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<!DOCTYPE HTML PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD HTML 4.01 Transitional//EN">
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      The Project Gutenberg eBook of Blackwood'S Edinburgh Magazine, Vol. 53, No. 331.
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<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 12263 ***</div>

<h1>BLACKWOOD'S EDINBURGH MAGAZINE</h1>
<hr />

<h2>NO. CCCXXXI.  MAY, 1843.  VOL. LIII.</h2>
<hr class="full" />

<h2>CONTENTS.</h2>

<ul>
  <li><a href="#bw329s1">DUMAS IN ITALY</a></li>
  <li><a href="#bw329s2">AMMAL&Aacute;T BEK. A TRUE TALE OF THE CAUCASUS FROM THE
                         RUSSIAN OF MARL&Iacute;NSKI</a></li>
  <li><a href="#bw329s3">REYNOLDS'S DISCOURSES. CONCLUSION</a></li>
  <li><a href="#bw329s4">LEAP-YEAR.&mdash;A TALE</a></li>
  <li><a href="#bw329s5">THE BATTLE OF THE BLOCKS. The PAVING QUESTION</a></li>
  <li><a href="#bw329s6">POEMS AND BALLADS OF SCHILLER.&mdash;No. VIII.</a></li>
  <li><a href="#bw329s7">NATURAL HISTORY OF SALMON AND SEA-TROUT</a></li>
  <li><a href="#bw329s8">CALEB STUKELY. PART THE LAST</a></li>
  <li><a href="#bw329s9">COMMERCIAL POLICY. SPAIN</a></li>
  <li><a href="#bw329-footnotes">[FOOTNOTES]</a></li>
</ul>

<hr class="full" />



<!-- page 551 --><a name="bw329s1" id="bw329s1"></a><h2>DUMAS IN ITALY.</h2>

<blockquote class="note">
[<i>Souvenirs de Voyage en Italie, par</i> ALEXANDRE DUMAS. 5 vols. duod.]
</blockquote>
<hr />

<p>France has lately sent forth her
poets in great force, to travel, and to
write travels. Delamartine, Victor
Hugo, Alexandre Dumas, and others,
have been forth in the high-ways and
the high-seas, observing, portraying,
poetizing, romancing. The last-mentioned
of these, M. Dumas, a dramatist
very ingenious in the construction
of plots, and one who tells a story
admirably, has travelled quite in character.
There is a dramatic air thrown
over all his proceedings, things happen
as pat as if they had been rehearsed,
and he blends the novelist
and tourist together after a very bold
and original fashion. It is a new
method of writing travels that he has
hit upon, and we recommend it to the
notice of our countrymen or countrywomen,
who start from home with the
fixed idea, happen what may, of inditing
a book. He does not depend
altogether upon the incidents of the
road, or the raptures of sight-seeing,
or any odd fantasy that buildings or
scenery may be kind enough to suggest:
he provides himself with full
half of his materials before he starts,
in the shape of historical anecdote and
romantic story, which he distributes
as he goes along. A better plan for
an amusing book could not be devised.
Your mere tourist, it must be confessed,
however frivolous he submits
for our entertainment to become,
grows heavy on our hands; that rapid
and incessant change of scene which
is kindly meant to enliven our spirits,
becomes itself wearisome, and we long
for some resting-place, even though it
should be obtained by that most illegitimate
method of closing the volume.
On the other hand, a teller of tales
has always felt the want of some enduring
thread&mdash;though, as some one
says in a like emergency, it be only
<i>packthread</i>&mdash;on which his tales may
be strung&mdash;something to fill up the
pauses, and prevent the utter solution
of continuity between tale and tale&mdash;something
that gives the narrator a reasonable
plea for <i>going on again</i>, and
makes the telling another story an indispensable
duty upon his part, and the
listening to it a corresponding obligation
upon ours; and ever since the time
when that young lady of unpronounceable
and unrememberable name told
the One Thousand and One Tales,
telling a fragment every morning to
keep her head upon her shoulders,
there has been devised many a strange
expedient for this purpose. Now, M.
Dumas has contrived, by uniting the
two characters of tourist and novelist,
to make them act as reliefs to each
other. Whilst he shares with other
travellers the daily adventures of the
road&mdash;the journey, the sight, and the
dinner&mdash;he is not compelled to be
always moving; he can pause when
he pleases, and, like the <i>fableur</i> of
olden times, sitting down in the market-place,
in the public square, at the
corner of some column or statue, he
narrates his history or his romance.
Then, the story told, up starts the
busy and provident tourist; lo! the
<I>voiture</I> is waiting for him at the hotel;
in he leaps, and we with him, and off
we rattle through other scenes, and to
other cities. He has a track <I>in space</I>
to which he is bound; we recognize
the necessity that he should proceed
thereon; but he can diverge at pleasure
through all <I>time</I>, bear us off into
what age he pleases, make us utterly
oblivious of the present, and lap us in
the Elysium of a good story.</p>

<p>With a book written palpably for
the sole and most amiable purpose of
amusement, and succeeding in this
purpose, how should we deal? How
but receive it with a passive acquiescence
equally amiable, content solely
to be amused, and giving all severer
criticism&mdash;to him who to his other
merits may add, if he pleases, that of
being the first critic. Most especially
let us not be carping and questioning as
to the how far, or what precisely, we
are to set down for <I>true</I>. It is all
true&mdash;it is all fiction; the artist cannot
choose but see things in an artistical
form; what ought not to be there
drops from his field of vision. We
are not poring through a microscope,
or through a telescope, to discover
new truths; we are looking at the old
landscape through coloured glasses,
blue, or black, or roseate, as the occasion
may require. And here let us
note a favourable contrast between
our dramatic tourist, bold in conception,
free in execution, and those compatriots
of our own, authors and authoresses,
who write travels merely because
they are artists in ink, yet without
any adequate notion of the duties
and privileges of such an artist.</p>

<p>When a writer has got a name,
the first rational use to make of the
charming possession is to get astride
of it, as a witch upon her broomstick,
and whisk and scamper over half the
kingdoms of the earth. Talk of bills
of exchange!--letters of credit!--we
can put our name to a whole book,
and it will pass&mdash;it <I>will</I> pass. The
idea is good&mdash;quite worthy of our
commercial genius&mdash;and to us its origin,
we believe, is due; but here, as in
so many other cases, the Frenchman
has given the idea its full development.
Keeping steadily in view the
object of his book, which is&mdash;first,
amusement&mdash;secondly, amusement&mdash;thirdly,
amusement; he adapts his
means consistently to his end. Does
he want a dialogue?&mdash;he writes one:
a story?&mdash;he invents one: a description?&mdash;he
takes his hint from
nature, and is grateful&mdash;the more
grateful, because he knows that a hint
to the wise is sufficient. It is the
description only which the reader will
be concerned with; what has he to
do with the object? That is the
merely traveller's affair. Now, your
English tourists have always a residue
of scruple about them which balks
their genius. Not satisfied with pleasing,
they aspire to be believed; are
almost angry if their anecdote is not
credited; content themselves with
adding graces, giving a turn, trimming
and decorating&mdash;cannot build a structure
boldly from the bare earth. This
necessity of finding a certain straw for
their bricks, which must be picked up
by the roadside, not only impedes the
work of authorship, but must add
greatly to their personal discomfort
throughout the whole of their travels.
They are in perpetual chase of something
for the book. They bag an
incident with as much glee as a sportsman
his first bird in September. They
are out on pleasure, but manifestly
they have their task too; it is not quite
holiday, only half-holiday with them.
The prospect or the picture gives no
pleasure till it has suggested the appropriate
expression of enthusiasm,
which, once safely deposited in the
note-book, the enthusiasm itself can
be quietly indulged in, or permitted
to evaporate. At the dinner-table,
even when champagne is circulating,
if a jest or a story falls flat, they see
with an Aristotelian precision the
cause of its failure, and how an additional
touch, or a more auspicious
moment, would have procured for it a better
fate; they stop to pick it up,
they clean it, they revolve the chapter
and the page to which it shall lend its
lustre. Nay, it is noticeable, that
without much labour from the polisher,
many a dull thing in conversation has
made a good thing in print; the conditions
of success are so different.
Now, from all such toils and perplexities
M. Dumas is evidently free;
free as the wildest Oxonian who flies
abroad in the mere wanton prodigality
of spirits and of purse. His book is
made, or can be made, when he
chooses: fortune favours the bold,
and incidents will always dispose
themselves dramatically to the dramatist.</p>

<p>Our traveller opens his campaign at
Nice. It may be observed that M.
Dumas cannot be accused, like the
present minister of his country, of any
partiality to the English; if the mortifying
truth must be told, he has no
love of us at all; to which humour,
so long as he delivers himself of it
with any wit or pleasantry, he is
heartily welcome. Our first extract
will be thought, perhaps, to taste of
this humour; but we quote it for the
absurd proof it affords of the manner
in which we English have overflooded
some portions of the Continent:&mdash;</p>

<div class="blkquot"><p>&quot;As to the inhabitants of Nice, every
traveller is to them an Englishman.
Every foreigner they see, without distinction
of complexion, hair, beard,
dress, age, or sex, has, in their imagination,
arrived from a certain mysterious
city lost in the midst of fogs,
where the inhabitants have heard of
the sun only from tradition, where the
orange and the pine-apple are unknown
except by name, where there is no ripe
fruit but baked apples, and which is
called <I>London</I>.</p>

<p>&quot;Whilst I was at the York Hotel, a
carriage drawn by post horses drove
up; and, soon after, the master of the
hotel entering into my room, I asked
him who were his new arrivals.</p>

<p>&quot;'<I>Sono certi Inglesi</I>,' he answered,
'<I>ma non saprei dire se sono Francesi o
Tedeschi</I>. Some English, but I cannot
say whether French or German.'&quot;&mdash;Vol.
i. p. 9.</p></div>

<p>The little town of Monaco is his
next resting-place. This town, which
is now under the government of the
King of Sardinia, was at one time an
independent principality; and M.
Dumas gives a lively sketch of the
vicissitudes which the little state has
undergone, mimicking, as it has, the
movements of great monarchies, and
being capable of boasting even of its
revolution and its republic. During
the reign of Louis XIV. the territory
of Monaco gave the title of prince to a
certain Honore III., who was under
the protection of the <I>Grand Monarque</I>.</p>

<div class="blkquot"><p>&quot;The marriage of this Prince of Monaco,&quot;
says our annalist, &quot;was not happy.
One fine morning his spouse, who was
the same beautiful and gay Duchess de
Valentinois so well known in the scandalous
chronicles of that age, found
herself at one step out of the states of
her lord and sovereign. She took refuge
at Paris. Desertion was not all.
The prince soon learned that he was as
unfortunate as a husband can be.</p>

<p>&quot;At that epoch, calamities of this
description were only laughed at; but
the Prince of Monaco was, as the
duchess used to say, a strange man, and
he took offence. He got information
from time to time of the successive gallants
whom his wife thought fit to honour,
and he hanged them in effigy, one
after the other, in the front court of his
palace. The court was soon full, and
the executions bordered on the high
road; nevertheless, the prince relented
not, but continued always to hang. The
report of these executions reached Versailles;
Louis XIV. was, in his turn,
displeased, and counselled the prince to
be more lenient in his punishments. He
of Monaco answered that, being a sovereign
prince, he had undoubtedly the
right of pit and gallows on his own domain,
and that surely he might hang as
many men of straw as he pleased.</p>

<p>&quot;The affair bred so much scandal,
that it was thought prudent to send the
duchess back to her husband. He, to
make her punishment the more complete,
had resolved that she should, on
her return, pass before this row of executed
effigies. But the dowager Princess
of Monaco prevailed upon her son to
forego this ingenious revenge, and a
bonfire was made of all the scarecrows.
'It was,' said Madame de Sevign&eacute;, 'the
torch of their second nuptials.' ...</p>

<p>&quot;A successor of this prince, Honore
IV., was reigning tranquilly in his little
dominions when the French Revolution
broke out. The Monacites watched its
successive phases with a peculiar attention,
and when the republic was finally
proclaimed at Paris, they took advantage
of Honore's absence, who was gone
from home, and not known where, armed
themselves with whatever came to hand,
marched to the palace, took it by assault,
and commenced plundering the cellars,
which might contain from twelve to
fifteen thousand bottles of wine. Two
hours after, the eight thousand subjects
of the Prince of Monaco were drunk.</p>

<p>&quot;Now, at this first trial, they found
liberty was an excellent thing, and they
resolved to constitute themselves forthwith
into a republic. But it seemed
that Monaco was far too extensive a
territory to proclaim itself, after the
example of France, a republic one and
indivisible; so the wise men of the
country, who had already formed themselves
into a national assembly, came to
the conclusion that Monaco should rather
follow the example of America, and give
birth to a federal republic. The fundamental
laws of the new constitution
were then discussed and determined
by Monaco and Mantone, who united
themselves for life and death. There
was a third village called Rocco-Bruno:
it was decided that it should belong half
to the one and half to the other. Rocco-Bruno
murmured: it had aspired to
independence, and a place in the federation;
but Monaco and Mantone smiled
at so arrogant a pretension. Rocco-Bruno
was not the strongest, and was
reduced to silence: from that moment,
however, Rocco-Bruno was marked out
to the two national conventions as a
focus of sedition. The republic was
finally proclaimed under the title of the
Republic of Monaco.</p>

<p>&quot;The Monacites next looked abroad
upon the world for allies. There were
two nations, equally enlightened with
themselves, to whom they could extend
the hand of fellowship&mdash;the American
and the French. Geographical position
decided in favour of the latter. The
republic of Monaco sent three deputies
to the National Convention of France
to proffer and demand alliance. The
National Convention was in a moment
of perfect good-humour: it received the
deputies most politely, and invited them
to call the next morning for the treaty
they desired.</p>

<p>&quot;The treaty was prepared that very
day. It was not, indeed, a very lengthy
document: it consisted of the two following
articles:&mdash;</p>

<p>&quot;'Art. 1. There shall be peace and
alliance between the French Republic
and the Republic of Monaco.</p>

<p>&quot;'Art. 2. The French Republic is delighted
with having made the acquaintance
of the Republic of Monaco.'</p>

<p>&quot;This treaty was placed next morning
in the hands of the ambassadors, who
departed highly gratified. Three months
afterwards the French Republic had
thrown its lion's paw on its dear acquaintance,
the Republic of Monaco.&quot;&mdash;P.
14.</p></div>

<p>From Monaco our traveller proceeds
to Geneva; from Geneva, by water,
to Livorno, (<i>Anglic&eacute;</i>, Leghorn.) Now
there is little or nothing to be seen at
Livorno. There is, in the place <i>della
Darnesa</i>, a solitary statue of Ferdinand
I., some time cardinal, and
afterwards Grand-Duke of Florence.
M. Dumas bethinks him to tell us the
principal incident in the life of this
Ferdinand; but then this again is
connected with the history of Bianca
Capello, so that he must commence
with her adventures. The name of
Bianca Capello figures just now on
the title-page of one of Messrs Colburn's
and Bentley's <i>last and newest</i>.
Those who have read the novel, and
those who, like ourselves, have seen
only the title, may be equally willing
to hear the story of this high-spirited
dame told in the terse, rapid manner&mdash;brief,
but full of detail&mdash;of Dumas.
We cannot give the whole of it in the
words of M. Dumas; the extract
would be too long; we must get over
a portion of the ground in the shortest
manner possible.</p>

<div class="blkquot"><p>&quot;It was towards the end of the reign
of Cosmo the Great, about the commencement
of the year 1563, that a
young man named Pietro Bonaventuri,
the issue of a family respectable, though
poor, left Florence to seek his fortune
in Venice. An uncle who bore the
same name as himself, and who had
lived in the latter city for twenty years,
recommended him to the bank of the
Salviati, of which he himself was one of
the managers. The youth was received
in the capacity of clerk.</p>

<p>&quot;Opposite the bank of the Salviati
lived a rich Venetian nobleman, head of
the house of the Capelli. He had one
son and one daughter, but not by his
wife then living, who, in consequence,
was stepmother to his children. With
the son, our narrative is not concerned;
the daughter, Bianca Capello, was a
charming girl of the age of fifteen or
sixteen, of a pale complexion, on which
the blood, at every emotion, would appear,
and pass like a roseate cloud; her
hair, of that rich flaxen which Raphael
has made so beautiful; her eyes
dark and full of lustre, her figure slight
and flexile, but of that flexibility which
denotes no weakness, but force of character;
prompt, as another Juliet, to
love, and waiting only till some Romeo
should cross her path, to say, like the
maid of Verona&mdash;'I will be to thee or to
the tomb!'</p>

<p>&quot;She saw Pietro Bonaventuri: the
window of his chamber looked out upon
hers; they exchanged glances, signs,
promises of love. Arrived at this point,
the distance from each other was their
sole obstacle: this obstacle Bianca was
the first to overcome.</p>

<p>&quot;Each night, when all had retired to
rest in the house of the Salviati, when
the nurse who had reared Bianca, had
betaken herself to the next chamber,
and the young girl, standing listening
against the partition, had assured herself
that this last Argus was asleep, she
threw over her shoulders a dark cloak
to be the less visible in the night, descended
on tiptoe, and light as a shadow,
the marble stairs of the paternal palace,
unbarred the gate, and crossed the
street. On the threshold of the opposite
door, her lover was standing to
receive her; and the two together, with
stifled breath and silent caresses, ascended
the stairs that led to the little
chamber of Pietro. Before the break
of day, Bianca retired in the same manner
to her own room, where her nurse
found her in the morning, in a sleep as
profound at least as the sleep of innocence.</p>

<p>&quot;One night whilst our Juliet was
with her Romeo, a baker's boy, who had
just been to light his oven in the neighbourhood,
saw a gate half open, and
thought he did good service by closing
it. Ten minutes afterwards, Bianca
descended, and saw that it was impossible
to re-enter her father's house.</p>

<p>&quot;Bianca was one of those energetic
spirits whose resolutions are taken at
once, and for ever. She saw that her
whole future destiny was changed by
this one accident, and she accepted without
hesitation the new life which this
accident had imposed on her. She re-ascended
to her lover, related what had
happened, demanded of him if he was
ready to sacrifice all for her as she was
for him, and proposed to take advantage
of the two hours of the night which
still remained to them, to quit Venice
and conceal themselves from the pursuit
of her parents. Pietro was true&mdash;he
adopted immediately the proposal; they
stepped into a gondola, and fled towards
Florence.</p>

<p>&quot;Arrived at Florence, they took refuge
with the father of Pietro&mdash;Bonaventuri
the elder, who with his wife had
a small lodging in the second floor in
the place of St Mark. Strange! it is
with poor parents that the children are
so especially welcome. They received
their son and their new daughter with
open arms. Their servant was dismissed,
both for economy and the better preservation
of their secret. The good
mother charged herself with the care of
the little household. Bianca, whose
white hands had been taught no such
useful duties, set about working the
most charming embroidery. The father,
who earned his living as a copyist
for public offices, gave out that he had
retained a clerk, and took home a
double portion of papers. All were
employed, and the little family contrived
to live.</p>

