houses on\nso vast a scale, the limitation of the Papal rights in the disposal of\nBishops' sees, the confiscation or sale of church lands, to an amount\nunsuspected in Protestant countries--these and other convulsions have\nshaken the Papacy in a memorable degree. But it is certain that the vigour\nand vitality of Popery, in modes more appropriate to a spiritual power,\nare reviving. Popery has benefited by the removal, however harshly\nexecuted at the moment, of enormous abuses connected sometimes with\nwealth, sometimes only with the reputation of wealth, but in either case\nwith a weight of popular odium. The vessel has righted and become buoyant\nby the sacrifice of masts and rigging. A spirit of activity has again\nmanifested itself in many directions. And with this has concurred a new\nbody of hopes, arising from social accidents in America. Throughout the\ngreat central valley of North America, and along the line of the most\nrecent inroads into the western forests, a great opening has arisen, of\nlate years, for throwing a network of spiritual power over a vast\nterritory that is rapidly unfolding its power and wealth. Through this\nopening has poured, for some years like a spring-tide, a huge host of\nCatholic missionaries. Such was the extensive demand for spiritual\nministration amongst a population multiplying to excess, that _any_ order\nof Christian clergy would have been welcome. Here is a basis laid for\nfuture magnificent development of Popish power. Rome itself has been\nstirred and agitated with the prospect of seeing its energies revive, and\nof reaping a malicious retribution by entering into combination with that\nTeutonic race, from whom, during the last three centuries, she had\nreceived her deadliest wounds. But a doubt arises, whether this very\ncombination will not be more likely to impress a totally new character\nupon the Papal religion. The Saxon energy will be likely to strangle\nPopery, rather than Popery in the long run to pervert that energy. In\nEngland itself, through Oxford, unexpected auguries have dawned upon Rome,\nof a new birth for the pomps of Papal Rome. And exactly at this crisis of\nhope and unlimited anticipation, the splendid endowment of Maynooth,\nsolemnly proposed and vigorously pressed forward by a cautious minister of\nEngland, coinciding also with the spasmodic throes of the Irish people to\nestablish an independent nationality, have doubtless spread through the\ncouncils of the Vatican as much of what will probably be found visionary\nexpectation, as through the hearts of our own Protestant countrymen, they\nhave spread of what equally, we trust, will be converted by this national\ninsurrection against Maynooth into visionary fear.\n\nAnother point we are bound to notice, as error generally diffused--though\nshocking to just logic. It is said, by way of reproach to ourselves--the\nEngland of this day--that we took all the splendid endowments of Oxford,\nCambridge, and so forth, from Roman Catholics; which being so, we are\nbound to make some restoration of the spoils to the Catholics of this day.\nWas there ever heard more complex absurdity? Mark its stages:\n\n1st, If you _had_ taken them from Catholics of the 16th century, how would\n_that_ translate any interest of property in the institutions to people of\nthe nineteenth century, simply as professing the same faith? We took\nvarious spoils about 1780 from Hyder Ali, the sultan of Mysore: in 1799 we\ntook others more costly from his son Tippoo: will that entitle some prince\nof Turkestan, or Bokhara, in the year 2000, to claim these spoils on the\nplea that he is a Mahometan? An interest of inheritance would thus be\nvested in the emptiest of abstractions.\n\n2d, They were _not_ Catholics, in a proper sense, who founded the chief\ncolleges at Oxford, &c. The Roman Catholic faith was not developed fully\nat the period when many were founded: it could not be developed even as a\n_religious system_, until after the great polemic writers, on the one side\nand the other, had drawn out the differential points of doctrine. And when\npartly developed, or showing a tendency to certain conclusions, it was not\nfully _settled_ until the Council of Trent. Next, as a _political\ninterest_, it was not at all developed until between the beginning of\nLuther and the termination of Trent. Impossible it was that it should; for\nuntil a counter-pole existed, until an antagonist interest had arisen,\nthe relations of Popery, whether political or religious, must have been\nindeterminate: as a kingdom surrounded by deserts and trackless forests,\ncannot have its frontier line ascertained.