<p>&quot;Meanwhile, it will be easily imagined
how great a commotion the flight of
Bianca occasioned in the palace of the
noble Capello. During the whole of
the first day they made no pursuit, for
they still, though with much anxiety,
expected her return. The day passed,
however, without any news of the fugitive;
the flight, on the same morning,
of Pietro Bonaventuri was next reported;
a thousand little incidents which
attracted no notice at the time were now
brought back to recollection, and the
result of the whole was the clear conviction
that they had fled together. The
influence of the Capelli was such that
the case was brought immediately before
the Council of Ten; and Pietro
Bonaventuri was placed under the ban
of the Republic. The sentence of this
tribunal was made known to the government
of Florence; and this government
authorized the Capelli, or the officers of
the Venetian Republic, to make all necessary
search, not only in Florence,
but throughout all Tuscany. The
search, however was unavailing. Each
one of the parties felt too great an interest
in keeping their secret, and Bianca
herself never stirred from the apartment.</p>

<p>&quot;Three months passed in this melancholy
concealment, yet she who had
been habituated from infancy to all
the indulgences of wealth, never once
breathed a word of complaint. Her
only recreation was to look down into
the street through the sloping blind.
Now, amongst those who frequently
passed across the Place of St Mark
was the young grand-duke, who went
every other day to see his father at his
castle of Petraja. Francesco was young,
gallant, and handsome; but it was not
his youth or beauty that preoccupied
the thoughts of Bianca, it was the idea
that this prince, as powerful as he
seemed gracious, might, by one word,
raise the ban from Pietro Bonaventuri, and
restore both him and herself to freedom.
It was this idea which kindled a double
lustre in the eyes of the young Venetian,
as she punctually at the hour of
his passing, ran to the window, and sloped the
jalousie. One day, the prince
happening to look up as he passed, met
the enkindled glance of his fair observer.
Bianca hastily retired.&quot;</p></div>

<p>What immediately follows need not
be told at any length. Francesco was
enamoured: he obtained an interview.
Bianca released and enriched her
lover, but became the mistress of the
young duke. Pietro was quite
content with this arrangement; he had
himself given the first example of
inconstancy. He entered upon a
career of riotous pleasure, which ended
in a violent death.</p>

<p>Francesco, in obedience to his father,
married a princess of the house
of Austria; but Bianca still retained
her influence. His wife, who had
been much afflicted by this preference
of her rival, died, and the repentant
widower swore never again to see
Bianca. He kept the oath for four
months; but she placed herself as if
by accident in his path, and all her
old power was revived. Francesco,
by the death of his father, became the
reigning Duke of Tuscany, and Bianca
Capello, his wife and duchess. And
now we arrive at that part of the story
in which Ferdinand, the brother of
Francesco, and whose statue at Livorno
led to this history, enters on the
scene.</p>

<div class="blkquot"><p>&quot;About three years after their
nuptials, the young Archduke, the issue of
Francesco's previous marriage, died,
leaving the ducal throne of Tuscany
without direct heir; failing which the
Cardinal Ferdinand would become
Grand-duke at the death of his brother.
Now Bianca had given to Francesco
one son; but, besides that he was born
before their marriage, and therefore
incapable of succeeding, the rumour had
been spread that he was supposititious.
The dukedom, therefore, would descend
to the Cardinal if the Grand-duchess
should have no other child; and Francesco
himself had begun to despair of
this happiness, when Bianca announced
to him a second pregnancy.</p>

<p>&quot;This time the Cardinal resolved to
watch himself the proceedings of his
dear sister-in-law, lest he should be the
dupe of some new man&oelig;uvre. He began,
therefore, to cultivate in an
especial manner the friendship of his
brother, declaring, that the present
condition of the Grand-duchess proved to him
how false had been the rumours spread
touching her former <i>accouchement</i>.
Francesco, happy to find his brother in this
disposition, returned his advances with
the utmost cordiality. The Cardinal
availed himself of this friendly feeling
to come and install himself in the Palace
Pitti.</p>

<p>&quot;The arrival of the Cardinal was by
no means agreeable to Bianca, who was
not at all deceived as to the true cause
of this fraternal visit. She knew that,
in the Cardinal, she had a spy upon her
at every moment. The spy, however,
could detect nothing that savoured of
imposture. If her condition was feigned,
the comedy was admirably played.
The Cardinal began to think that his
suspicions were unjust. Nevertheless,
if there were craft, the game he
determined should be played out with equal
skill upon his side.</p>

<p>&quot;The eventful day arrived. The
Cardinal could not remain in the chamber
of Bianca, but he stationed himself
in an antechamber, through which every
one who visited her must necessarily
pass. There he began to say his
breviary, walking solemnly to and fro.
After praying and promenading thus for
about an hour, a message was brought
to him from the invalid, requesting him
to go into another room, as his tread
disturbed her. 'Let her attend to her
affairs, and I to mine,' was the only
answer he gave, and the Cardinal
recommenced his walk and his prayer.</p>

<p>&quot;Soon after this the confessor of the
Grand-duchess entered&mdash;a Capuchin, in
a long robe. The Cardinal went up to
him, and embraced him in his arms,
recommending his sister most affectionately
to his pious care. While embracing
the good monk, the Cardinal felt, or
thought he felt, something strange in
his long sleeve. He groped under the
Capuchin's robe, and drew out&mdash;a fine
boy.</p>

<p>&quot;'My dear brother,' said the
Cardinal, 'I am now more tranquil. I am
sure, at least, that my dear sister-in-law
will not die this time in childbirth.'</p>

<p>&quot;The monk saw that all that
remained was to avoid, if possible, the
scandal; and he asked the Cardinal
himself what he should do. The
Cardinal told him to enter into the chamber
of the Duchess, whisper to her what had
happened, and, as she acted, so would
he act. Silence should purchase silence;
clamour, clamour.</p>

<p>&quot;Bianca saw that she must renounce
at present her design to give a successor
to the ducal crown; she submitted to a
miscarriage. The Cardinal, on his side,
kept his word, and the unsuccessful
attempt was never betrayed.</p>

<p>&quot;A few months passed on; there was
an uninterrupted harmony between the
brothers, and Francesco invited the
Cardinal, who was fond of field-sports,
to pass some time with him at a country
palace, famous for its preserves Of
game.</p>

<p>&quot;On the very day of his arrival,
Bianca, who knew that the Cardinal
was partial to a certain description of
tart, bethought her to prepare one for
him herself. This flattering attention
on the part of his sister-in-law was
hinted to him by Francesco, who mentioned
it as a new proof of the Duchess's
amiability, but, as he had no great confidence
in his reconciliation with Bianca,
it was an intimation which caused him
not a little disquietude. Fortunately,
the Cardinal possessed an opal, given to
him by Pope Sixtus V., which had the
property of growing dim the moment it
approached any poisonous substance.
He did not fail to make trial of it on the
tart prepared by Bianca. The opal
grew dim and tarnished. The Cardinal
said, with an assumed air of carelessness,
that, on consideration, he would
not eat to-day of the tart. The Duke
pressed him; but not being able to prevail&mdash;'Well,'
said he, 'since Ferdinand
will not eat of his favourite dish, it shall
not be said that a Grand-duchess had
turned confectioner for nothing&mdash;I will
eat of it.' And he helped himself to a
piece of the tart.</p>

<p>&quot;Bianca was in the act of bending
forward to prevent him&mdash;but suddenly
paused. Her position was horrible. She
must either avow her crime, or suffer
her husband to poison himself. She
cast a quick retrospective glance along
her past life; she saw that she had exhausted
all the pleasures of the world,
and attained to all its glories; her
decision was rapid&mdash;as rapid as on
that day when she had fled from Venice
with Pietro. She also cut off a
piece from the tart, and extending her
hand to her husband, she smiled, and,
with her other hand, eat of the poisoned
dish.</p>

<p>&quot;On the morrow, Francesco and
Bianca were dead. A physician opened
their bodies by order of Ferdinand, and
declared that they had fallen victims to
a malignant fever. Three days after,
the Cardinal threw down his red hat,
and ascended the ducal throne.&quot;&mdash;P. 63.</p></div>

<p>But presto! Mr Dumas is traveller
as well as annalist He must
leave the Middle Ages to themselves;
the present moment has its exigences;
he must look to himself and his baggage.
He had great difficulty in doing
this on his landing at the Port of
Livorno; and now, on his departure,
he is beset with <i>vetturini</i>. Let us recur
to some of these miseries of travel,
which may at least claim a wide
sympathy, for most of us are familiar
with them. It is not necessary even
to leave our own island to find how
great an embarrassment too much help
may prove, but we certainly have
nothing in our own experience quite
equal to the lively picture of M.
Dumas:&mdash;</p>

<div class="blkquot"><p>&quot;I have visited many ports&mdash;I have
traversed many towns&mdash;I have contended
with the porters of Avignon&mdash;with
the <i>facchini</i> of Malta, and with the innkeepers
of Messina, but I never entered
so villanous a place as Livorno.</p>

<p>&quot;In every other country of the world
there is some possibility of defending
your baggage, of bargaining for its
transport to the hotel; and if no treaty
can be made, there is at least liberty
given to load your own shoulders with
it, and be your own porter. Nothing of
this kind at Livorno. The vessel which
brings you has not yet touched the
shore when it is boarded; <i>commissionnaires</i>
absolutely rain upon you, you know
not whence; they spring upon the jetty,
throw themselves on the nearest vessel,
and glide down upon you from the rigging.
Seeing that your little craft is
in danger of being capsized by their
numbers, you think of self-preservation,
and grasping hold of some green and
slimy steps, you cling there, like Crusoe
to his rock; then, after many efforts,
having lost your hat, and scarified your
knees, and torn your nails, you at length
stand on the pier. So much for yourself.
As to your baggage, it has been
already divided into as many lots as
there are articles; you have a porter
for your portmanteau, a porter for your
dressing-case, a porter for your hat-box,
a porter for your umbrella, a porter
for your cane. If there are two of
you, that makes ten porters; if three,
fifteen; as we were four, we had twenty.
A twenty-first wished to take Milord
(the dog,) but Milord, who permits
no liberties, took him by the calf, and
we had to pinch his tail till he consented
to unlock his teeth. The porter followed
us, crying that the dog had lamed him,
and that he would compel us to make
compensation. The people rose in tumult;
and we arrived at the <i>Pension
Suisse</i> with twenty porters before us,
and a rabble of two hundred behind.</p>

<p>&quot;It cost us forty francs for our portmanteaus,
umbrellas, and canes, and ten
francs for the bitten leg.<a name="footnotetag1" id="footnotetag1"></a><a href="#footnote1"><sup>1</sup></a> In all, fifty
francs for about fifty steps.&quot;&mdash;P. 59.</p></div>

<p>This was on his landing at Livorno:
on his departure he gives us an account,
equally graphic, of the <i>vetturini</i>:&mdash;</p>

<div class="blkquot"><p>&quot;A diligence is a creature that leaves
at a fixed hour, and its passengers run
to it; a vetturino leaves at all hours,
and runs after its passengers. Hardly
have you set your foot out of the boat
that brings you from the steam-vessel
to the shore, than you are assailed,
stifled, dragged, deafened by twenty
drivers, who look on you as their merchandise,
and treat you accordingly, and
would end by carrying you off bodily, if
they could agree among them who should
have the booty. Families have been
separated at the port of Livorno, to find
each other how they could in the streets
of Florence. In vain you jump into a
<i>fiacre</i>, they leap up before, above, behind;
and at the gate of the hotel, there
you are in the midst of the same group
of villains, who are only the more clamorous
for having been kept waiting.
Reduced to extremities, you declare that
you have come to Livorno upon commercial
business, and that you intend
staying eight days at least, and you ask
of the <i>gar&ccedil;on</i>, loud enough for all to
hear, if there is an apartment at liberty
for the next week. At this they will
sometimes abandon the prey, which they
reckon upon seizing at some future time;
they run back with all haste to the port
to catch some other traveller, and you
are free.</p>

<p>&quot;Nevertheless, if about an hour after
this you should wish to leave the hotel,
you will find one or two sentinels at the
gate. These are connected with the
hotel, and they have been forewarned
by the <i>gar&ccedil;on</i> that it will not be eight
days before you leave&mdash;that, in fact, you
will leave to-morrow. These it is absolutely
necessary that you call in, and
make your treaty with. If you should
have the imprudence to issue forth into
the street, fifty of the brotherhood will
be attracted by their clamours, and the
scene of the port will be renewed. They
will ask ten piastres for a carriage&mdash;you
will offer five. They will utter piercing
cries of dissent&mdash;you will shut the door
upon them. In three minutes one of
them will climb in at the window, and
engage with you for the five piastres.</p>

<p>&quot;This treaty concluded, you are
sacred to all the world; in five minutes
the report is spread through all Livorno
that you are <i>engaged</i>. You may then
go where you please; every one salutes
you, wishes you <i>bon voyage</i>; you would
think yourself amongst the most disinterested
people in the world.&quot;&mdash;P. 94.</p></div>

<p>The only question that remains to
be decided is that of the drink-money&mdash;the
<i>buona-mano</i>, as the Italian calls
it. This is a matter of grave importance,
and should be gravely considered.
On this <i>buona-mano</i> depends
the rapidity of your journey; for the
time may vary at the will of the driver
from six to twelve hours. Hereupon
M. Dumas tells an amusing story
of a Russian prince, which not only
proves how efficient a cause this <i>buona
mano</i> may be in the accomplishment
of the journey, but also illustrates very
forcibly a familiar principle of our
own jurisprudence, and a point to
which the Italian traveller must pay
particular attention. We doubt if the
necessity of a written agreement, in
order to enforce the terms of a contract,
was ever made more painfully
evident than in the following instance:&mdash;</p>

<div class="blkquot"><p>&quot;The Prince C&mdash;&mdash; had arrived,
with his mother and a German servant,
at Livorno. Like every other traveller
who arrives at Livorno, he had sought
immediately the most expeditious means
of departure. These, as we have said,
present themselves in sufficient abundance;
the only difficulty is, to know
how to use them.</p>

<p>&quot;The vetturini had learnt from the
industrious porters that they had to deal
with a prince. Consequently they demanded
twelve piastres instead of ten,
and the prince, instead of offering five,
conceded the twelve piastres, but stipulated
that this should include every
thing, especially the <i>buona-mano</i>, which
the master should settle with the driver.
'Very good,' said the vetturini; the
prince paid his twelve piastres, and the
carriage started off, with him and his
baggage, at full gallop. It was nine
o'clock in the morning: according to his
calculation, the Prince would be at
Florence about three or four in the
afternoon.</p>

<p>&quot;They had advanced about a quarter
of a league when the horses relaxed their
speed, and began to walk step by step.
As to the driver, he sang upon his seat,
interrupting himself now and then to
gossip with such acquaintances as he
met upon the road; and as it is ill talking
and progressing at the same time,
he soon brought himself to a full stop
when he had occasion for conference.</p>

<p>&quot;The prince endured this for some
time; at length putting his head out of
the window, he said, in the purest Tuscan,
'<i>Avanti! avanti! tirate via!</i>'</p>

<p>&quot;'How much do you give for <i>buona-mano</i>?'
answered the driver, turning
round upon his box.</p>

<p>&quot;'Why do you speak to me of your
<i>buona-mano</i>?' said the prince. 'I have
given your master twelve piastres, on condition
that it should include every thing.'</p>

<p>&quot;'The <i>buona-mano</i> does not concern
the master,' responded the driver; 'how
much do you give?'</p>

<p>&quot;'Not a sou&mdash;I have paid.'</p>

<p>&quot;'Then, your excellence, we will
continue our walk.'</p>

<p>&quot;'Your master has engaged to take
me to Florenco in six hours,' said the
Prince.</p>

<p>&quot;'Where is the paper that says that&mdash;the
written paper, your excellence?'</p>

<p>&quot;'Paper! what need of a paper for
so simple a matter? I have no paper.'</p>

<p>&quot;'Then, your excellence, we will
continue our walk.'</p>

<p>&quot;'Ah, we will see that!' said the
Prince.</p>

<p>&quot;'Yes, we <i>will</i> see that!' said the
driver.</p>

<p>&quot;Hereupon the prince spoke to his
German servant, Frantz, who was sitting
beside the coachman, and bade him administer
due correction to this refractory
fellow.</p>

<p>&quot;Frantz descended from the voiture
without uttering a word, pulled down
the driver from his seat, and pummelled
him with true German gravity. Then
pointing to the road, helped him on his
box, and reseated himself by his side.
The driver proceeded&mdash;a little slower
than before. One wearies of all things
in this world, even of beating a coachman.
The prince, reasoning with himself
that, fast or slow, he must at length
arrive at his journey's end, counselled
the princess his mother to compose herself
to sleep; and, burying himself in
one corner of the carriage, gave her the
example.</p>

<p>&quot;The driver occupied six hours in
going from Livorno to Pontedera; just
four hours more than was necessary.
Arrived at Pontedera, he invited the
Prince to descend, as he was about to
change the carriage.</p>

<p>&quot;'But,' said the Prince, 'I have given
twelve piastres to your master on condition
that the carriage should not be
changed.'</p>

<p>&quot;'Where is the paper?'</p>

<p>&quot;'Fellow, you know I have none.'</p>

<p>&quot;'In that case, your excellence, we
will change the carriage.'</p>

<p>&quot;The prince was half-disposed to
break the rascal's bones himself; but,
besides that this would have compromised
his dignity, he saw, from the countenances
of those who stood loitering
round the carriage, that it would be a
very imprudent step. He descended;
they threw his baggage down upon the
pavement, and after about an hour's
delay, brought out a miserable dislocated
carriage and two broken-winded horses.</p>

<p>&quot;Under any other circumstances the
Prince would have been generous&mdash;would
have been lavish; but he had insisted
upon his right, he was resolved not to
be conquered. Into this ill-conditioned
vehicle he therefore doggedly entered,
and as the new driver had been forewarned
that there would be no <i>buona-mano</i>,
the equipage started amidst the
laughter and jeers of the mob.</p>

<p>&quot;This time the horses were such
wretched animals that it would have been
out of conscience to expect anything
more than a walk from them. It took
six more hours to go from Pontedera to
Empoli.</p>

<p>&quot;Arrived at Empoli the driver stopped,
and presented himself at the door
of the carriage.</p>

<p>&quot;'Your excellence sleeps here,' said
he to the prince.</p>

<p>&quot;'How! are we at Florence?'</p>

<p>&quot;'No, your excellence, you are at the
charming little town of Empoli.'</p>

<p>&quot;'I paid twelve piastres to your master
to go to Florence, not to Empoli. I
will sleep at Florence.'</p>

<p>&quot;'Where is the paper?'</p>

<p>&quot;'To the devil with your paper!'</p>

<p>&quot;'Your excellence then has no paper?'</p>

<p>&quot;'No.'</p>

<p>&quot;'In that case, your excellence now
will sleep at Empoli!'</p>

<p>&quot;In a few minutes afterwards the
prince found himself driven under a kind
of archway. It was a coach-house
belonging to an inn. On his expressing
surprise at being driven into this sort of
place, and repeating his determination
to proceed to Florence, the coachman
said, that, at all events, he must change
his horses; and that this was the most
convenient place for so doing. In fact,
he took out his horses, and led them
away.</p>

<p>&quot;After waiting some time for his
return, the prince called to Frantz, and
bade him open the door of this
coach-house, and bring somebody.</p>

<p>&quot;Frantz obeyed, but found the door
shut&mdash;fastened.</p>

<p>&quot;On hearing that they were shut in,
the prince started from the carriage,
shook the gates with all his might, called
out lustily, and looked about, but in vain,
for some paving stone with which to
batter them open.</p>

<p>&quot;Now the prince was a man of admirable
good sense; so, having satisfied
himself that the people in the house
either could not, or would not hear him,
he determined to make the best of his
position. Re-entering the carriage, he
drew up the glasses, looked to his pistols,
stretched out his legs, and wishing
his mother good night, went off to sleep.
Frantz did the same on his post. The
princess was not so fortunate; she was
in perpetual terror of some ambush, and
kept her eyes wide open all the night.</p>

<p>&quot;So the night passed. At seven
o'clock in the morning the door of the
coach-house opened, and a driver
appeared with a couple of horses.</p>

<p>&quot;'Are there not some travellers for
Florence here?' he asked with the tone
of perfect politeness, and as if he were
putting the most natural question in the
world.</p>

<p>&quot;The prince leapt from the carriage
with the intention of strangling the
man&mdash;but it was another driver!</p>

<p>&quot;'Where is the rascal that brought
us here?' he demanded.</p>

<p>&quot;'What, Peppino? Does your excellence
mean Peppino?'</p>

<p>&quot;'The driver from Pontedera?'</p>

<p>&quot;'Ah, well, that was Peppino.'</p>

<p>&quot;'Then where is Peppino?'</p>

<p>&quot;'He is on his road home. Yes, your
excellence. You see it was the f&ecirc;te of
the Madonna, and we danced and drank
together&mdash;I and Peppino&mdash;all the night;
and this morning about an hour ago says
he to me, 'Gaetano, do you take your
horses, and go find two travellers and a
servant who are under a coach-house at
the <i>Croix d'Or</i>; all is paid except the
<i>buona-mano</i>.' And I asked him, your
excellence, how it happened that travellers
were sleeping in a coach-house
instead of in a chamber. 'Oh,' said he,
'they are English&mdash;they are afraid of not
having clean sheets, and so they prefer
to sleep in their carriage in the
coach-house.' Now as I know the English are
a nation of originals, I supposed it was
all right, and so I emptied another flask,
and got my horses, and here I am. If
I am too early I will return, and come
by and by.</p>

<p>&quot;'No, no, in the devil's name,' said
the prince, 'harness your beasts, and do
not lose a moment. There is a piastre
for your <i>buona-mano</i>.'</p>

<p>&quot;They were soon at Florence.</p>

<p>&quot;The first care of the prince, after
having breakfasted, for neither he nor
the princess had eaten any thing since
they had left Livorno, was to lay his
complaint before a magistrate.</p>

<p>&quot;'Where is the paper?' said the
judicial authority.</p>

<p>&quot;'I have none,' said the prince.</p>

<p>&quot;'Then I counsel you,' replied the
judge, 'to let the matter drop. Only
the next time give five piastres to the
master, and a piastre and a half to the
driver; you will save five piastres and a
half, and arrive eighteen hours
sooner.'&quot;&mdash;P. 97.</p></div>

<p>M. Dumas, however, arrives at
Florence without any such disagreeable
adventure as sleeping in a coach-house.
He gives a pleasing description
of the Florentine people, amongst
whom the spirit of commerce has died
away, but left behind a considerable
share of the wealth and luxury that
sprang from it. There is little spirit
of enterprise; no rivalry between a
class enriching itself and the class
with whom wealth is hereditary; the
jewels that were purchased under the
reign of the Medici still shine without
competitors on the promenade and at
the opera. It is a people that has
made its fortune, and lives contentedly
on its revenues, and on what it gets
from the stranger. &quot;The first want of
a Florentine,&quot; says our author, &quot;is repose;
even pleasure is secondary; it
costs him some little effort to be amused.
Wearied of its frequent political
convulsions, the town of the Medici
aspires only to that unbroken and enchanted
slumber which fell, as the
fairy tale informs us, on the beautiful
lady in the sleepy wood. No one here
seems to labour, except those who are
tolling and ringing the church-bells,
and they indeed appear to have rest
neither day nor night.&quot;</p>

<p>There are but three classes visible
in Florence. The nobility&mdash;the foreigner&mdash;and
the people. The nobility,
a few princely houses excepted,
spend but little, the people work but
little, and it would be a marvel how
these last lived if it were not for the
foreigner. Every autumn brings them
their harvest in the shape of a swarm
of travellers from England, France,
or Russia, and, we may now add,
America. The winter pays for the
long delicious indolence of the summer.
Then the populace lounges,
with interminable leisure, in their
churches, on their promenades, round
the doors of coffee-houses that are
never closed either day or night; they
follow their religious processions; they
cluster with an easy good-natured curiosity
round every thing that wears
the appearance of a f&ecirc;te; taking whatever
amusement presents itself, without
caring to detain it, and quitting it
without the least distrust that some
other quite as good will occupy its
place. &quot;One evening we were roused,&quot;
says our traveller, &quot;by a noise in the
street: two or three musicians of the
opera, on leaving the theatre, had
taken a fancy to go home playing a
waltz. The scattered population of
the streets arranged themselves, and
followed waltzing. The men who
could find no better partners, waltzed
together. Five or six hundred persons
were enjoying this impromptu ball,
which kept its course from the opera
house to the Port del Prato, where
the last musician resided. The last
musician having entered his house,
the waltzers returned arm-in-arm,
still humming the air to which they
had been dancing.&quot;</p>

<div class="blkquot"><p>&quot;It follows,&quot; continues M. Dumas,
&quot;from this commercial apathy, that at
Florence you must seek after every
thing you want. It never comes of
itself&mdash;never presents itself before you;&mdash;everything
there stays at home&mdash;rests
in its own place. A foreigner
who should remain only a month in the
capital of Tuscany would carry away a
very false idea of it. At first it seems
impossible to procure the things the
most indispensable, or those you do procure
are bad; it is only after some time
that you learn, and that not from the
inhabitants, but from other foreigners
who have resided there longer than
yourself, where anything is to be got.
At the end of six months you are still
making discoveries of this sort; so that
people generally quit Tuscany at the
time they have learned to live there. It
results from all this that every time
you visit Florence you like it the better;
if you should revisit it three or
four times you would probably end by
making of it a second country, and
passing there the remainder of your
lives.&quot;<a name="footnotetag2" id="footnotetag2"></a><a href="#footnote2"><sup>2</sup></a></p></div>

<p>Shall we visit the churches of Florence
with M. Dumas? No, we are
not in the vein. Shall we go with
him to the theatres&mdash;to the opera&mdash;to
the Pergola? Yes, but not to discuss
the music or the dancing. Every
body knows that at the great theatres
of Italy the fashionable part of the
audience pay very little attention to
the music, unless it be a new opera,
but make compensation by listening
devoutly to the ballet. The Pergola
is the great resort of fashion. A
box at the Pergola, and a carriage
for the banks of the Arno, are the <i>indispensables</i>,
we are told, at Florence.
Who has these, may eat his macaroni
where he pleases&mdash;may dine for
sixpence if he will, or can: it is his
own affair, the world is not concerned
about it&mdash;he is still a gentleman, and
ranks with nobles. Who has them
not&mdash;though he be derived from the
loins of emperors, and dine every
day off plate of gold, and with a dozen
courses&mdash;is still nobody. Therefore
regulate your expenditure accordingly,
all ye who would be somebody.
We go with M. Dumas to
the opera, not, as we have said, for
the music or the dancing, but because,
as is the way with dramatic authors,
he will there introduce us, for the
sake of contrast with an institution
very different from that of an operatic
company&mdash;</p>

<div class="blkquot"><p>&quot;Sometimes in the midst of a cavatina
or a <i>pas-de-deux</i>, a bell with a
sharp, shrill, excoriating sound, will be
heard; it is the bell <i>della misericordia</i>.
Listen: if it sound but once, it is for
some ordinary accident; if twice, for
one of a serious nature; if it sounds
three times, it is a case of death. If
you look around, you will see a slight
stir in some of the boxes, and it will
often happen that the person you have
been speaking to, if a Florentine, will
excuse himself for leaving you, will
quietly take his hat and depart. You
inquire what that bell means, and why
it produces so strange an effect. You
are told it is the bell <i>della misericordia</i>,
and that he with whom you were speaking
is a brother of the order.</p>

<p>&quot;This brotherhood of mercy is one
of the noblest institutions in the world.
It was founded in 1244, on occasion of
the frequent pestilences which at that
period desolated the town, and it has
been perpetuated to the present day,
without any alteration, except in its
details&mdash;with none in its purely charitable
spirit. It is composed of seventy-two
brothers, called chiefs of the watch, who
are each in service four months in the
year. Of these seventy-two brothers,
thirty are priests, fourteen gentlemen,
and twenty-eight artists. To these,
who represent the aristocratic classes
and the liberal arts, are added 500 labourers
and workmen, who may be said
to represent the people.</p>

<p>&quot;The seat of the brotherhood is in
the place <i>del Duomo</i>. Each brother
has there, marked with his own name, a
box enclosing a black robe like that of
the <i>penitents</i>, with openings only for the
eyes and mouth, in order that his good
actions may have the further merit of
being performed in secret. Immediately
that the news of any accident or disaster
is brought to the brother who is upon
guard, the bell sounds its alarm, once,
twice, or thrice, according to the gravity
of the case; and at the sound of the
bell every brother, wherever he may be,
is bound to retire at the instant, and
hasten to the rendezvous. There he
learns what misfortune or what suffering
has claimed his pious offices; he
puts on his black robe and a broad hat,
takes the taper in his hand, and goes
forth where the voice of misery has
called him. If it is some wounded man,
they bear him to the hospital; if the
man is dead, to a chapel: the nobleman
and the day labourer, clothed with the
same robe, support together the same
litter, and the link which unites these
two extremes of society is some sick
pauper, who, knowing neither, is praying
equally for both. And when these brothers
of mercy have quitted the house,
the children whose father they have
carried out, or the wife whose husband
they have borne away, have but to look
around them, and always, on some
worm-eaten piece of furniture, there
will be found a pious alms, deposited by
an unknown hand.</p>

<p>&quot;The Grand-duke himself is a member
of this fraternity, and I have been
assured that more than once, at the
sound of that melancholy bell, he has
clothed himself in the uniform of charity,
and penetrated unknown, side by
side with a day-labourer, to the bed's
head of some dying wretch, and that
his presence had afterwards been detected
only by the alms he had left behind.&quot;&mdash;p. 126.</p></div>

<p>It is not to be supposed that our
dramatist pursues the same direct and
unadventurous route that lies open to
every citizen of Paris and London.
At the end of the first volume we
leave him still at Florence; we open
the second, and we find him and his
companion Jadin, and his companion's
dog Milord, standing at the port of
Naples, looking out for some vessel
to take them to Sicily. So that we
have travels in Italy with Rome left
out. Not that he did not visit Rome,
but that we have no &quot;souvenirs&quot; of
his visit here. As the book is a mere
<i>capriccio</i>, there can be no possible objection
taken to it on this score. Besides,
the island of Sicily, which becomes
the chief scene of his adventures,
is less beaten ground. Nor do
we hear much of Naples, for he quits
Naples almost as soon as he had entered
it. This last fact requires explanation.</p>

<p>M. Dumas has had the honour to
be an object of terror or of animosity
to crowned heads. When at Genoa,
his Sardinian Majesty manifested this
hostility to M. Dumas&mdash;we presume
on account of his too liberal politics&mdash;by
dispatching an emissary of the
police to notify to him that he must
immediately depart from Genoa.
Which emissary of his Sardinian
Majesty had no sooner delivered his
royal sentence of deportation, than
he extended his hand for a <i>pour boire</i>.
Either M. Dumas must be a far more
formidable person than we have any
notion of, or majesty can be very nervous,
or very spiteful. And now,
when he is about to enter Naples&mdash;&mdash;but
why do we presume to relate M.
Dumas's personal adventures in any
other language than his own? or language
as near his own as we&mdash;who
are, we must confess, imperfect translators&mdash;can
hope to give.</p>

<div class="blkquot"><p>&quot;The very evening of our arrival at
Naples, Jadin and I ran to the port to
enquire if by chance any vessel, whether
steam-boat or sailing packet, would
leave on the morrow for Sicily. As it is
not the ordinary custom for travellers
to go to Naples to remain there a few
hours only, let me say a word on the
circumstance that compelled us to this
hasty departure.</p>

<p>&quot;We had left Paris with the intention
of traversing the whole of Italy,
including Sicily and Calabria; and, putting
this project into scrupulous execution,
we had already visited Nice, Genoa,
Milan, Florence, and Rome, when,
after a sojourn of about three weeks at
this last city, I had the honour to meet,
at the Marquis de P&mdash;&mdash;'s, our own
<i>charg&eacute; des affaires</i>, the Count de Ludorf,
the Neapolitan ambassador. As I was
to leave in a few days for Naples, the
Marquis introduced me to his brother in
diplomacy. M. de Ludorf received me
with that cold and vacant smile which
pledges to nothing; nevertheless, after
this introduction, I thought myself bound
to carry to him our passports myself.
M. de Ludorf had the civility to tell me
to deposit the passports at his office, and
to call there for them the day after the
morrow.</p>

<p>&quot;Two days having elapsed, I accordingly
presented myself at the office: I
found a clerk there, who, with the utmost
politeness, informed me that some
difficulties having arisen on the subject
of my <i>visa</i>, I had better make an application
to the ambassador himself. I was
obliged, therefore, whatever resolution
I had made to the contrary, to present
myself again to M. de Ludorf.</p>

<p>&quot;I found the ambassador more cold,
more measured than before, but reflecting
that it would probably be the last
time I should have the honour of seeing
him, I resigned myself. He motioned
to me to take a chair. This was some
improvement upon the last visit; the last
visit he left me standing.</p>

<p>&quot;'Monsieur,' said he, with a certain
air of embarrassment, and drawing out,
one after the other, the folds of his
shirt-front, 'I regret to say that you
cannot go to Naples.'</p>

<p>&quot;'Why so?' I replied, determined
to impose upon our dialogue whatever
tone I thought fit&mdash;'are the roads so
bad?'</p>

<p>&quot;'No, monsieur; the roads are excellent,
but you have the misfortune to
be on the list of those who cannot enter
the kingdom of Naples.'</p>

<p>&quot;'However honourable such a distinction
may be, monsieur l'ambassadeur,'
said I, suiting my tone to the words, 'it
will at present be rather inconvenient,
and I trust you will permit me to inquire
into the cause of this prohibition.
If it is nothing but one of those slight
and vexatious interruptions which one
meets with perpetually in Italy, I have
some friends about the world who might
have influence sufficient to remove it.'</p>

<p>&quot;'The cause is one of a grave nature,
and I doubt if your friends, of
whatever rank they may be, will have
influence to remove it.'</p>

<p>&quot;'What may it be?'</p>

<p>&quot;'In the first place, you are the son
of General Matthieu Dumas, who was
minister of war at Naples during the
usurpation of Joseph.'</p>

<p>&quot;'I am sorry,' I answered, 'to be
obliged to decline any relationship with
that illustrious general. My father was
not General Matthieu, but General
Alexandre Dumas. The same,' I continued,
seeing that he was endeavouring
to recall some reminiscences connected
with the name of Dumas, 'who, after
having been made prisoner at Tarentum,
in contempt of the rights of hospitality,
was poisoned at Brindisi, with Mauscourt
and Dolomieu, in contempt of
the rights of nations. This happened,
monsieur l'ambassadeur, at the same
time that they hanged Carracciolo in
the Gulf of Naples. You see I do all
I can to assist your recollection.'</p>

<p>&quot;M. de Ludorf bit his lips.</p>

<p>&quot;'Well, monsieur,' he resumed after
a moment's silence, 'there is a second
reason&mdash;your political opinions. You
are marked out as a republican, and
have quitted Paris, it is said, on some
political design.'</p>

<p>&quot;'To which I answer, monsieur,
by showing you my letters of introduction.
They bear nearly all the seals and
signatures of our ministers. Here is
one from the Admiral Jacob, another
from Marshal Soult, another from M.
de Villemain; they claim for me the aid
of the French ambassador in any case
of this description.'</p>

<p>&quot;'Well, well,' said M. de Ludorf,
'since you have foreseen the very difficulty
that has occurred, meet it with
those means which are in your power.
For me, I repeat, I cannot sign your
passport. Those of your companions
are quite regular; they can proceed
when they please; but they must proceed
without you.'</p>

<p>&quot;'Has the Count de Ludorf' said I,
rising, 'any commissions for Naples?'</p>

<p>&quot;'Why so, monsieur?'</p>

<p>&quot;'Because I shall have great pleasure
in undertaking them.'</p>

<p>&quot;'But I repeat, you cannot go to
Naples.'</p>

<p>&quot;'I shall be there in three days.'</p>

<p>&quot;I wished M. de Ludorf good morning,
and left him stupefied at my assurance.&quot;&mdash;Vol.
ii. p. 5.</p></div>

<p>Our dramatical traveller ran immediately
to a young friend, an artist
then studying at Rome, and prevailed
on him to take out a passport, in his
own name for Naples. Fortified
with this passport, and assuming the
name of his friend, he left Rome that
evening. The following day he reached
Naples. But as he was exposed
every moment to detection, it was necessary
that he should pass over immediately
to Sicily. The steam-boats
at Naples, unlike the steam-boats
every where else, start at no fixed period.
The captain waits for his contingent
of passengers, and till this has
been obtained both he and his vessel
are immovable. M. Dumas and his
companion, therefore, hired a small
sailing vessel, a <i>speronara</i> as it is
called, in which they embarked the
next morning. But before weighing
anchor M. Dumas took from his portfolio
the neatest, purest, whitest, sheet
of paper that it contained, and indited
the following letter to the Count de
Ludorf:&mdash;</p>

<div class="blkquot"><p>&quot;Monsieur le Comte,

<p>&quot;I am distressed that your excellency
did not think fit to charge me with your
commissions for Naples. I should have
executed them with a fidelity which
would have convinced you of the grateful
recollection I retain of your kind
offices.</p>

<p>&quot;Accept, M. le Comte, the assurance
of those lively sentiments which I entertain
towards you, and of which, one day
or other, I hope to give you proof.</p>

<p>&quot;ALEX. DUMAS.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Naples, 23d Aug. 1835.&quot;</p></div>

<p>With the crew of this <i>speronara</i>
we became as familiar as with the
personages of a novel; and, indeed,
about this time the novelist begins to
predominate over the tourist.</p>

<p>On leaving the bay of Naples our
traveller first makes for the island of
Capri. The greatest curiosity which
he here visits and describes in the
<i>azure grotto</i>. He and his companion
are rowed, each in a small skiff, to a
narrow dark aperture upon the rocky
coast, and which appears the darker
from its contrast with the white surf
that is dashing about it. He is told
to lie down on his back in the boat, to
protect his head from a concussion
against the low roof.</p>

<div class="blkquot"><p>&quot;In a moment after I was borne upon
the surge&mdash;the bark glided on with rapidity&mdash;I
saw nothing but a dark rock,
which seemed for a second to be weighing
on my chest. Then on a sudden I
found myself in a grotto so marvellous
that I uttered a cry of astonishment,
and started up in my admiration with a
bound which endangered the frail bark
on which I stood.</p>