\n\n3dly, If they had been Catholics, in the _fullest_ sense, who founded our\nUniversities, it was not _as_ Catholics that they founded them, but as\ngreat families who had accumulated property under our system of laws; and\nsecondly, as natives of the land. They were _able_ to found universities,\nbecause they had been protected by English laws; they were _willing_ to\nfound universities, because they were of English birth, and loved their\nnative land. The Countess of Richmond, for instance, or Henry VI., in his\ngreat foundations at Eton or Cambridge, or Baliol at Oxford, did not think\nof Popery under any relation to heresy. They thought of it, so far as _at\nall_ they thought of it, in its general abstraction of spiritual\nloveliness; and under that shape it differed not at all from the\nProtestantism of the English church. The temper in which they acted, is a\npledge that they thought of man, and the children of man, not in relation\nto those points in which they differed, but to those above all in which\nthey agreed. They were compatriots of the islanders--they loved\nknowledge--and in those characters, not as Papists, they founded colleges.\n\n4thly, Supposing that in the plenary and controversial sense they _had_\nbeen Catholics who founded our great mediaeval institutions; supposing,\nnext, that they had founded them as Catholics, and _because_ they were\nCatholics; supposing, also, that from them, in that aerial character of\n\"_persons holding a creed_,\" any rights of inheritance could, by leave of\nThomas Aquinas, be imagined metaphysically to descend; lastly, and\nnotwithstanding all this, their establishments had passed into the hands\nof other trustees by due course of law--that is, by legislation under the\ncountersign of king, lords, and commons; that is, by the same title under\nwhich any man whatever, Papist or Protestant, holds any property whatever.\nAre we obliged to settle an annuity upon A B, because he can trace himself\nlineally to a man who held our lands under Edward the Confessor? Yet, by\nthe supposition, A B _can_ prove a relation in blood to the ancient owner,\nthough none at all to the lands. But the Catholics can show no relation\nwhatever either to the foundations at Oxford, or to the blood of the\nfounder. Upon this conceit, if a man could trace his blood to an ancient\nDruid, he would have a _lien_ in law upon all the oak-trees in the island!\n_Risum teneatis?_\n\nWhilst this, however, is a mere vapour of the speculative brain, there is\na final absurdity, less showy in its extravagance, yet in practice more\nmisleading. We cannot allow ourselves, consistently with the rapid\nmovement of our sketch, to do justice to this fallacy; but we will\nindicate its outline. Look back to all the pro-Catholic journals for the\nlast forty years, and you will find it every where appealed to and relied\non as a substantial argument--that, in many states on the Continent,\nCatholics and Protestants sit as assessors on the same bench of judgment;\nact harmoniously as officers, commanders and commanded, in the same\nregiment; meet daily as fellow-students in the same schools and colleges.\nThe inference is--that mere partisanship, deeper bigotry, and no other\ncause whatever, has made it difficult or dangerous for English Protestants\nand Catholics to effect the same coalition. Having no room left for a\nfuller exposure of this delusive representation, we shall here content\nourselves with an illustrative allusion or two. The Moors were expelled\nfrom Spain before any English Catholics became the objects (having\nwilfully _made_ themselves the objects) of something like proscription\nunder English laws. The chasm between the Moors of this day and their\nancestors stretches over more than three centuries. Has that rent closed?