<p>&quot;I had before me, around me, above
me, beneath me, a perfect enchantment,
which words cannot describe, and which
the pencil would utterly fail to give any
impression of. Imagine an immense
cavern, all pure azure&mdash;as if God had
made a tent there with some residue
of the firmament; a surface of water
so limpid, so transparent, that you
seem to float on air: above you, the
pendant stalactites, huge and fantastical,
reversed pyramids and pinnacles: below
you a sand of gold mingled with marine
vegetation; and around the margin of
cave, where it is bathed by the water,
the coral shooting out its capricious and
glittering branches. That narrow entrance
which, from the sea, showed like
a dark spot, now shone at one end a luminous
point, the solitary star which
gave its subdued light to this fairy palace;
whilst at the opposite extremity a
sort of alcove led on the imagination to
expect new wonders, or perhaps the apparition
of the nymph or goddess of the
place.</p>

<p>&quot;In all probability the azure grotto
was unknown to the ancients. No poet
speaks of it; and surely with their
marvellous imagination the Greeks could
not have failed to make it the palace of
some marine goddess, and to have
transmitted to us her history. The sea,
perhaps, was higher than it is now, and the
secrets of this cave were known only
to Amphitrite and her court of sirens,
naiads, and tritons.</p>

<p>&quot;Even now at times the sea rises and
closes the orifice, so that those who have
entered cannot escape. In which case
they must wait till the wind, which had
suddenly shifted to the east or west,
returns to the north or south; and it has
happened that visitors who came to
spend twenty minutes in the azure grotto,
have remained there two, three, and
even four days.  To provide against
such an emergency, the boatmen always
bring with them a certain quantity of
biscuit to feed the prisoners, and as the
rock affords fresh water in several places,
there is no fear of thirst. It was not
till we had been in the grotto some time
that our boatmen communicated this
piece of information; we were disposed
to reproach them for this delay, but they
answered with the utmost simplicity,
that if they told this at first to travellers,
half of them would decline coming,
and this would injure the boatmen.</p>

<p>&quot;I confess that this little piece of information
raised a certain disquietude,
and I found the azure grotto infinitely
less agreeable to the imagination....
We again laid ourselves down at the
bottom of our respective canoes, and
issued forth with the same precautions,
and the same good fortune, with which
we had entered. But we were some
minutes before we could open our eyes;
the burning sun upon the glittering
ocean absolutely blinded us. We had
not gone many yards, however, before
the eye recovered itself, and all that we
had seen in the azure grotto had the
consistency of a dream.&quot;</p></div>

<p>From Capri our travellers proceed
to Sicily. We have a long story and
a violent storm upon the passage, and
are landed at Messina. Here M. Dumas
enlarges his experience by an acquaintance
with the <i>Sirocco</i>.  His
companion, M. Jadin, had been taken
ill, and a physician had been called
in.</p>

<div class="blkquot"><p>&quot;The doctor had ordered that the
patient (who was suffering under a fever)
should be exposed to all the air
possible, that doors and windows should
be opened, and he should be placed in
the current. This was done; but on the
present evening, to my astonishment,
instead of the fresh breeze of the night&mdash;which
was wont to blow the fresher
from our neighbourhood to the sea&mdash;there
entered at the open window a dry
hot wind like the air from a furnace. I
waited for the morning, but the morning
brought no change in the state of
the atmosphere.</p>

<p>&quot;My patient had suffered greatly
through the night. I rang the bell for
some lemonade, the only drink the doctor
had recommended; but no one answered
the summons. I rang again, and a
third time: still no one came; at length
seeing that the mountain would not
come to me, I went to the mountain. I
wandered through the corridor, and entered
apartment after apartment, and
found no one to address. It was nine
o'clock in the morning, yet the master
and mistress of the house had not left
their room, and not a domestic was at
his post. It was quite incomprehensible.</p>

<p>&quot;I descended to the portico; I found
him lying on an old sofa all in tatters,
the principal ornament of his room, and
asked him why the house was thus deserted.</p>

<p>&quot;'Ah, monsieur!' said he, 'do you not
feel the sirocco?'</p>

<p>&quot;'Sirocco or not, is this a reason why
no one should come when I call?'</p>

<p>&quot;'Oh, monsieur, when it is sirocco no
one does any thing!'</p>

<p>&quot;'And your travellers, who is to wait
upon them?'</p>

<p>&quot;'On those days they wait upon themselves.'</p>

<p>&quot;I begged pardon of this respectable
official for having disturbed him; he
heaved such a sigh as indicated that it
required a great amount of Christian
charity to grant the pardon I had asked.</p>

<p>&quot;The hour arrived when the doctor
should have paid his visit, and no doctor
came. I presumed that the sirocco detained
him also; but as the state of
Jadin appeared to me alarming, I resolved
to go and rouse my Esculapius,
and bring him, willing or unwilling, to
the hotel. I took my hat and sallied
forth.</p>

<p>&quot;Messina had the appearance of a
city of the dead: not an inhabitant was
walking in the streets, not a head was
seen at the windows. The mendicants
themselves (and he who has not seen the
Sicilian mendicant, knows not what
wretchedness is,) lay in the corners of
the streets, stretched out, doubled up,
panting, without strength to stretch out
their hand for charity, or voice to ask
an alms. Pompeii, which I visited three
months afterwards, was not more silent,
more solitary, more inanimate.</p>

<p>&quot;I reached the doctor's. I rang, I
knocked, no one answered. I pushed
against the door, it opened;&mdash;I entered,
and pursued my search for the doctor.</p>

<p>&quot;I traversed three or four apartments.
There were women lying upon
sofas, and children sprawling on the
floor. Not one even raised a head to
look at me. At last, in one of the
rooms, the door of which was, like the
rest, half-open, I found the man I was
in quest of, stretched upon his bed.</p>

<p>&quot;I went up to him, I took him by the
hand, and felt his pulse.</p>

<p>&quot;'Ah,' said he, with a melancholy
voice, and scarcely turning his head towards
me, 'Is that you? What can you
want?'</p>

<p>&quot;'Want!--I want you to come and
see my friend, who is no better, as it
seems to me.'</p>

<p>&quot;'Go and see your friend!' cried
the doctor, in a fright&mdash;'impossible!'</p>

<p>&quot;'Why impossible?'</p>

<p>&quot;He made a desperate effort to move,
and taking his cane in his left hand,
passed his right hand slowly down it,
from the golden head that adorned it
to the other extremity. 'Look you,'
said he, 'my cane sweats.'</p>

<p>&quot;And, in fact, there fell some globules
of water from it, such an effect has
this terrible wind even on inanimate
things.</p>

<p>&quot;'Well,' said I, 'and what does that
prove?'</p>

<p>&quot;'That proves, that at such a time
as this, there are no physicians, all are
patients.<a name="footnotetag3" id="footnotetag3"></a><a href="#footnote3"><sup>3</sup></a>'&quot;&mdash;P. 175.</p></div>

<p>Seeing there was no chance of
bringing the doctor to the hotel, unless
he carried him there by main
force, Mr Dumas contented himself
with relating the symptoms of his
friend. To drink lemonade&mdash;much
lemonade&mdash;all the lemonade he could
swallow, was the only prescription
that the physician gave. And the
simple remedy seems to have sufficed;
for the patient shortly after recovered.</p>

<p>Not the least agreeable portion of
these travels, is the pleasant impression
they leave of the traveller himself,
one who has his humours doubtless,
but who is social, buoyant,
brave, generous, and enterprising. A
Frenchman&mdash;as a chemist, in his peculiar
language, would say&mdash;is a creature
&quot;endowed with a considerable
range of affinity.&quot; Our traveller has
this range of affinity; he wins the
heart of all and several&mdash;the crew of
his <i>speronara.</i> We will close with
the following extract, both because it
shows the frank and lively feelings of
the Frenchman, and because it introduces
a name dear to all lovers of
melody. The father of Bellini was a
Sicilian, and Dumas was in Sicily.</p>

<div class="blkquot"><p>&quot;It was while standing on this spot,
that I asked my guide if he knew the
father of Bellini. At this question he
turned, and pointing out to me an old
man who was passing in a little carriage
drawn by one horse&mdash;'Look you,' said
he, 'there he is, taking his ride into the
country!'</p>

<p>&quot;I ran to the carriage and stopped
it, knowing that he is never intrusive
who speaks to a father of his son, and
of such a son as Bellini's. At the first
mention of his name, the old man took
me by both hands, and asked me eagerly
if I really knew his son. I drew from
my portfolio a letter of introduction,
which, on my departure from Paris,
Bellini had given me for the Duchess de
Noja, and asked him if he knew the
handwriting. He took the letter in his
hands, and answered only by kissing the
superscription.</p>

<p>&quot;'Ah,' said he, turning round to me,
'you know not how good he is! We
are not rich. Well, at each success there
comes some remembrance, something to
add to the ease and comfort of an old
man. If you will come home with me,
I will show you how many things I owe
to his goodness. Every success brings
something new. This watch I carry
with me, was from <i>Norma</i>; this little
carriage and horse, from <i>the Puritans</i>.
In every letter that he writes, he says
that he will come; but Paris is far from
Sicily. I do not trust to this promise&mdash;I
am afraid that I shall die without
seeing him again. You will see him,
you&mdash;&mdash;'</p>

<p>&quot;'Yes,' I answered, 'and if you have
any commission&mdash;&mdash;'</p>

<p>&quot;'No&mdash;what should I send him?&mdash;My
blessing?&mdash;Dear boy, I give it him
night and morning. But tell him you
have given me a happy day by speaking
to me of him&mdash;tell him that I embraced
you as an old friend&mdash;(and he embraced
me)&mdash;but you need not say that I was
in tears. Besides,' he added, 'it is with
joy that I weep.&mdash;And is it true that
my son has a reputation?'</p>

<p>&quot;'Indeed a very great reputation.'</p>

<p>&quot;'How strange!' said the old man,
'who would have thought it, when I
used to scold him, because, instead of
working, he would be eternally beating
time, and teaching his sister all the old
Sicilian airs! Well, these things are
written above. I wish I could see him
before I die.&mdash;But your name?' he added,
'I have forgotten all this time to
ask your name.'</p>

<p>&quot;I told him: it woke no recollection.</p>

<p>&quot;'Alexandre Dumas, Alexandre Dumas,'
he repeated two or three times, 'I
shall recollect that he who bears that
name has given me good news of my
son. Adieu! Alexandre Dumas&mdash;I shall
recollect that name&mdash;Adieu!'</p>

<p>&quot;Poor old man! I am sure he has
not forgotten it; for the news I gave
him of his son was the last he was ever
to receive.&quot;&mdash;P. 226.</p></div>

<p>Sicily is one of those <i>romantic</i>
countries, where you may still meet
with adventures in your travels, where
you may be shot at by banditti with
pointed hats and long guns. M. Dumas
passes not without his share of
such adventures. Perhaps, as Sicily
is less trodden ground than Italy, his
&quot;Souvenirs&quot; will be found more interesting
as he proceeds. We have
naturally taken our quotations in the
order in which they presented themselves,
and we have not advanced further
than the second of the five delectably
small volumes in which these
travels are printed. Would our space
permit us to proceed, it is probable
that our extracts would increase, instead
of diminishing, in interest.</p>

<hr class="full" />


<a name="bw329s2" id="bw329s2"></a><h2>AMMAL&Aacute;T BEK.</h2>

<h3>A TRUE TALE OF THE CAUCASUS. FROM THE RUSSIAN OF MARL&Iacute;NSKI.</h3>

<h3>CHAPTER VI.</h3>
<br>

<p><i>Fragments from the Diary of Ammal&aacute;t Bek.&mdash;Translated from the Tartar</i>.</p>

<p>... Have I been asleep till
now, or am I now in a dream?...
This, then, is the new world called
<i>thought</i>!... O beautiful world!
thou hast long been to me cloudy
and confused, like the milky way,
which, they say, consists of thousands
of glittering stars! It seems to me
that I am ascending the mountain of
knowledge from the valley of darkness
and ignorance; each step opens
to me views further and more extensive....
My breast breathes freer,
I gaze in the face of the sun....
I look below&mdash;the clouds murmur under
my feet!... annoying clouds!
You prevent me from seeing the heavens
from the earth; from the heaven
to look upon the earth!</p>

<p>I wonder how the commonest questions,
<i>whence</i> and <i>how</i>, never before
came into my head? All God's world,
with every thing in it good or evil,
was seen reflected in my soul as in
the sea: I only knew as much of it
as the sea does, or a mirror. In my
memory, it is true, much was preserved:
but to what end did this serve?
Does the hawk understand why the
hood is put on his head? Does the
steed understand why they shoe him?
Did I understand why in one place
mountains are necessary, in another
steppes, here eternal snows, there
oceans of sand? Why storms and
earthquakes were necessary? And
thou, most wondrous being, Man!
it never has entered my head to follow
thee from thy cradle, suspended
on a wandering mule, to that magnificent
city which I have never seen,
and which I am enchanted merely to
have heard of!... I confess that I
am already delighted with the mere
outside of a book, without understanding
the meaning of the mysterious
letters ... but V. not only makes
knowledge attractive, but gives me
the means of acquiring it. With him,
as a young swallow with its mother, I
try my new wings.... The distance
and the height still astonish, but no
longer alarm me. The time will come
when I shall mount upwards to the
heavens!...</p>

<hr style="width: 45%;">

<p>... But yet, am I happy because
V. and his books teach me to think?
The time was, when a spirited steed,
a costly sabre, a good gun, delighted
me like a child. Now, that I know
the superiority of mind over body,
my former pride in shooting or horsemanship
appears to me ridiculous&mdash;nay,
even contemptible. Is it worth
while to devote oneself to a trade, in
which the meanest broad-shouldered
no&uacute;ker can surpass me?... Is it
worth while to seek honour and happiness,
of which the first wound may
deprive me&mdash;the first awkward leap?
They have taken from me this plaything,
but with what have they replaced it?...
With new wants,
with new wishes, which Allah himself
can neither weary nor satisfy. I
thought myself a man of consequence;
but now I am convinced of my own
nothingness. Formerly, to my memory,
my grandfather and great-grandfather
were at the beginning of
the night of the past, with its stories
and dreaming traditions.... The
Caucasus contained my world, and I
peacefully slept in that night. I
thought to be famous in Daghest&aacute;n&mdash;the
height of glory. And what then?
History has peopled my former desert
with nations, shattering each other
for glory; with heroes, terrifying the
nations by valour to which we can
never rise. And where are they?
Half forgotten, they have vanished in
the dust of ages. The description of
the earth shows me that the Tartars
occupy a little corner of the world;
that they are miserable savages in comparison
with the European nations;
and that of the existence, not only of
their brave warriors, but of the whole
nation, nobody thinks, nobody knows,
nobody wishes to know. It is worth
while to be a glow-worm amongst insects.
Was it worth while to expand
my mind, in order to be convinced of
such a bitter truth?</p>

<hr style="width: 45%;">

<p>What is the use of a knowledge of
the powers of nature to me, when I
cannot change my soul, master my
heart? The sea teaches me to build
dykes&mdash;but I cannot restrain my tears!...
I can conduct the lightning
from the roof, but I cannot throw off
my sorrows! Was I not unhappy
enough from my feelings alone, without
calling around me my thoughts,
like greedy vultures? What does the
sick man gain by knowing that his
disease is incurable?... The tortures
of my hopeless love have become
sharper, more piercing, more various,
since my intellect has been enlightened.</p>

<hr style="width: 45%;">

<p>No! I am unjust. Reading shortens
for me the long winter-like night&mdash;the
hours of separation. In teaching
me to fix on paper my flying
thoughts, V. has given me a heartfelt
enjoyment. Some day I shall
meet Seltanetta, and I shall show her
these pages; in which her name is
written oftener than that of Allah in
the Kor&aacute;n. &quot;These are the annals
of my heart,&quot; I shall say: &quot;Look!
on such a day thus thought about
you&mdash;on such a night, I saw you thus
in my dreams! By these little leaves,
as by a string of diamond beads, you
may count my sighs, my tears for
you.&quot; O lovely, and beloved being!
you will often smile at my strange
phantasies&mdash;long will they supply
matter for our conversations. But,
by your side, enchantress, shall I be
able to remember the past?... No,
no!... Every thing before me,
every thing around me, will then fade
away, except the present bliss&mdash;to be
with you! O, how burning, and how
light will my soul be! Liquid sunshine
will flow in my veins&mdash;I shall
float in heaven, like the sun! To forget
all by your side is a bliss prouder
than the highest wisdom!</p>

<hr style="width: 45%;">

<p>I have read stories of love, of the
charms of woman&mdash;of the perfidy of
man&mdash;but no heroine approaches my
Seltanetta in loveliness of soul or body&mdash;not
one of the heroes do I resemble&mdash;I
envy them the fascination, I admire
the wisdom of lovers in books&mdash;but
then, how weak, how cold is their
love! It is a moonbeam playing on
ice! Whence come these European
babblers of Tharsis&mdash;these nightingales
of the market-place&mdash;these sugared
confections of flowers? I cannot
believe that people can love passionately,
and prate of their love&mdash;even
as a hired mourner laments over
the dead. The spendthrift casts his
treasure by handfuls to the wind; the
lover hides it, nurses it, buries it in
his heart like a hoard.</p>

<hr style="width: 45%;">

<p>I am yet young, and I ask &quot;what
is friendship?&quot; I have a friend in
V.&mdash;a loving, real, thoughtful friend;
yet I am not <i>his</i> friend. I feel it, I
reproach myself that I do not reciprocate
his regard as I ought, as he
deserves&mdash;but is in my power? In
my soul there is no room for any one
but Seltanetta&mdash;in my heart there is
no feeling but love.</p>

<hr style="width: 45%;">

<p>No! I cannot read, I cannot understand
what the Colonel explains to
me. I cheated myself when I thought
that the ladder of science could be
climbed by me ... I am weary at the
first steps, I lose my way on the first
difficulty, I entangle the threads, instead
of unravelling them&mdash;I pull and
tear them&mdash;and I carry off nothing of
the prey but a few fragments. The
<i>hope</i> which the Colonel held out to
me I mistook for my own progress.
But who&mdash;what&mdash;impedes this progress?
That which makes the happiness
and misery of my life&mdash;love.
In every place, in every thing, I hear
and see Seltanetta&mdash;and often Seltanetta
alone. To banish her from my
thoughts I should consider sacrilege;
and, even if I wished, I could not perform
the resolution. Can I see without
light? Can I breathe without
air? Seltanetta is my light, my air,
my life, my soul!</p>

<hr style="width: 45%;">

<p>My hand trembles&mdash;my heart flutters
in my bosom. If I wrote with
my blood, 'twould scorch the paper.
Seltanetta! your image pursues me
dreaming or awake. The image of
your charms is more dangerous than
the reality. The thought that I may
never possess them, touch them, see
them, perhaps, plunges me into an incessant
melancholy&mdash;at once I melt
and burn. I recall each lovely feature,
each attitude of your exquisite person&mdash;that
little foot, the seal of love, that
bosom, the gem of bliss! The remembrance
of your voice makes my
soul thrill like the chord of an instrument&mdash;ready
to burst from the clearness
of its tone&mdash;and your kiss! that
kiss in which I drank your soul! It
showers roses and coals of fire upon
my lonely bed&mdash;I burn&mdash;my hot lips
are tortured by the thirst for caresses&mdash;my
hand longs to clasp your waist&mdash;to
touch your knees! Oh, come&mdash;Oh,
fly to me&mdash;that I may die in delight,
as now I do in weariness!</p>