\nHave those wounds healed? Is the reader aware of the figurative language,\nunder the symbol of house-door keys, still hanging over Moorish hearths,\n&c., by which, to this hour, the Moors cherish for their children's ears\ndeep vindictive remembrances of their ancient habitations in Spain, and\ntheir haughty vision of a bloody re-entrance? Does the reader imagine that\nan invasion by Moors of Italy or France would move under the same burning\nimpulses as an invasion of Spain? The return of the Moors to Spain would\nbe like the _recoil_ of a catapulta. And, allowing for higher\ncivilization, of the same deep memorial character would have been any\nre-entry of Roman Catholics upon _power_ in England, had it been less\ngradual than the prudence of Parliaments made it. The deep outrages of\nCatholics upon English rights, under the troubled movements amongst the\nthrones of Europe during the century of strife, which made the temptations\nto treason irresistible for vassals of Rome, forced from the Protestants\nsuch stern reactions, as have left with both parties an abiding sense of\nprofound injuries. Attainders to be blotted out, judgments to be reversed,\nburning records of shame for persons and for creed, sculptured in our\nlaws, to trample under foot, are likely to stimulate the malice (calling\nitself the retribution) of lineal descendants, even if there were no\n_estates to reclaim_. And surely those fantastic persons who think, that\nmerely to bear the name or classification of \"_Catholic_\" must confer upon\none, pleading no shadow of a connexion with the founder of a college, some\nclaim to a dividend upon its funds, are not entitled to hold cheap the\nvery different sort of claims, resting upon acknowledged heirship, which\nare now lying amongst the muniments of thousands. It is a record of the\npolitical imbecility, it is to the high _disgrace_, of the continental\nstates, that with most of them Catholics and Protestants _could_ meet in\nthis insipid harmony: it was a harmony resembling the religious toleration\nof people--tolerant, because careless of _all_ religion. Had they, like\nourselves, possessed a constitution of slow growth, a representative\nsystem, a popular mind, all stimulating to noble political feuds,--in that\ncase they would have had high principles like ourselves; they, like\nourselves, would have faced the action and reaction of endless contest;\nand their political progress, like ours, would have been written on every\npage of their history and legislation. It was because they slept and\nsnored for ages with no instincts of fiery political life, that they were\nable, in modern times--Catholics and Protestants--to fraternise in\neffeminate raptures of maudlin sentimentality.\n\nWe apply this last topic specially to our conclusion:--In pointing to the\nyet unappreciated difference between our own feuds with popery and those\nof other nations--which foreign feuds, at the very best, (if they rose at\nall to the grandeur of civil strife,) moved through butchery and violence,\nas in France, not through laws and scaffolds--moved like the uproars of\nAfghans, not like the grand tribunitial contests of ancient Rome--we could\nonly indicate a feature or two of the inexhaustible case. And naturally it\nwas to England that we pointed. But now--but by this Maynooth revolution,\nit is not England that is primarily menaced. Ireland it is upon which that\nevil will descend, which, by the wisdom of Parliament, backed by the\nprotesting tumults of the people, did _not_ descend on England. For\nEngland, Parliament was cautious and retarding in all its steps. The\n\"return of the Heracleidae\" was by graduated movements; and, had it even\nbeen abrupt, a thousandfold greater were the resources for combined\nresistance of Protestants against combined reaction of Papists. But in\nIreland, deeper are the vindictive remembrances, more recent are the\ndeductions of claims to property, and louder the clamours for wide\nresumption; from massacre and counter massacre, from Cromwell, from\nLimerick, from Londondery, from Boyne, from Aughrim, the wounds are yet\ngreen and angry; and the hostile factions have never dissolved their\narray. This is the land into which a Moorish recoil is now threatened. The\nreader understands us to speak of a return--not for the physical men--but\nfor the restored character of supremacy in which they will be able to act\nwith power.\n\n\n_Edinburgh: Printed by Ballantyne and Hughes, Paul's Work._\n\n\n\n\nFootnotes:\n\n[1] _Etudes des Sciences Sociales._ Par J. C. SIMONDE DE SISMONDI. 3 vols.\nParis, 1837.\n\n[2] Viz.:--\n\n    In Ireland,       2,300,000\n    ... England,      1,500,000\n    ... Scotland,       200,000\n                     ----------\n                      4,000,000\n\njust a seventh of the whole inhabitants, who are now about 28,000,000.\n\n[3] Committals for serious crime, in--\n\n                                                     Population of Great\n          England.  Scotland.   Ireland.    Total.   Britain and Ireland.\n\n  1805,     4,605        89       3,600      8,284       15,800,000\n  1819,    14,254     1,380      13,251     28,885       20,600,000\n  1842,    31,369     3,884      21,352     56,605       27,300,000\n\n  --PORTER'S _Parl. Tables and Prog. of the Nation_, iii. 172, 227.\n\nFrom this table it appears, that from 1805 to 1842 the population of the\nempire has advanced from 158 to 273--that is, increased about 70 _per\ncent_; while serious crime has increased from 8 to 56--that is, 700 per\ncent. Crime, therefore, has augmented ten times as fast as the number of\nthe people.\n\n[4] From [Greek: chrema]--\"money, riches.\"\n\n[5] NICOLAI, _dell' Agro Romano_, iii. 167-171. SISMONDI'S _Etudes\nSociales_, ii. 46.\n\n[6] _Ibid_, iii. 153. _Ib._, ii. 44. This part of Sismondi's work, which\nwill be found Vol. ii, pp. 1-74, is highly interesting. We may perhaps, at\na future period, give a detached account of it, under the title of \"The\nCampagna of Rome.\"\n\n[7] The canal by which the waters of the river Guautitlan are carried\nthrough the mountains into the valley of Tula.\n\n[8] The Mexican Ceres, goddess of maize.\n\n[9] Tatli is an Aztec word, signifying father.\n\n[10] Monkish legend.\n\n[11] The dry season.\n\n[12] The best pulque is that of Tacotitlan. Frijolos are a species of bean\nwhich grows in great perfection in the Chinampas, or swimming gardens upon\nthe lake of Chalco.\n\n[13] Tenochtitlan is the ancient name of the valley of Mexico. It is here\nused to designate the capital city.\n\n[14] The _pique_ or _nigua_ is a small but exceedingly noxious insect that\nabounds in some parts of Mexico, especially in the low grounds of Vera\nCruz and Acapulco. It bores holes in the skin and lays its eggs there,\ncausing a violent irritation and sometimes dangerous sores.\n\n[15] A term used in mining operations. A rich vein of silver, or,\ngenerally, success in mining.\n\n[16] In Mexican houses of the more opulent class, a woman-servant is kept\nfor the sole purpose of preparing and baking the tortillas or maize cakes.\nShe is called a tortillera.\n\n[17] _Que se tenga por blanco._ Let him consider himself white. The usual\nform of the emancipation certificates which the Mexican Audiencia was\naccustomed to sell at high prices to the coloured races. These\ncertificates were originally confined to the quadroons and quinteroons,\nand other castes that had only a small admixture of Indian blood.\n\n[18] To dine with St Antonio--on bread and water.\n\n[19] La Virgen de los Remedios was the especial patroness of the Spaniards\nin Mexico. Her picture was found by one of Cortes' soldiers, and she\nproved herself on various occasions a warm partisan of the Spaniards.\nDuring the fight of Otumba, she was seen to hover over the Spanish troops\nand scatter dust in the eyes of the Indians. In other battles she also\nfought against the Mexicans. The Spaniards, out of gratitude, built her a\nchapel. Suddenly, however, to their exceeding sorrow, her portrait\ndisappeared. Half a year elapsed, and then an Indian, in stripping an aloe\nplant, found the picture between leaf and stem. It was carried in triumph,\nand so grateful did the Virgin show herself for this attention, that she\nsent an abundant rain, which happened just then to be greatly needed. In\nconsideration of the innumerable miracles she had wrought in their favour,\nthe Spaniards chose her for their patroness, and gave her the command of\ntheir armies. She struggled valiantly against the Virgin of Guadalupe,\nwhom the Mexicans had elected to be their leader.\n\nThe original and miraculously discovered picture of the Virgin of\nGuadalupe is preserved in her magnificent church, two leagues from Mexico.