<hr style="width: 45%;">

<p>Colonel Verkh&oacute;ffsky, endeavouring
by every possible means to divert Ammal&aacute;t's
grief, thought of amusing him
with a boar-hunt, the favourite occupation
of the Beks of Daghest&aacute;n. In
answer to his summons, there assembled
about twenty persons, each attended
by his no&uacute;kers, each eager to
try his fortune, or to gallop about the
field and vaunt his courage. Already
had grey December covered the tops
of the surrounding mountains with the
first-fallen snow. Here and there in the
streets of Derb&eacute;nd lay a crust of ice,
but over it the mud rolled in sluggish
waves along the uneven pavement.
The sea lazily plashed against the
sunken turrets of the walls which descended
to the water, a flock of bustards
and of geese whizzed through
the fog, and flew with a complaining
cry above the ramparts; all was dark
and melancholy&mdash;even the dull and
tiresome braying of the asses laden
with faggots for the market, sounded
like a dirge over the fine weather.
The old Tartars sat in the baz&aacute;rs,
wrapping their shoubes over their
noses. But this is exactly the weather
most favourable to hunters. Hardly
had the mo&oacute;llahs of the town proclaimed
the hour of prayer, when the
Colonel, attended by several of his
officers, the Beks of the city, and Ammal&aacute;t,
rode, or rather swam, through
the mud, leaving the town in the direction
of the north, through the principal
gate Keerkhl&aacute;r K&aacute;pi, which is
covered with iron plates. The road
leading to T&aacute;rki is rude in appearance,
bordered for a few paces to the
right and left with beds of madder&mdash;beyond
them lie vast burying-grounds,
and further still towards the sea, scattered
gardens. But the appearance
of the suburbs is a great deal more
magnificent than those of the Southern
ones. To the left, on the rocks
were seen the Keif&aacute;rs, or barracks of
the regiment of Ko&uacute;rin; while on both
sides of the road, fragments of rock
lay in picturesque disorder, rolled
down in heaps by the violence of the
mountain-torrents. A forest of ilex,
covered with hoar-frost, thickened
as it approached Vellikent, and at
each verst the retinue of Verkh&oacute;ffsky
was swelled by fresh arrivals of
<i>Beglar</i> and <i>Agalar</i><a name="footnotetag4" id="footnotetag4"></a><a href="#footnote4"><sup>4</sup></a>. The hunting
party now turned to the left, and they
speedily heard the cry of the <i>ghay&aacute;lstchiks</i><a name="footnotetag5" id="footnotetag5"></a><a href="#footnote5"><sup>5</sup></a>
assembled from the surrounding
villages. The hunters formed
into an extended chain, some on horseback,
and some running on foot; and
soon the wild-boars also began to show
themselves.</p>

<p>The umbrageous oak-forests of
Daghest&aacute;n have served, from time
immemorial, as a covert for innumerable
herds of wild hogs; and although
the Tartars&mdash;like the Mussulmans&mdash;hold
it a sin not only to eat, but even
to touch the unclean animal, they consider
it a praiseworthy act to destroy
them&mdash;at least they practise the art of
shooting on these beasts, as well as
exhibit their courage, because the
chase of the wild-boar is accompanied
by great danger, and requires cunning
and bravery.</p>

<p>The lengthened chain of hunters
occupied a wide extent of ground;
the most fearless marksmen selecting
the most solitary posts, in order to divide
with no one else the glory of success,
and also because the animals
make for those points where there are
fewer people. Colonel Verkh&oacute;ffsky,
confident in his gigantic strength and
sure eye, posted himself in the thickest
of the wood, and halted at a small
savannah to which converged the
tracks of numerous wild-boars. Perfectly
alone, leaning against the branch
of a fallen tree, he awaited his game.
Interrupted shots were heard on the
right and left of his station; for a
moment a wild-boar appeared behind
the trees; at length the bursting
crash of falling underwood was heard,
and immediately a boar of uncommon
size darted across the field like a ball
fired from a cannon. The Colonel
took his aim, the bullet whistled, and
the wounded monster suddenly halted,
as if in surprise&mdash;but this was but for
an instant&mdash;he dashed furiously in the
direction whence came the shot. The
froth smoked from his red-hot tusks,
his eye burned in blood, and he flew
at the enemy with a grunt. But
Verkh&oacute;ffsky showed no alarm, waiting
for the nearer approach of the brute:
a second time clicked the cock of his
gun&mdash;but the powder was damp and
missed fire. What now remained for
the hunter? He had not even a dagger
at his girdle&mdash;flight would have
been useless. As if by the anger of
fate, not a single thick tree was near
him&mdash;only one dry branch arose from
the oak against which he had leaned;
and Verkh&oacute;ffsky threw himself on it
as the only means of avoiding destruction.
Hardly had he time to
clamber an arschine and a half<a name="footnotetag6" id="footnotetag6"></a><a href="#footnote6"><sup>6</sup></a> from
the ground, when the boar, enraged
to fury, struck the branch with
his tusks&mdash;it cracked from the force
of the blow and the weight which
was supported by it.... It was in
vain that Verkh&oacute;ffsky tried to climb
higher&mdash;the bark was covered with ice&mdash;his
hands slipped&mdash;he was sliding
downwards; but the beast did not
quit the tree&mdash;he gnawed it&mdash;he attacked
it with his sharp tusks a <i>tch&eacute;tverin</i>
below the feet of the hunter.
Every instant Verkh&oacute;ffsky expected
to be sacrificed, and his voice died
away in the lonely space in vain.
No, not in vain! The sound of a
horse's hoofs was heard close at hand,
and Ammal&aacute;t Bek galloped up at full
speed with uplifted sabre. Perceiving
a new enemy, the wild-boar turned at
him, but a sideway leap of the horse
decided the battle&mdash;a blow from Ammal&aacute;t
hurled him on the earth.</p>

<p>The rescued Colonel hurried to embrace
his friend, but the latter was
slashing, mangling, in a fit of rage,
the slain beast. &quot;I accept not unmerited
thanks,&quot; he answered at length,
turning from the Colonel's embrace.
&quot;This same boar gored before my
eyes a Bek of Tabas&oacute;ran, my friend,
when he, having missed him, had entangled
his foot in the stirrup. I
burned with anger when I saw my
comrade's blood, and flew in pursuit
of the boar. The closeness of the
wood prevented me from following his
track; I had quite lost him; and God
has brought me hither to slay the accursed
brute, when he was on the
point of sacrificing a yet nobler victim&mdash;you,
my benefactor.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Now we are quits, dear Ammal&aacute;t.
Do not talk of past events. This day
our teeth shall avenge us on this tusked
foe. I hope you will not refuse to
taste the forbidden meat, Ammal&aacute;t?&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Not I! nor to wash it down with
champagne, Colonel. Without offence
to Mahomet, I had rather strengthen
my soul with the foam of the
wine, than with the water of the true
believer.&quot;</p>

<p>The hunt now turned to the other
side. From afar were heard cries and
hallooing, and the drums of the Tartars
in the chase. From time to time
shots rang through the air. A horse
was led up to the Colonel: and he,
feasting his sight with the boar, which
was almost cut in two, patted Ammal&aacute;t
on the shoulder, crying &quot;A brave
blow!&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;In that blow exploded my revenge,&quot;
answered the Bek; &quot;and the
revenge of an Asiatic is heavy.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;You have seen, you have witnessed,&quot;
replied the Colonel, &quot;how
injury is avenged by Russians&mdash;that
is, by Christians; let this be not a
reproach, but&mdash;a lesson to you.&quot;</p>

<p>And they both galloped off towards
the Line.</p>

<p>Ammal&aacute;t was remarkably absent&mdash;sometimes
he did not answer at all&mdash;at
others, he answered incoherently to
the questions of Verkh&oacute;ffsky, by whom
he rode, gazing abstractedly around
him. The Colonel, thinking that, like
an eager hunter, he was engrossed by
the sport, left him, and rode forward.
At last, Ammal&aacute;t perceived him whom
he was so impatiently expecting, his
hemdj&eacute;k, Saphir Ali, flew to meet him,
covered with mud, and mounted on a
smoking horse. With cries of &quot;Aleiko&uacute;m
Selam,&quot; they both jumped off
their horses, and were immediately
locked in each other's embrace.</p>

<p>&quot;And so you have been there&mdash;you
have seen her&mdash;you have spoken
to her?&quot; cried Ammal&aacute;t, tearing off
his kaft&aacute;n, and choking with agitation.
&quot;I see by your face that you
bring good news; here is my new
<i>tchoukh&aacute;</i><a name="footnotetag7" id="footnotetag7"></a><a href="#footnote7"><sup>7</sup></a> for you for that. Does
she live? Is she well? Does she love
me as before?&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Let me recollect myself,&quot; answered
Saphir Ali. &quot;Let me take
breath. You have put so many questions,
and I myself are charged with
so many commissions, that they are
crowding together like old women at
the door of the mosque, who have
lost their shoes. First, at your desire,
I have been to Khounz&aacute;kh. I crept
along so softly, that I did not scare a
single thrush by the road. Sultan
Akhmet Khan is well, and at home.
He asked about you with great anxiety,
shook his head, and enquired if
you did not want a spindle to dry the
silk of Derb&eacute;nd. The kh&aacute;nsha sends
you tchokh selamm&oacute;um, (many compliments,)
and as many sweet cakes.
I threw them away, the confounded
things, at the first resting-place.
So&uacute;rkhai-Khan, Noutzal-Khan&quot;&mdash;&mdash;</p>

<p>&quot;The devil take them all! What
about Seltanetta?&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Aha! at last I have touched the
chilblain of your heart. Seltanetta,
my dear Ammal&aacute;t, is as beautiful as
the starry sky; but in that heaven I
saw no light, until I conversed about
you. Then she almost threw herself
on my neck when we were left alone
together, and I explained the cause of
my arrival. I gave her a camel-load
of compliments from you&mdash;told her
that you were almost dead with love&mdash;poor
fellow!--and she burst into
tears!&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Kind, lovely soul! What did
she tell you to say to me?&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Better ask what she did not. She
says that, from the time that you left
her, she has never rejoiced even in her
dreams; that the winter snow has
fallen on her heart, and that nothing
but a meeting with her beloved, like
a vernal sun, can melt it.... But
if I were to continue to the end of her
messages, and you were to wait to the
end of my story, we should both reach
Derb&eacute;nd with grey beards. Spite of
all this, she almost drove me away,
hurrying me off, lest you should doubt
her love!&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Darling of my soul! you know
not&mdash;I cannot explain what bliss it is
to be with thee, what torment to be
separated from thee, not to see
thee!&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;That is exactly the thing, Ammal&aacute;t;
she grieves that she cannot rejoice
her eyes with a sight of him
whom she never can be weary of
gazing at. 'Is it possible,' she says,
'that he cannot come but for one little
day, for one short hour, one little moment?'&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;To look on her, and then die, I
would be content!&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Ah, when you behold her, you
will wish to live. She is become
quieter than she was of old; but even
yet she is so lively, that when you see
her your blood sparkles within you.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Did you tell her why it is not in
my power to do her will, and to accomplish
my own passionate desire?&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;I related such tales that you would
have thought me the Shah of Persia's
chief poet. Seltanetta shed tears like
a fountain after rain. She does nothing
else but weep.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Why, then, reduce her to despair?
'I cannot now' does not mean 'it is
for ever impossible.' You know what
a woman's heart is, Saphir Ali: for
them the end of hope is the end of
love.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;You sow words on the wind,
djann&iacute;on (my soul.) Hope, for lovers,
is a skein of worsted&mdash;endless. In
cool blood, you do not even trust your
eyes; but fall in love, and you will
believe in ghosts. I think that Seltanetta
would hope that you could ride
to her from your coffin&mdash;not only from
Derb&eacute;nd.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;And how is Derb&eacute;nd better than a
coffin to me? Does not my heart feel
its decay, without power to escape it?
Here is only my corpse: my soul is far
away.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;It seems that your senses often
take the whim of walking I know not
where, dear Ammal&aacute;t. Are you not
well at Verkh&oacute;ffsky's&mdash;free and contented?
beloved as a younger brother,
caressed like a bride? Grant that Seltanetta
is lovely: there are not many
Verkh&oacute;ffskys. Cannot you sacrifice
to friendship a little part of love?&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Am not I then doing so, Saphir
Ali? But if you knew how much it
costs me! It is as if I tore my heart
to pieces. Friendship is a lovely
thing, but it cannot fill the place of
love.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;At least, it can console us for love&mdash;it
can relieve it. Have you spoken
about this to the Colonel?&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;I cannot prevail on myself to do
so. The words die on my lips, when
I would speak of my love. He is so
wise, that I am ashamed to annoy
him with my madness. He is so kind,
that I dare not abuse his patience.
To say the truth, his frankness invites,
encourages mine. Figure to
yourself that he has been in love since
his childhood with a maiden, to whom
he was plighted, and whom he certainly
would have married if his name
had not been by mistake put into a
list of killed during the war with the
Feringhis. His bride shed tears, but
nevertheless was given away in marriage.
He flies back to his country,
and finds his beloved the wife of another.
What, think you, should I
have done in such a case? Plunged
a dagger in the breast of the robber
of my treasure!--carried her away to
the end or the world to possess her
but one hour, but one moment! Nothing
of this kind happened. He
learned that his rival was an excellent
and worthy man. He had the calmness
to contract a friendship with him:
had the patience to be often in the
society of his former love, without
betraying, either by word or deed, his
new friend or his still loved mistress.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;A rare man, if this be true!&quot; exclaimed
Saphir Ali, with feeling,
throwing away his reins. &quot;A stout
friend indeed!&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;But what an icy lover! But this
is not all. To relieve both of them
from misrepresentation and scandal,
he came hither on service. Not long
ago&mdash;for his happiness or unhappiness&mdash;his
friend died. And what then?
Do you think he flew to Russia. No!
his duty kept him away. The Commander-in-chief
informed him that his
presence was indispensable here for a
year more, and he has remained&mdash;cherishing
his love with hope. Can
such a man, with all his goodness,
understand such a passion as mine?
And besides, there is such a difference
between us in years, in opinions. He
kills me with his unapproachable dignity;
and all this cools my friendship,
and impedes my sincerity.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;You are a strange fellow, Ammal&aacute;t;
you do not love Verkh&oacute;ffsky for
the very reason that he most merits
frankness and affection!&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Who told you that I do not love
him? How can I but love the man
who has educated me&mdash;my benefactor?
Can I not love any one but Seltanetta?
I love the whole world&mdash;all men!&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Not much love, then, will fall to
the share of each!&quot; said Saphir Ali.</p>

<p>&quot;There would be enough not only
to quench the thirst, but to drown the
whole world!&quot; replied Ammal&aacute;t, with
a smile.</p>

<p>&quot;Aha! This comes of seeing beauties
unveiled&mdash;and then to see nothing
but the veil and the eyebrows. It
seems that you are like the nightingales
of Ourmis; you must be caged
before you can sing!&quot;</p>

<p>Conversing in this strain, the two
friends disappeared in the depths of
the forest.</p>



<hr style="width: 65%;">
<h3>CHAPTER VII.</h3>

<p>FRAGMENT OF A LETTER FROM COLONEL VERKH&Oacute;FFSKY TO HIS BETROTHED.</p>
<br>

<p><i>Derb&eacute;nd, April.</i></p>

<p>Fly to, me, heart of my heart,
dearest Maria! Rejoice in the sight
of a lovely vernal night in Daghest&aacute;n.
Beneath me lies Derb&eacute;nd, slumbering
calmly, like a black streak of lava
flowing from the Caucasus and cooled
in the sea. The gentle breeze bears
to me the fragrant odour of the almond-trees,
the nightingales are calling
to each other from the rock-crevices,
behind the fortress: all breathes
of life and love; and beautiful nature,
full of this feeling, covers herself with
a veil of mists. And how wonderfully
has that vaporous ocean poured
itself over the Caspian! The sea
below gleams wavingly, like steel damasked
with gold on an escutcheon&mdash;that
above swells like a silver surge
lighted by the full moon, which rolls
along the sky like a cup of gold, while
the stars glitter around like scattered
drops. In a moment, the reflection of
the moonbeams in the vapours of the
night changes the picture, anticipating
the imagination, now astounding
by its marvels&mdash;now striking by its
novelty. Sometimes I seem to behold
the rocks of the wild shore, and
the waves beating against them in
foam. The billows roll onward to the
charge: the rocky ramparts repel the
shock, and the surf flies high above
them; but silently and slowly sink
the waves, and the silver palms arise
from the midst of the inundation, the
breeze stirs their branches, playing
with the long leaves, and they spread
like the sails of a ship gliding over
the airy ocean. Do you see how she
rolls along, how the spray-drops
sparkle on her breast, how the waves
slide along her sides. And where is
she?... and where am I?...
You cannot imagine, dearest Maria,
the sweetly solemn feeling produced
in me by the sound and sight of the
sea. To me, the idea of eternity is
inseparable from it; of immensity&mdash;of
our love. That love seems to me,
like it, infinite&mdash;eternal. I feel as if
my heart overflowed to embrace the
world, even as the ocean, with its
bright waves of love. It is in me and
around me; it is the only great and
immortal feeling which I possess. Its
spark lights and warms me in the
winter of my sorrows, in the midnight
of my doubts. Then I love so blindly!
I believe so ardently! You smile
at my fantasy, friend and companion
of my soul. You wonder at this dark
language; blame me not. My spirit,
like the denizen of another world,
cannot bear the chill and frosty moonlight&mdash;it
shakes off the dust of the
grave; it soars away, and, like the
moonlight, dimly discovers all things
darkly and uncertainly. You know
that it is to you alone that I write
down the pictures which fall on the
magic-glass of my heart, assured that
you will guess, not with cold criticism,
but with the heart, what I would describe.
Besides, next August, your
happy bridegroom will himself explain
all the dark passages in his letters.
I cannot think without ecstasy of the
moment of our meeting. I count the
sand-grains of the hours which separate
us. I count the versts which lie
between us. And so in the middle of
June you will be at the waters of the
Caucasus. And nought but the icy
chain of the Caucasus will be between
two ardent hearts.... How near&mdash;yet
how immeasurably far shall we be
from each other! Oh! how many
years of life would I not give to hasten
the hour of our meeting! Long,
long, have our hearts been plighted....
Why have they been separated
till now?</p>

<p>My friend Ammal&aacute;t is not frank or
confiding. I cannot blame him. I
know how difficult it is to break
through habits imbibed with a mother's
milk, and with the air of one's
native land. The barbarian despotism
of Persia, which has so long oppressed
Aderbidj&aacute;n, has instilled the basest
principles into the Tartars of the Caucasus,
and has polluted their sense of
honour by the most despicable subterfuge.
And how could it be otherwise
in a government based upon the
tyranny of the great over the less&mdash;where
justice herself can punish only
in secret&mdash;where robbery is the privilege
of power? &quot;Do with me what
you like, provided you let me do with
my inferior what I like,&quot; is the principle
of Asiatic government&mdash;its ambition,
its morality. Hence, every
man, finding himself between two
enemies, is obliged to conceal his
thoughts, as he hides his money.
Hence every man plays the hypocrite
before the powerful; every man endeavours
to force from others a present
by tyranny or accusation. Hence
the Tartar of this country will not
move a step, but with the hope of
gain; will not give you so much as a
cucumber, without expecting a present
in return.</p>

<p>Insolent to rudeness with every one
who is not in power, he is mean and
slavish before rank or a full purse.
He sows flattery by handfuls; he will
give you his house, his children, his
soul, to get rid of a difficulty, and if
he does any body a service, it is sure
to be from motives of interest.</p>

<p>In money matters (this is the weakest
side of a Tartar) a ducat is the
touchstone of his fidelity; and it is
difficult to imagine the extent of their
greediness for profit! The Armenian
character is yet a thousand times more
vile than theirs; but the Tartars
hardly yield to them in corruption
and greediness&mdash;and this is saying a
good deal. Is it surprising that, beholding
from infancy such examples,
Ammal&aacute;t&mdash;though he has retained the
detestation of meanness natural to
pure blood&mdash;should have adopted concealment
as an indispensable arm
against open malevolence and secret
villany? The sacred ties of relationship
do not exist for Asiatics. With
them, the son is the slave of the father&mdash;the
brother is a rival. No one trusts
his neighbour, because there is no
faith in any man. Jealousy of their
wives, and dread of espionage, destroy
brotherly love and friendship.
The child brought up by his slave-mother&mdash;never
experiencing a father's
caress, and afterwards estranged by
the Arabian alphabet, (education,)
hides his feelings in his own heart
even from his companions; from his
childhood, thinks only for himself;
from the first beard are every door,
every heart shut for him: husbands
look askance at him, women fly from
him as from a wild beast, and the first
and most innocent emotions of his
heart, the first voice of nature, the
first movements of his feelings&mdash;all
these have become crimes in the eyes
of Mahometan superstition. He dares
not discover them to a relation, or
confide them to a friend.... He
must even weep in secret.</p>

<p>All this I say, my sweet Maria, to
excuse Ammal&aacute;t: he has already
lived a year and a half in my house,
and hitherto has never confessed to
me the object of his love; though he
might well have known, that it was
from no idle curiosity, but from a real
heartfelt interest, that I wished to
know the secret of his heart. At last,
however, he has told me all; and thus
it happened.</p>

<p>Yesterday I took a ride out of the
town with Ammal&aacute;t. We rode up
through a defile in the mountain on
the west, and we advanced further
and further, higher and higher, till we
found ourselves unexpectedly close to
the village of Kel&iacute;k, from which may
be seen the wall that anciently defended
Persia from the incursions of
the wandering tribes inhabiting the
Zakavk&aacute;z, (trans-Caucasian country,)
which often devastated that territory.
The annals of Derb&eacute;nd (Derb&eacute;ndn&aacute;m&eacute;)
ascribe, but falsely, the construction
of it to a certain Iskender&mdash;<i>i.e.</i>
Alexander the Great&mdash;who, however,
never was in these regions.
King Noushirv&aacute;n repaired it, and
placed a guard along it. More than
once since that time it has been restored;
and again it fell into ruin, and
became overgrown, as it now is, with
the trees of centuries. A tradition
exists, that this wall formerly extended
from the Caspian to the Black Sea,
cutting through the whole Caucasus,
and having for its extremity the &quot;iron
gate&quot; of Derb&eacute;nd, and Dari&aacute;l in its
centre; but this is more than doubtful
as far as regards the general facts,
though certain in the particulars. The
traces of this wall, which are to be
seen far into the mountains, are interrupted
here and there, but only by
fallen stones or rocks and ravines, till
it reaches the military road; but from
thence to the Black Sea, through Mingrelia,
I think there are no traces of
its continuation.</p>

<p>I examined, with curiosity, this
enormous wall, fortified by numerous
towers at short distance; and I wondered
at the grandeur of the ancients,
exhibited even in their unreasonable
caprices of despotism&mdash;that greatness
to which the effeminate rulers of the
East cannot aspire, in our day, even
in imagination. The wonders of Babylon,
the lake of M&oelig;ris, the pyramids
of the Pharaohs, the endless wall
of China, and this huge bulwark, built
in sterile places, on the summits of
mountains, through the abyss of ravines&mdash;bear
witness to the gigantic
iron will, and the unlimited power, of
the ancient kings. Neither time, nor
earthquake, nor man, transitory man,
nor the footstep of thousands of years,
have entirely destroyed, entirely trodden
down, the remains of immemorial
antiquity. These places awake in me
solemn and sacred thoughts. I wandered
over the traces of Peter the
Great; I pictured him the founder,
the reformer, of a young state&mdash;building
it on these ruins of the decaying
monarchies of Asia, from the centre
of which he tore out Russia, and with
a mighty hand rolled her into Europe.
What a fire must have gleamed in his
eagle eye, as he glanced from the
heights of Caucasus! What sublime
thoughts, what holy aspirations, must
have swelled that heroic breast! The
grand destiny of his country was disclosed
before his eyes; in the horizon,
in the mirror of the Caspian,
appeared to him the picture of Russia's
future weal, sown by him, and
watered by his red sweat. It was not
empty conquest that was his aim, but
victory over barbarism&mdash;the happiness
of mankind. Derb&eacute;nd, B&aacute;ka, Astrab&aacute;d,
they are the links of the chain
with which he endeavoured to bind
the Caucasus, and rivet the commerce
of India with Russia.</p>

<p>Demigod of the North! Thou
whom nature created at once to flatter
the pride of man, and to reduce it
to despair by thine unapproachable
greatness! Thy shade rose before
me, bright and colossal, and the cataract
of ages fell foaming at thy feet!
Pensive and silent, I rode on.</p>

<p>The wall of the Caucasus is faced
on the north side with squared stones,
neatly and firmly fixed together with
lime. Many of the battlements are
still entire; but feeble seeds, falling
into the crevices and joints, have burst
them asunder with the roots of trees
growing from them, and, assisted by
the rains, have thrown the stones to
the earth, and over the ruins triumphantly
creep mallows and pomegranates;
the eagle, unmolested, builds
her nest in the turret once crowded
with warriors, and on the cold hearthstone
lie the fresh bones of the wild-goat,
dragged thither by the jackals.
Sometimes the line of the ruins
entirely disappeared; then fragments
of the stones again rose from among
the grass and underwood. Riding in
this way, a distance of about three
versts, we reached the gate, and passed
through to the south side, under a
vaulted arch, lined with moss and
overgrown with shrubs. We had not
advanced twenty paces, when suddenly,
behind an enormous tower, we
came upon six armed mountaineers,
who seemed, by all appearance, to
belong to those gangs of robbers&mdash;the
free Tabasaranetzes. They were
lying in the shade, close to their horses,
which were feeding. I was astounded.
I immediately reflected how foolishly
I had acted in riding so far from
Derb&eacute;nd without an escort. To gallop
back, among such bushes and rocks,
would have been impossible; to fight
six such desperate fellows, would have
been foolhardiness. Nevertheless, I
seized a holster-pistol; but Ammal&aacute;t
Bek, seeing how matters stood,
advanced, and cried in a calm slow
voice: &quot;Do not handle your arms,
or we are dead men!&quot;</p>

<p>The robbers, perceiving us, jumped
up and cocked their guns, one fine,
broad-shouldered, but extremely
savage-looking Lezgh&iacute;n, remaining
stretched on the ground. He lifted
his head coolly, looked at us, and
waved his hand to his companions.
In a moment we found ourselves
surrounded by them, while a path in
front was stopped by the Ataman.</p>

<p>&quot;Pray, dismount from your horses,
dear guests,&quot; said he with a smile,
though one could see that the next
invitation would be a bullet. I
hesitated; but Ammal&aacute;t Bek jumped
speedily from his horse, and walked
up to the Ataman.</p>

<p>&quot;Hail!&quot; He said to him: &quot;hail,
sorvi golov&aacute;! I thought not of seeing
you. I thought the devils had
long ago made a feast of you.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Softly, Ammal&aacute;t Bek!&quot; answered
the other; &quot;I hope yet to feed
the eagles with the bodies of the
Russians and of you Tartars, whose
purse is bigger than your heart.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Well, and what luck, Shermad&aacute;n?&quot;
carelessly enquired Ammal&aacute;t
Bek.</p>

<p>&quot;But poor. The Russians are
watchful: and we have seldom been
able to drive the cattle of a regiment,
or to sell two Russian soldiers at a
time in the hills. It is difficult to
transport madder and silk; and of
Persian tissue, very little is now carried
on the arb&aacute;s. We should have had
to quest like wolves again to-day, but
Allah has had mercy; he has given
into our hands a rich bek and a
Russian colonel!&quot;</p>

<p>My heart died within me, as I heard
these words.</p>

<p>&quot;Do not sell a hawk in the sky:
sell him,&quot; answered Ammal&aacute;t, &quot;when
you have him on your glove.&quot;</p>

<p>The robber sat down, laid his hand
on the cock of his gun, and fixed on
us a piercing look. &quot;Hark'e,
Ammal&aacute;t!&quot; said he; &quot;is it possible that
you think to escape me?&mdash;is it possible
that you will dare to defend yourselves?&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Be quiet,&quot; said Ammal&aacute;t; &quot;are
we fools, to fight two to six? Gold
is dear to us, but dearer is our life.
We have fallen into your hands, so
there is nothing to be done, unless
you extort an unreasonable price for
our ransom. I have, as you know,
neither father nor mother: and the
Colonel has yet less&mdash;neither kinsmen
nor tribe.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;If you have no father, you have
your father's inheritance. There is
no need then to count your relations
with you: however, I am a man of
conscience. If you have no ducats, I
will take your ransom in sheep. But
about the colonel, don't talk any more
nonsense. I know for him the soldiers
would give the last button on
their uniforms. Why, if for Sh&mdash;&mdash;
a ransom of ten thousand rubles was
paid, they will give more for this
man. However, we shall see, we shall
see. If you will be quiet.... Why,
I am not a Jew, or a cannibal&mdash;Pervi&aacute;der
(the Almighty) forgive me!&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Now that's it, friend: feed us
well, and I swear and promise by my
honour, we will never think of harming
you&mdash;nor of escaping.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;I believe, I believe! I am glad
we have arranged without making any
noise about it. What a fine fellow you
have become, Ammal&aacute;t! Your horse
is not a horse, your gun is not a gun:
it is a pleasure to look at you; and
this is true. Let me look at your
dagger, my friend. Surely this is the
Koubatch&iacute;n mark upon the blade.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;No, the Kizli&aacute;r mark,&quot; replied
Ammal&aacute;t, quietly unbuckling the
dagger-belt from his waist; &quot;and look
at the blade. Wonderful! it cuts a
nail in two like a candle. On this
side is the maker's name; there&mdash;read
it yourself: Ali&oacute;usta&mdash;K&oacute;za&mdash;Nishtshek&oacute;i.&quot;
And while he spoke, he
twirled the naked blade before the
eyes of the greedy Lezgh&iacute;n, who
wished to show that he knew how to
read, and was decyphering the
complicated inscription with some
difficulty. But suddenly the dagger
gleamed like lightning.... Ammal&aacute;t,
seizing the opportunity, struck
Shermad&aacute;n with all his might on the
head; and so fierce was the blow, that
the dagger was stopped by the teeth
of the lower jaw. The corpse fell
heavily on the grass. Keeping my
eyes upon Ammal&aacute;t, I followed his
example, and with my pistol shot the
robber who was next me, and had hold
of my horse's bridle. This was to the
others a signal for flight; the rascals
vanished; for the death of their Ataman
dissolved the knot of the leash
which bound them together. Whilst
Ammal&aacute;t, after the oriental fashion,
was stripping the dead of their arms,
and tying together the reins of the
abandoned horses, I lectured him on
his dissembling and making a false
oath to the robber. He lifted up his
head with astonishment: &quot;You are a
strange man, Colonel!&quot; he replied.
&quot;This rascal has done an infinity of
harm to the Russians, by secretly
setting fire to their stacks of hay, or
seizing and carrying straggling
soldiers and wood-cutters into slavery.
Do you know that he would have
tyrannized over us&mdash;or even tortured us,
to make us write more movingly to
our kinsmen, to induce them to pay
a larger ransom?&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;It may be so, Ammal&aacute;t, but to
lie or to swear an oath, either in jest
or to escape misfortune, is wrong.
Why could we not have thrown
ourselves directly at the robbers, and have
begun as you finished?&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;No, Colonel, we could not. If I
had not entered into conversation
with the Ataman, we should have
been riddled with balls at the first
movement. Moreover, I know that
pack right well: they are brave only
in the presence of their Ataman, and
it was with him it was necessary to
begin!&quot;</p>

<p>I shook my head. The Asiatic
cunning, though it had saved my life,
could not please me. What confidence
can I have in people accustomed
to sport with their honour and their
soul? We were about to mount our
horses, when we heard a groan from
the mountaineer who had been wounded
by me. He came to himself, raised
his head, and piteously besought us
not to leave him to be devoured by the
beasts of the forest. We both
hastened to assist the poor wretch; and
what was Ammal&aacute;t's astonishment
when he recognized in him one of the
no&uacute;kers of Sultan Akhmet Khan of
Av&aacute;r. To the question how he
happened to be one of a gang of robbers,
he replied: &quot;Shair&aacute;n tempted me:
the Khan sent me into Kem&eacute;k, a
neighbouring village, with a letter to
the famous Hak&iacute;m (Doctor) Ibrahim,
for a certain herb, which they say
removes every ailment, as easily as if
it were brushed away with the hand.
To my sorrow, Shermad&aacute;n met me in
the way! He teazed me, saying,
'Come with me, and let us rob on the
road. An Armenian is coming from
Kouba with money.' My young heart
could not resist this ... oh,
Allah-il-Allah! He hath taken my soul
from me!&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;They sent you for physic, you
say,&quot; replied Ammal&aacute;t: &quot;why, who
is sick with you?&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Our Khan&oacute;um Seltanetta is dying:
here is the writing to the leech
about her illness:&quot; with these words
he gave Ammal&aacute;t a silver tube, in
which was a small piece of paper rolled
up. Ammal&aacute;t turned as pale as death;
his hands shook&mdash;his eyes sank under
his eyebrows when he had read the
note: with a broken voice he uttered
detached words. &quot;Three nights&mdash;and
she sleeps not, eats not&mdash;delirious!--her
life is in danger&mdash;save her! O
God of righteousness&mdash;and I am idling
here&mdash;leading a life of holidays&mdash;and
my soul's soul is ready to quit the
earth, and leave me a rotten corse!
Oh that all her sufferings could fall on
my head! and that I could lie in her
coffin, if that would restore her to
health. Sweetest and loveliest! thou
art fading, rose of Av&aacute;r, and destiny
has stretched out her talons over thee.
Colonel,&quot; he cried at length, seizing
my hand, &quot;grant my only, my solemn
prayer&mdash;let me but once more look on
her!&quot;&mdash;&mdash;</p>

<p>&quot;On whom, my friend?&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;On my Seltanetta&mdash;on the daughter
of the Khan of Av&aacute;r&mdash;whom I love
more than my life, than my soul! She
is ill, she is dying&mdash;perhaps dead by
this time&mdash;while I am wasting words&mdash;and
I could not receive into my heart
her last word&mdash;her last look&mdash;could
not wipe away the icy tear of death!
Oh, why do not the ashes of the ruined
sun fall on my head&mdash;why will not the
earth bury me in its ruins!&quot;</p>

<p>He fell on my breast, choking with
grief, in a tearless agony, unable to
pronounce a word.</p>

<p>This was not a time for accusations
of insincerity, much less to set forth
the reasons which rendered it
unadvisable for him to go among the enemies
of Russia. There are circumstances
before which all reasons must
give way, and I felt that Ammal&aacute;t
was in such circumstances. On my
own responsibility I resolved to let
him go. &quot;He that obliges from the
heart, and speedily, twice obliges,&quot; is
my favourite proverb, and best maxim.
I pressed in my embrace the unhappy
Tartar, and we mingled our tears together.</p>

<p>&quot;My friend Ammal&aacute;t,&quot; said I,
&quot;hasten where your heart calls you.
God grant that you may carry thither
health and recovery, and bring back
peace of mind! A happy journey!&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Farewell, my benefactor,&quot; he cried,
deeply touched, &quot;farewell, and
perhaps for ever! I will not return to
life, if Allah takes from me my Seltanetta.
May God keep you!&quot;</p>

<p>He took the wounded Av&aacute;retz to the
Hak&iacute;m Ibrahim, received the medicinal
herb according to the Khan's prescription,
and in an hour Ammal&aacute;t
Bek, with four no&uacute;kers, rode out of
Derb&eacute;nd.</p>

<p>And so the riddle is guessed&mdash;he
loves. This is unfortunate, but what
is yet worse, he is beloved in return.
I fancy, my love, that I see your
astonishment. &quot;Can that be a misfortune
to another, which to you is happiness?&quot;
you ask. A grain of patience,
my soul's angel! The Khan,
the father of Seltanetta, is the irreconcilable
foe of Russia, and the more so
because, having been distinguished by
the favour of the Czar, he has turned
a traitor; consequently a marriage is
possible only on condition of Ammal&aacute;t's
betraying the Russians, or in case
of the Khan's submission and pardon&mdash;both
cases being far from probable.
I myself have experienced misery and
hopelessness in love; I have shed many
tears on my lonely pillow; often have
I thirsted for the shade of the grave,
to cool my anguished heart! Can I,
then, help, pitying this youth, the
object of my disinterested regard, and
lamenting his hopeless love? But this
will not build a bridge to good-fortune;
and I therefore think, that if
he had not the ill-luck to be beloved
in return, he would by degrees forget
her.</p>

<p>&quot;But,&quot; you say, (and methinks I
hear your silvery voice, and am
revelling in your angel's smile,) &quot;but
circumstances may change for them, as
they have changed for us. Is it
possible that misfortune alone has the
privilege of being eternal in the world?&quot;</p>

<p>I do not dispute this, my beloved,
but I confess with a sigh that I am
in doubt. I even fear for them and
for ourselves. Destiny smiles before
us, hope chaunts sweet music&mdash;but
destiny is a sea&mdash;hope but a sea-syren;
deceitful is the calm of the
one, fatal are the promises of the
other. All appears to aid our union&mdash;but
are we yet together? I know
not why, lovely Mary, but a chill
penetrates my breast, amid the warm
fountains of future bliss, and the idea
of our meeting has lost its distinctness.
But all this will pass away, all will
change into happiness, when I press
your hand to my lips, your heart to
mine. The rainbow shines yet brighter
on the dark field of the cloud, and the
happiest moments of life are but the
anticipations of sorrow.</p>



<hr style="width: 65%;">
<h3>CHAPTER VIII.</h3>
<br>

<p>Ammal&aacute;t knocked up two horses,
and left two of his no&uacute;kers on the
road, so that at the end of the second
day he was not far from Khounz&aacute;kh.
At each stride his impatience grew
stronger, and with each stride increased
his fear of not finding his beloved
amongst the living. A fit of trembling
came over him when from the rocks
the tops of the Khan's tower arose
before him. His eyes grew dark.
&quot;Shall I meet there life or death?&quot;
he whispered to himself, and arousing
a desperate courage, he urged his
horse to a gallop.</p>