\nIt is on coarse bast, canvass made up of the fibres of the agave, but in a\nmagnificent frame, and was found soon after the conquest of Mexico on a\nbarren hill, by an Indian whom strains of heavenly music attracted\nthither. The Indian related the circumstance to the archbishop, who\nrefused to credit it; whereupon the discoverer repaired to the hill a\nsecond time, and saw the harmonious picture lying amongst a heap of roses.\nIt spoke to him, and commanded him to return to the archbishop, which he\ndid, and now found him as eager to believe as he had before been\nincredulous. The prelate greeted the picture with the title of Our Lady of\nGuadalupe; a chapel was built, and this Virgin was finally promoted to be\npatroness of Mexico. Her complexion being of a brown colour, she was\nconsidered to watch more particularly over the aborigines.\n\nWhen Hidalgo, after raising the standard of revolt, was excommunicated by\nthe archbishop, and in danger of being abandoned by his followers, he had\nthe fortunate idea of placing himself and his army under the guardianship\nof the Virgin of Guadalupe. An enormous banner was got ready, with a\npainting of that Virgin upon it; she was declared field-marshal and\ngeneral-in-chief, pay allotted, and obedience sworn to her. She held her\nappointment for fourteen years--till 1824.\n\n[20] White and blue were the colours of the ancient Mexicans and of the\npatriots. The Spaniards adopted them for the clothing of their\nexecutioners.\n\n[21] The blue cloak was worn by the nobility, the brown by the lower and\nmiddling classes in Spain and Mexico.\n\n[22] _Curly_--diminutive of Cornelius.\n\n[23] The commencement of a common Irish benediction, _God and Mary and St\nPatrick be with (or bless) you!_\n\n[24] A man concealing himself on arrest for debt is, in Ireland,\nfamiliarly said to be _on his keeping_, probably from his keeping or\nconfining himself to the house when there is danger of the writ being\nexecuted.\n\n[25] Abbrev. for Larry or Laurence.\n\n[26] The length of a spade's-handle of ground. _Over a man's\nhead_--i.e.--out-bidding the tenant in possession, by offering generally a\nlarger rent for the land out of which he is about to be ejected.\n\n[27] _Spell_--very short space of time, as long as it would take to spell\na word.\n\n[28] An achievement similar to that here described actually took place\nabout the same period nearly on the same spot. It was planned and executed\nby two persons living at a town mentioned in the tale, and terminated in\nthe instant death of the unlucky highwayman, whose body they placed in\ntheir vehicle, and brought back with them in an hour or two from the time\nthey set out. In the present day, such a deed (thus premeditated) would be\ndeservedly termed a rash and cruel act--the lawless and unprotected state\nof that country, however, at the time, led it to be considered--we\nbelieve--a laudable one.\n\n[29] _Revelations of Spain._ By an ENGLISH RESIDENT.\n\n[30] The Monk, too, has this characteristic, which is of dubious\nexposition. Tyrwhitt thinks that the meaning _may be_--\"Eyes sunk deep in\nthe head.\" Certainly a feature giving force and distinction to the\nphysiognomy has been intended.\n\n\n\n\nTranscriber's Notes:\n\nPassages in italics are indicated by _italics_.\n\nThe original text includes Greek characters. For this text version these\nletters have been replaced with transliterations.\n\nPunctuation has been corrected without note.\n\nThe following misprints have been corrected:\n  \"on\" corrected to \"or\" (page 537)\n  \"und\" corrected to \"and\" (page 566)\n  \"sevesal\" corrected to \"several\" (page 580)\n  \"Tyrrell's\" standardized to \"Tyrrel's\" (page 587)\n  \"Tyrrell\" standardized to \"Tyrrel\" (page 582)\n  \"would'nt\" corrected to \"wouldn't\" (page 585)\n  \"ununhonoured\" corrected to \"unhonoured\" (page 586)\n  \"Tyrell\" standardized to \"Tyrrel\" (page 587)\n  \"hir\" corrected to \"his\" (page 589)\n  \"aparment\" corrected to \"apartment\" (page 590)\n  \"O'Connel\" corrected to \"O'Connell\" (page 651)\n  \"n\" corrected to \"in\" (page 654)\n\nOther than the corrections listed above, inconsistencies in spelling and\nhyphenation usage have been retained from the original text.","title":"Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Volume 57, No. 355, May 1845","tradition":"philosophy-ethics","translated_text":null,"word_count":88526}