<p>He came up with a horseman
completely armed: another horseman
rode out of Khounz&aacute;kh to meeting,
and hardly did they perceive one another
when they put their horses to
full speed, rode up to each other, leaped
down upon the earth, and suddenly
drawing their swords, threw themselves
with fury upon each other without
uttering a word, as if blows were
the customary salutation of travellers.
Ammal&aacute;t Bek, whose passage they intercepted
along the narrow path between
the rocks, gazed with astonishment
on the combat of the two adversaries.
It was short. The horseman
who was approaching the town
fell on the stones, bedewing them with
blood from a gash which laid open his
skull; and the victor, coolly wiping his
blade, addressed himself to Ammal&aacute;t:
&quot;Your coming is opportune: I am
glad that destiny has brought you in
time to witness our combat. God, and
not I, killed the offender; and now
his kinsmen will not say that I killed
my enemy stealthily from behind a
rock, and will not raise upon my head
the feud of blood.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Whence arose your quarrel with
him?&quot; asked Ammal&aacute;t: &quot;why did
you conclude it with such a terrible
revenge?&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;This Khar&aacute;m-Z&aacute;da,&quot; answered
the horseman, &quot;could not agree with
me about the division of some stolen
sheep, and in spite he killed them all
so that nobody should have them ... and
he dared to slander my wife. He
had better have insulted my father's
grave, or my mother's good name,
than have touched the reputation of
my wife! I once flew at him with my
dagger, but they parted us: we agreed
to fight at our first encounter, and
Allah has judged between us! The
Bek is doubtless riding to Khounz&aacute;kh&mdash;surely
on a vizit to the Khan?&quot;
added the horseman.</p>

<p>Ammal&aacute;t, forcing his horse to leap
over the dead body which lay across
the road, replied in the affirmative.</p>

<p>&quot;You go not at a fit time, Bek&mdash;not
at all at a fit time.&quot;</p>

<p>All Ammal&aacute;t's blood rushed to his
head. &quot;Why, has any misfortune
happened in the Khan's house?&quot; he
enquired, reining in his horse, which
he had just before lashed with the
whip to force him faster to Khounz&aacute;kh.</p>

<p>&quot;Not exactly a misfortune, his
daughter Seltanetta was severely ill,
and now&quot;&mdash;&mdash;</p>

<p>&quot;Is dead?&quot; cried Ammal&aacute;t, turning
pale.</p>

<p>&quot;Perhaps she is dead&mdash;at least dying.
As I rode past the Khan's gate,
there arose a bustling, crying, and
yelling of women in the court, as if
the Russians were storming Khounz&aacute;kh.
Go and see&mdash;do me the favour&quot;&mdash;&mdash;</p>

<p>But Ammal&aacute;t heard no more, he
dashed away from the astounded Ouzd&eacute;n;
the dust rolled like smoke from
the road, which seemed to be set on
fire by the sparks from the horse's
hoofs. Headlong he galloped through
the winding streets, flew up the hill,
bounded from his horse in the midst
of the Khan's court-yard, and raced
breathlessly through the passages to
Seltanetta's apartment, overthrowing
and jostling no&uacute;kers and maidens,
and at last, without remarking the
Khan or his wife, pushed himself to
the bed of the sufferer, and fell, almost
senseless, on his knees beside it.</p>

<p>The sudden and noisy arrival of
Ammal&aacute;t aroused the sad society present.
Seltanetta, whose existence
death was already overpowering,
seemed as if awakening from the deep
forgetfulness of fever; her cheeks
flushed with a transient colour, like
that on the leaves of autumn before
they fall: in her clouded eye beamed
the last spark of the soul. She lad
been for several hours in a complete
insensibility; she was speechless,
motionless, hopeless. A murmur of
anger from the bystanders, and a loud
exclamation from the stupefied Ammal&aacute;t,
seemed to recall the departing
spirit of the sick, she started up&mdash;her
eyes sparkled.... &quot;Is it thou&mdash;is
it thou?&quot; she cried, stretching, forth
her arms to him: &quot;praise be to Allah!
now I am contented, now I am
happy,&quot; she added, sinking back on
the pillow. Her lips wreathed into a
smile, her eyelids closed, and again
she sank into her former insensibility.</p>

<p>The agonized Asiatic paid no attention
to the questions of the Khan,
or the reproaches of the Kh&aacute;nsha:
no person, no object distracted his
attention from Seltanetta&mdash;nothing
could arouse him from his deep despair.
They could hardly lead him
by force from the sick chamber; he
clung to the threshold, he wept bitterly,
at one moment praying for the
life of Seltanetta, at another accusing
heaven of her illness! Terrible, yet
moving, was the grief of the fiery
Asiatic.</p>

<p>Meanwhile, the appearance of Ammal&aacute;t
had produced a salutary influence
on the sick girl. What the rude
physicians of the mountains were unable
to accomplish, was effected by
his arrival. The vital energy, which
had been almost extinguished, needed
some agitation to revivify its action;
but for this she must have perished,
not from the disease, which had been
already subdued, but from languor&mdash;as
a lamp, not blown out by the wind,
but failing for lack of air. Youth at
length gained the victory; the crisis
was past, and life again arose in the
heart of the sufferer. After a long
and quiet slumber, she awoke unusually
strengthened and refreshed.
&quot;I feel myself as light, mother,&quot; she
cried, looking gaily around her, &quot;as
if I were made wholly of air. Ah,
how sweet it is to recover from illness;
it seems as if the walls were
smiling upon me. Yet, I have been
very ill&mdash;long ill. I have suffered
much; but, thanks to Allah! I am now
only weak, and that will soon pass
away. I feel health rolling, like drops
of pearl, through my veins. All the
past seems to me a sort of dark vision.
I fancied that I was sinking into a
cold sea, and that I was parched with
thirst: far away, methought, there
hovered two little stars; the darkness
thickened and thickened; I sank
deeper, deeper yet. All at once it
seemed as if some one called me by
my name, and with a mighty hand
dragged me from that icy, shoreless
sea. Ammal&aacute;t's face glanced before
me, almost like a reality; the little
stars broke into a lightning-flash,
which writhed like a serpent to my
heart: I remember no more!&quot;</p>

<p>On the following day Ammal&aacute;t
was allowed to see the convalescent.
Sultan Akhmet Khan, seeing that it
was impossible to obtain a coherent
answer from him while suspense tortured
his heart, that heart which boiled
with passion, yielded to his incessant
entreaties. &quot;Let all rejoice
when I rejoice,&quot; he said, as he led his
guest into his daughter's room. This
had been previously announced to
Seltanetta, but her agitation, nevertheless,
was very great, when her
eyes met those of Ammal&aacute;t&mdash;Ammal&aacute;t,
so deeply loved, so long and fruitlessly
expected. Neither of the lovers
could pronounce a word, but the ardent
language of their looks expressed
a long tale, imprinted in burning letters
on the tablet of their hearts. On
the pale cheek of each other they read
the traces of sorrow, the tears of separation,
the characters of sleeplessness
and grief, of fear and of jealousy.
Entrancing is the blooming loveliness
of an adored mistress; but her paleness,
her languor, that is bewitching,
enchanting, victorious! What heart
of iron would not be melted by that
tearful glance, which, without a reproach,
says so tenderly to you, &quot;I
am happy, but I have suffered by thee
and for thy sake?&quot;</p>

<p>Tears dropped from Ammal&aacute;t's
eyes; but remembering at length that
he was not alone, he mastered himself,
and lifted up his head to speak;
but his voice refused to pour itself in
words, and with difficulty he faltered
out, &quot;We have not seen each other
for a long time, Seltanetta!&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;And we were wellnigh parted
for ever,&quot; murmured Seltanetta.</p>

<p>&quot;For ever!&quot; cried Ammal&aacute;t, with
a half reproachful voice. &quot;And can
you think, can you believe this? Is
there not, then, another life, in which
sorrow is unknown, and separation
from our kinsmen and the beloved?
If I were to lose the talisman of my
life, with what scorn would I not cast
away the rusty ponderous armour of
existence! Why should I wrestle
with destiny?&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Pity, then, that I did not die!&quot;
answered Seltanetta, sportively. &quot;You
describe so temptingly the other side
of the grave, that one would be eager
to leap into it.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Ah, no! Live, live long, for
happiness, for&mdash;love!&quot; Ammal&aacute;t
would have added, but he reddened,
and was silent.</p>

<p>Little by little the roses of health
spread over the cheeks of the maiden,
now happy in the presence of her
lover. All returned into its customary
order. The Khan was never
weary of questioning Ammal&aacute;t about
the battles, the campaigns, the tactics
of the Russians; the Kh&aacute;nsha
tired him with enquiries about the
dress and customs of their women,
and could not omit to call upon Allah
as often as she heard that they go
without veils. But with Seltanetta
he enjoyed conversations and tales, to
his, as well as her, heart's content.
The merest trifle which had the slightest
connexion with the other, could
not be passed over without a minute
description, without abundant repetitions
and exclamations. Love, like
Midas, transforms every thing it
touches into gold, and, alas! often
perishes, like Midas, for want of finding
some material nourishment.</p>

<p>But, as the strength of Seltanetta
was gradually re-established, with the
reappearing bloom of health on Ammal&aacute;t's
brow, there often appeared
the shadow of grief. Sometimes, in
the middle of a lively conversation,
he would suddenly stop, droop his
head, and his bright eyes would be
dimmed with a filling of tears; heavy
sighs would seem to rend his breast;
he would start up, his eyes sparkling
with fury; he would grasp his dagger
with a bitter smile, and then, as if
vanquished by an invisible hand, he
would fall into a deep reverie, from
whence not even the caresses of his
adored Seltanetta could recall him.</p>

<p>Once, at such a moment, Seltanetta,
leaning enraptured on his shoulder,
whispered, &quot;Asis, (beloved,) you are
sad&mdash;you are weary of me!&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Ah, slander not him who loves
thee more than heaven!&quot; replied
Ammal&aacute;t; &quot;but I have felt the hell
of separation; and can I think of it
without agony? Easier, a hundred
times easier, to part from life than
from thee, my dark-eyed love!&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;You are thinking of it, therefore
you desire it.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Do not poison my wounds by
doubting, Seltanetta. Till now you
have known only how to bloom like a
rose&mdash;to flutter like a butterfly; till
now your will was your only duty.
But I am a man, a friend; fate has
forged for me an indestructible chain&mdash;the
chain of gratitude for kindness&mdash;it
drags me to Derb&eacute;nd.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Debt! duty! gratitude!&quot; cried
Seltanetta, mournfully shaking her
head. &quot;How many gold-embroidered
words have you invented to cover, as
with a shawl, your unwillingness to
remain here. What! Did you not
give your heart to love before it was
pledged to friendship? You had no
right to give away what belonged to
another. Oh, forget your Verkh&oacute;ffsky,
forget your Russian friends and the
beauty of Derb&eacute;nd. Forget war and
murder-purchased glory. I hate blood
since I saw you covered with it. I
cannot think without shuddering, that
each drop of it costs tears that cannot
be dried, of a sister, a mother, or a
fair bride. What do you need, in
order to live peacefully and quietly
among our mountains! Here none
can come to disturb with arms the
happiness of the heart. The rain
pierces not our roof; our bread is not
of purchased corn; my father has
many horses, he has arms, and much
precious gold; in my soul there is
much love for you. Say, then, my
beloved, you will not go away, you
will remain with us!&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;No, Seltanetta, I cannot, must
not, remain here. To pass my life
with you alone&mdash;for you to end it&mdash;this
is my first prayer, my last desire,
but its accomplishment depends on
your father. A sacred tie binds me
to the Russians; and while the Khan
remains unreconciled with them, an
open marriage with you would be
impossible&mdash;the obstacle would not be
the Russians, but the Khan&quot;&mdash;&mdash;</p>

<p>&quot;You know my father,&quot; sorrowfully
replied Seltanetta; &quot;for some
time past his hatred of the infidels
has so strengthened itself, that he
hesitates not to sacrifice to it his
daughter and his friend. He is particularly
enraged with the Colonel for
killing his favourite no&uacute;ker, who was
sent for medicine to the Hak&iacute;m Ibrahim.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;I have more than once begun to
speak to Akhmet Khan about my
hopes; but his eternal reply has
been&mdash;'Swear to be the enemy of the
Russians, and then I will hear you
out.'&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;We must then bid adieu to hope.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Why to hope, Seltanetta? Why
not say only&mdash;farewell, Av&aacute;r!&quot;</p>

<p>Seltanetta bent upon him her expressive
eyes. &quot;I don't understand
you,&quot; she said.</p>

<p>&quot;Love me more than any thing in
the world&mdash;more than your father and
mother, and your fair land, and then
you will understand me, Seltanetta!
Live without you I cannot, and they
will not let me live with you. If you
love me, let us fly!&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Fly! the Khan's daughter fly
like a slave&mdash;a criminal! This is
dreadful&mdash;this is terrible!&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Speak not so. If the sacrifice is
unusual, my love also is unusual.
Command me to give my life a thousand
times, and I will throw it down
like a copper poull.<a name="footnotetag8" id="footnotetag8"></a><a href="#footnote8"><sup>8</sup></a> I will cast my
soul into hell for you&mdash;not only my
life. You remind me that you are
the daughter of the Khan; remember,
too, that my grandfather wore, that
my uncle wears, the crown of a
Shamkh&aacute;l! But it is not by this
dignity, but by my heart, that I feel
I am worthy of you; and if there be
shame in being happy despite of the
malice of mankind and the caprice of
fate, that shame will fall on my head
and not on yours.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;But you forget my father's vengeance.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;There will come a time when he
himself will forget it. When he sees
that the thing is done, he will cast
aside his inflexibility; his heart is not
stone; and even were it stone, tears
of repentance will wear it away&mdash;our
caresses will soften him. Happiness
will cover us with her dove's wings,
and we shall proudly say, 'We ourselves
have caught her!'&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;My beloved, I have lived not long
upon earth, but something at my
heart tells me that by falsehood we can
never catch her. Let us wait: let us
see what Allah will give! Perhaps,
without this step, our union may be
accomplished.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Seltanetta, Allah has given me
this idea: it is his will. Have pity
on me, I beseech you. Let us fly,
unless you wish that our marriage-hour
should strike above my grave!
I have pledged my honour to return
to Derb&eacute;nd; and I must keep that
pledge, I must keep it soon: but to
depart without the hope of seeing you,
with the dread of hearing that you are
the wife of another&mdash;this would be
dreadful, this would be insupportable!
If not from love, then from pity, share
my destiny. Do not rob me of paradise!
Do not drive me to madness!
You know not whither disappointed
passion can carry me. I may forget
hospitality and kindred, tear asunder
all human ties, trample under my feet
all that is holy, mingle my blood with
that of those who are dearest to me,
force villany to shake with terror
when my name is heard, and angels to
weep to see my deeds!--Seltanetta,
save me from the curse of others,
from my own contempt&mdash;save me from
myself! My no&uacute;kers are fearless&mdash;my
horses like the wind; the night is
dark, let us fly to benevolent Russia,
till the storm be over. For the last
time I implore you. Life and death,
my renown and my soul, hang upon
your word. Yes or no?&quot;</p>

<p>Torn now by her maiden fear, and
her respect for the customs of her
forefathers, now by the passion and
eloquence of her lover, the innocent
Seltanetta wavered, like a light cork,
upon the tempestuous billows of contending
emotions. At length she
arose: with a proud and steady air
she wiped away the tears which, glistened
on her eyelashes, like the amber-gum
on the thorns of the larch-tree,
and said, &quot;Ammal&aacute;t! tempt me not!
The flame of love will not dazzle, the
smoke of love will not suffocate, my
conscience. I shall ever know what
is good and what is bad; and I well
know how shameful it is, how base, to
desert a father's house, to afflict loving
and beloved parents! I know all this&mdash;and
now, measure the price of my
sacrifice. I fly with you&mdash;I am yours!
It is not your tongue which has convinced&mdash;it
is my own heart which has
vanquished me! Allah has destined
me to see and love you: let, then, our
hearts be united for ever&mdash;and indissolubly,
though their bond be a crown
of thorns! Now all is over! Your
destiny is mine!&quot;</p>

<p>If heaven had clasped Ammal&aacute;t in
its infinite wings, and pressed him to
the heart of the universe&mdash;to the sun&mdash;even
then his ecstacy would have
been less strong than at this divine
moment. He poured forth the most
incoherent cries and exclamations of
gratitude. When the first transports
were over, the lovers arranged all the
details of their flight. Seltanetta consented
to lower herself by her bed-coverings
from her chamber, to the
steep bank of the Ouz&eacute;n. Ammal&aacute;t
was to ride out in the evening with his
no&uacute;kers from Khounz&aacute;kh, as if on a
hawking party; he was to return to
the Khan's house by circuitous roads
at nightfall, and there receive his fair
fellow-traveller in his arms. Then
they were to take horses in silence,
and then&mdash;let enemies keep out of
their road!</p>

<p>A kiss sealed the treaty; and the
lovers separated with fear and hope in
heart.</p>

<p>Ammal&aacute;t Bek, having prepared his
brave no&uacute;kers for battle or flight, looked
impatiently at the sun, which seemed
loth to descend from the warm sky
to the chilly glaciers of the Caucasus.
Like a bridegroom he pined for night,
like an importunate guest he followed
with his eyes the luminary of day.
How slowly it moved&mdash;it crept to its
setting! An interminable space seemed
to intervene between hope and enjoyment.
Unreasonable youth! What
is your pledge of success? Who will
assure you that your footsteps are not
watched&mdash;your words not caught in
their flight? Perhaps with the sun,
which you upbraid, your hope will
set.</p>

<p>About the fourth hour after noon,
the time of the Mozlem's dinner, the
Sultan Akhmet Khan was unusually
savage and gloomy. His eyes gleamed
suspiciously from under his frowning
brows; he fixed them for a long space,
now on his daughter, now on his
young guest. Sometimes his features
assumed a mocking expression, but it
again vanished in the blush of anger.
His questions were biting, his conversation
was interrupted; and all this
awakened in the soul of Seltanetta
repentance&mdash;in the heart of Ammal&aacute;t
apprehension. On the other hand,
the Kh&aacute;nsha, as if dreading a separation
from her lovely daughter, was so
affectionate and anxious, that this unmerited
tenderness wrung tears from
the gentle-hearted Seltanetta, and her
glance, stealthily thrown at Ammal&aacute;t,
was to him a piercing reproach.</p>

<p>Hardly, after dinner, had they concluded
the customary ceremony of
washing the hands, when the Khan
called Ammal&aacute;t into the spacious
court-yard. There caparisoned horses
awaited them, and a crowd of no&uacute;kers
were already in the saddle.</p>

<p>&quot;Let us ride out to try the mettle
of my new hawks,&quot; said the Khan to
Ammal&aacute;t; &quot;the evening is fine, the
heat is diminishing, and we shall yet
have time, ere twilight, to shoot a few
birds.&quot;</p>

<p>With his hawk on his fist, the
Khan rode silently by the side of Ammal&aacute;t.
An Avar&eacute;tz was climbing up
to a steep cliff on the left, by means
of a spiked pole, fixing it into the
crevices, and then, supporting himself
on a prong, he lifted himself higher.
To his waist was attached a cap containing
wheat; a long crossbow hung
upon his shoulders. The Khan stopped,
pointed him out to Ammal&aacute;t, and
said meaningly, &quot;Look at yonder old
man, Ammal&aacute;t Bek! He seeks, at
the risk of his life, a foot of ground
on the naked rock, to sow a handful
of wheat. With the sweat of his brow
he cultivates it, and often pays with
his life for the defence of his herd
from men and beasts. Poor is his
native land; but why does he love
this land? Ask him to change it for
your fruitful fields, your rich flocks.
He will say, 'Here I do what I
please; here I bow to no one; these
snows, these peaks of ice, defend my
liberty.' And this freedom the Russians
would take from him: of these
Russians you have become the slave,
Ammal&aacute;t.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Khan, you know that it is not
Russian bravery, but Russian generosity,
that has vanquished me. Their
slave I am not, but their companion.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;A thousand times the worse, the
more disgraceful for you. The heir
of the Shamkh&aacute;l pines for a Russian
epaulette, and glories in being the dependent
of a colonel!&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Moderate your words, Sultan
Akhmet. To Verkh&oacute;ffsky I owe more
than life: the tie of friendship unites
us.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Can there exist a holy tie between
us and the Giaour? To injure them,
to destroy them, when possible, to
deceive them when this cannot be
done, is the commandment of the Kor&aacute;n,
and the duty of every true believer.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Khan! let us cease to play with
the bones of Mahomet, and to menace
others with what we do not believe.
You are not a mo&oacute;lla, I am no fakir.
I have my own notions of the duty of
an honest man.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Really, Ammal&aacute;t Bek? It were
well, however, if you were to have
this oftener in your heart than on
your tongue. For the last time, allow
me to ask you, will you hearken to the
counsels of a friend whom you quitted
for the Giaour? Will you remain
with us for good?&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;My life I would lay down for the
happiness you so generously offer;
but I have given my promise to return,
and I will keep it.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Is this decided?&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Irrevocably so.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Well then, the sooner the better.
I have learned to know you. <i>Me</i> you
know of old. Insincerity and flattery
between us are in vain. I will not
conceal from you, that I always wished
to see you my son-in-law. I rejoiced
that Seltanetta had pleased you;
your captivity put off my plans for a
time. Your long absence&mdash;the rumours
of your conversion&mdash;grieved
me. At length you appeared among
us, and found every thing as before;
but you did not bring to us your former
heart. I hoped you would fall
back into your former course; I was
painfully mistaken. It is a pity; but
there is nothing to be done. I do not
wish to have for my son-in-law a servant
of the Russians.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Akhmet Khan, I once&quot;&mdash;&mdash;</p>

<p>&quot;Let me finish. Your agitated
arrival, your ravings at the door of
the sick Seltanetta, betrayed to every
body your attachment, and our mutual
intentions. Through all the mountains,
you have been talked of as the
affianced bridegroom of my daughter:
but now the tie is broken, it is time to
destroy the rumours; for the honour
of my family&mdash;for the tranquillity of
my daughter&mdash;you must leave us&mdash;and
immediately. This is absolutely
necessary and indispensable. Ammal&aacute;t,
we part friends, but here we
will meet only as kinsmen, not otherwise.
May Allah turn your heart,
and restore you to us as an inseparable
friend. Till then, farewell!&quot;</p>

<p>With these words the Khan turned
his horse, and rode away at full gallop
to his retinue. If on the stupefied
Ammal&aacute;t the thunderbolt of heaven
had fallen, he could not have been
more astounded than by this unexpected
explanation. Already had the
dust raised by the horse's hoofs of the
retiring Khan been laid at rest; but he
still stood immovable on the hill now
darkening in the shadow of sunset.</p>



<hr style="width: 65%;">
<h3>CHAPTER IX.</h3>
<br>

<p>Colonel Verkh&oacute;ffsky, engaged in
reducing to submission the rebellious
Daghest&aacute;netzes, was encamped with
his regiment at the village of Ki&aacute;fir-Ka&uacute;mik.
The tent of Ammal&aacute;t Bek
was erected next to his own, and in
it Saphir-Ali, lazily stretched on the
carpet, was drinking the wine of the
Don, notwithstanding the prohibition
of the Prophet. Ammal&aacute;t Bek, thin,
pale, and pensive, was resting his head
against the tent-pole, smoking a pipe.
Three months had passed since the
time when he was banished from his
paradise; and he was now roving with
a detachment, within sight of the
mountains to which his heart flew,
but whither his foot durst not step.
Grief had worn out his strength;
vexation had poured its vial on his
once serene character. He had
dragged a sacrifice to his attachment
to the Russians, and it seemed
as if he reproached every Russian
with it. Discontent was visible in
every word, in every glance.</p>

<p>&quot;A fine thing wine!&quot; said Saphir
Ali, carefully wiping the glasses;
&quot;surely Mahomet must have met with
sour dregs in Arav&eacute;te, when he forbade
the juice of the grape to true
believers! Why, really these drops
are as sweet as if the angels themselves,
in their joy, had wept their
tears into bottles. Ho! quaff another
glass, Ammal&aacute;t; your heart will float
on the wine more lightly than a bubble.
Do you know what Hafiz has sung
about it?&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;And do you know? Pray, do not
annoy me with your prate, Saphir Ali:
not even under the name of Sadi and
Hafiz.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Why, what harm is there? If
even this prate is my own, it is not an
earring: it will not remain hanging
in your ear. When you begin your
story about your goddess Seltanetta,
I look at you as at the juggler, who
eats fire, and winds endless ribbons
from his cheeks. Love makes you
talk nonsense, and the Donskoi (wine
of the Don) makes me do the same.
So we are quits. Now, then, to the
health of the Russians!&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;What has made you like the Russians?&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Say rather&mdash;why have you ceased
to love them?&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Because I have examined them
nearer. Really they are no better
than our Tartars. They are just as
eager for profit, just as ready to blame
others, and not with a view of improving
their fellow-creatures, but to excuse
themselves: and as to their laziness&mdash;don't
let us speak of it. They
have ruled here for a long time, and
what good have they done; what firm
laws have they established; what useful
customs have they introduced; what
have they taught us; what have they
created here, or what have they constructed
worthy of notice? Verkh&oacute;ffsky
has opened my eyes to the faults of my
countrymen, but at the same time to
the defects of the Russians, to whom
it is more unpardonable; because
they know what is right, have grown
up among good examples, and here,
as if they have forgotten their mission,
and their active nature, they sink, little
by little, into the insignificance of
the beasts.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;I hope you do not include Verkh&oacute;ffsky
in this number.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Not he alone, but some others,
deserve to be placed in a separate circle.
But then, are there many such?&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Even the angels in heaven are
numbered, Ammal&aacute;t Bek: and Verkh&oacute;ffsky
absolutely is a man for whose
justice and kindness we ought to thank
heaven. Is there a single Tartar who
can speak ill of him? Is there a soldier
who would not give his soul for
him? Abdul-Hamet, more wine!
Now then, to the health of Verkh&oacute;ffsky!&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Spare me! I will not drink to
Mahomet himself.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;If your heart is not as black as
the eyes of Seltanetta, you will drink,
even were it in the presence of the
red-bearded Yakho&uacute;nts of the Shakh&eacute;eds<a name="footnotetag9" id="footnotetag9"></a><a href="#footnote9"><sup>9</sup></a>
of Derb&eacute;nt: even if all the
Im&aacute;ms and Shieks not only licked their
lips but bit their nails out of spite to
you for such a sacrilege.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;I will not drink, I tell you.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Hark ye, Ammal&aacute;t: I am ready
to let the devil get drunk on my
blood for your sake, and you won't
drink a glass of wine for mine.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;That is to say, that I will not
drink because I do not wish&mdash;and I
don't wish, because even without wine
my blood boils in me like fermenting
booz&aacute;.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;A bad excuse! It is not the first
time that we have drunk, nor the first
time that our blood boils. Speak
plainly at once: you are angry with
the Colonel.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Very angry.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;May I know for what?&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;For much. For some time past
he has begun to drop poison into the
honey of his friendship: and at last
these drops have filled and overflowed
the cup. I cannot bear such lukewarm
friends! He is liberal with his
advice, not sparing with his lectures;
that is, in every thing that costs him
neither risk nor trouble.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;I understand, I understand! I
suppose he would not let you go to
Av&aacute;r!&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;If you bore my heart in your bosom
you would understand how I felt
when I received such a refusal. He
lured me on with that hope, and then
all at once repulsed my most earnest
prayer&mdash;dashed into dust, like a crystal
kali&aacute;n, my fondest hopes....
Akhmet Khan was surely softened,
when he sent word that he wished to
see me; and I cannot fly to him, or
hurry to Seltanetta.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Put yourself, brother, in his place,
and then say whether you yourself
would not have acted in the same way.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;No, not so! I should have said
plainly from the very beginning,
'Ammal&aacute;t, do not expect any help
from me.' I even now ask him not
for help. I only beg him not to hinder
me. Yet no! He, hiding from me
the sun of all my joy, assures me that
he does this from interest in me&mdash;that
this will hereafter bring me fortune.
Is not this a fine anodyne?&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;No, my friend! If this is really
the case, the sleeping-draught is given
to you as to a person on whom they
wish to perform an operation. You
are thinking only of your love, and
Verkh&oacute;ffsky has to keep your honour
and his own without spot; and you
are both surrounded by ill-wishers.
Believe me, either thus or otherwise,
it is he alone who can cure you.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Who asks him to cure me? This
divine malady of love is my only joy:
and to deprive me of it is to tear out
my heart, because it cannot beat at
the sound of a drum!&quot;&mdash;&mdash;</p>

<p>At this moment a strange Tartar
entered the tent, looked suspiciously
round, and bending down his head,
laid his slippers before Ammal&aacute;t&mdash;according
to Asiatic custom, this signified
that he requested a private conversation.
Ammal&aacute;t understood him,
made a sign with his head, and both
went out into the open air. The night
was dark, the fires were going out,
and the chain of sentinels extended
far before them. &quot;Here we are alone,&quot;
said Ammal&aacute;t Bek to the Tartar:
&quot;who art thou, and what dost thou
want?&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;My name is Samit: I am an inhabitant
of Derb&eacute;nd, of the sect of
Souni: and now am at present serving
in the detachment of Mussulman
cavalry. My commission is of greater
consequence to you than to me....
<i>The eagle loves the mountains</i>!&quot;</p>

<p>Ammal&aacute;t shuddered, and looked
suspiciously at the messenger. This
was a watchword, the key of which
Sultan Akhmet had previously written
to him. &quot;How can he but love the
mountains?&quot; ... he replied; &quot;In
the mountains there are many lambs
for the eagles, and <i>much silver for
men</i>.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;<i>And much steel for the valiant</i>,&quot; (yigheeds.)</p>

<p>Ammal&aacute;t grasped the messenger
by the hand. &quot;How is Sultan Akhmet
Khan?&quot; he enquired hurriedly:
&quot;What news bring you from him&mdash;how
long is it since you have seen his
family?&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Not to answer, but to question,
am I come....  Will you follow me?&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Where? for what?&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;You know who has sent me.
That is enough. If you trust not
him, trust not me. Therein is your
will and my advantage. Instead of
running my head into a noose to-night,
I can return to-morrow to the
Khan, and tell him that Ammal&aacute;t
dares not leave the camp.&quot;</p>

<p>The Tartar gained his point: the
touchy Ammal&aacute;t took fire. &quot;Saphir
Ali!&quot; he cried loudly.</p>

<p>Saphir Ali started up, and ran out of
the tent.</p>

<p>&quot;Order horses to be brought for
yourself and me, even if unsaddled;
and at the same time send word to
the Colonel, that I have ridden out to
examine the field behind the line, to
see if some rascal is not stealing in
between the sentries. My gun and
shashka in a twinkling!&quot;</p>

<p>The horses were led up, the Tartar
leaped on his own, which was tied up
not far off, and all three rode off to
the chain. They gave the word and
the countersign, and they passed by
the videttes to the left, along the
bank of the swift Azen.</p>

<p>Saphir Ali, who had very unwillingly
left his bottle, grumbled about
the darkness, the underwood, the
ditches, and rode swearing by Ammal&aacute;t's
side; but seeing that nobody
began the conversation, he resolved
to commence it himself.</p>

<p>&quot;My ashes fall on the head of this
guide! The devil knows where he is
leading us, and where he will take us.
Perhaps he is going to sell us to the
Lezgh&iacute;ns for a rich ransom. I never
trust these squinting fellows!&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;I trust but little even to those
who have straight eyes,&quot; answered
Ammal&aacute;t; &quot;but this squinting fellow
is sent from a friend: he will not betray
us!&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;And the very first moment he
thinks of any thing like it, at his first
movement I will slice him through
like a melon. Ho! friend,&quot; cried
Saphir Ali, to the guide; &quot;in the
name of the king of the genii, it
seems you have made a compact with
the thorns to tear the embroidery from
my tschoukh&aacute;. Could you not find
a wider road? I am really neither a
pheasant nor a fox.&quot;</p>

<p>The guide stopped. &quot;To say the
truth, I have led a delicate fellow like
you too far!&quot; he answered. &quot;Stay
here and take care of the horses,
whilst Ammal&aacute;t and I will go where
it is necessary.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Is it possible you will go into the
woods with such a cut-throat looking
rascal, without me?&quot; whispered Saphir
Ali to Ammal&aacute;t.</p>

<p>&quot;That is, you are afraid to remain
here <i>without me</i>!&quot; replied Ammal&aacute;t,
dismounting from his horse, and giving
him the reins: &quot;Do not annoy
yourself, my dear fellow. I leave
you in the agreeable society of wolves
and jackals. Hark how they are singing!&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Pray to God that I may not have
to deliver your bones from these singers,&quot;
said Saphir Ali. They separated.
Samit led Ammal&aacute;t among the
bushes, over the river, and having
passed about half a verst among stones,
began to descend. At the risk of
their necks they clambered along
the rocks, clinging by the roots of
the sweet-briar, and at length, after
a difficult journey, descended into the
narrow mouth of a small cavern parallel
with the water. It had been excavated
by the washing of the stream,
erewhile rapid, but now dried up.
Long stalactites of lime and crystal
glittered in the light of a fire piled in
the middle. In the back-ground lay
Sultan Akhmet Khan on a bo&uacute;rka,
and seemed to be waiting patiently
till Ammal&aacute;t should recover himself
amid the thick smoke which rolled in
masses through the cave. A cocked
gun lay across his knees; the tuft in
his cap fluttered in the wind which
blew from the crevices. He rose politely
as Ammal&aacute;t hurried to salute
him.</p>

<p>&quot;I am glad to see you,&quot; he said,
pressing the hands of his guest; &quot;and
I do not hide the feeling which I
ought not to cherish. However, it is
not for an empty interview that I have
put my foot into the trap, and troubled
you: sit down, Ammal&aacute;t, and let us
speak about an important affair.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;To me, Sultan Akhmet Khan?&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;To us both. With your father
I have eaten bread and salt. There
was a time when I counted you likewise
as my friend.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;But counted!&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;No! you were my friend, and
would ever have remained so, if the
deceiver, Verkh&oacute;ffsky, had not stepped
between us.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Khan, you know him not.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Not only I, but you yourself
shall soon know him. But let us
begin with what regards Seltanetta.
You know she cannot ever remain
unmarried. This would be a disgrace
to my house: and let me tell you candidly,
that she has already been demanded
in marriage.&quot;</p>

<p>Ammal&aacute;t's heart seemed torn asunder.
For some time he could not
recover himself. At length he tremblingly
asked, &quot;Who is this bold
lover?&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;The second son of the Shamkh&aacute;l,
Abdoul Mo&uacute;sselin. Next after you,
he has, from his high blood, the best
right, of all our mountaineers, to Seltanetta's
hand.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Next to me&mdash;after me!&quot; exclaimed
the passionate Bek, boiling with
anger: &quot;Am I, then, buried? Is
then my memory vanished among my
friends?&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Neither the memory, nor friendship
itself is dead in my heart; but be
just, Ammal&aacute;t; as just as I am frank.
Forget that you are the judge of your
own cause, and decide what we are
to do. You will not abandon the
Russians, and I cannot make peace
with them.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Do but wish&mdash;do but speak the
word, and all will be forgotten, all
will be forgiven you. This I will
answer for with my head, and with
the honour of Verkh&oacute;ffsky, who has
more than once promised me his mediation.
For your own good, for the
welfare of Av&aacute;r, for your daughter's
happiness, for my bliss, I implore
you, yield to peace, and all will be
forgotten&mdash;all that once belonged to
you will be restored.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;How boldly you answer, rash
youth, for another's pardon, for another's
life! Are you sure of your
own life, your own liberty?&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Who should desire my poor life?
To whom should be dear the liberty
which I do not prize myself?&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;To whom? Think you that the
pillow does not move under the Shamkh&aacute;l's
head, when the thought rises
in his brain, that you, the true heir
of the Shamkhal&aacute;t of Tarki, are
in favour with the Russian Government?&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;I never reckoned on its friendship,
nor feared its enmity.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Fear it not, but do not despise it.
Do you know that an express, sent
from Tarki to Yerm&oacute;loff, arrived a
moment too late, to request him to
show no mercy, but to execute you as
a traitor? The Shamkh&aacute;l was before
ready to betray you with a kiss, if he
could; but now, that you have sent
back his blind daughter to him, he no
longer conceals his hate.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Who will dare to touch me, under
Verkh&oacute;ffsky's protection?&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Hark ye, Ammal&aacute;t; I will tell
you a fable:&mdash;A sheep went into a
kitchen to escape the wolves, and rejoiced
in his luck, flattered by the
caresses of the cooks. At the end of
three days he was in the pot. Ammal&aacute;t,
this is your story. 'Tis time
to open your eyes. The man whom
you considered your first friend has
been the first to betray you. You are
surrounded, entangled by treachery.
My chief motive in meeting you was
my desire to warn you. When Seltanetta
was asked in marriage, I was
given to understand from the Shamkh&aacute;l,
that through him I could more
readily make my peace with the Russians,
than through the powerless
Ammal&aacute;t&mdash;that you would soon be
removed in some way or other, and
that there was nothing to be feared
from your rivalry. I suspected still
more, and learned more than I suspected.
To-day I stopped the Shamkh&aacute;l's
no&uacute;ker, to whom the negotiations
with Verkh&oacute;ffsky were entrusted,
and extracted from him, by torture,
that the Shamkh&aacute;l offers a thousand
ducats to get rid of you. Verkh&oacute;ffsky
hesitates, and wishes only to send you
to Siberia for ever. The affair is not
yet decided; but to-morrow the detachment
retires to their quarters, and
they have resolved to meet at your
house in Bouin&aacute;ki, to bargain about
your blood. They will forge denunciations
and charges&mdash;they will poison
you at your own table, and cover you
with chains of iron, promising you
mountains of gold.&quot; It was painful
to see Ammal&aacute;t during this dreadful
speech. Every word, like red-hot
iron, plunged into his heart; all within
him that was noble, grand, or consoling,
took fire at once, and turned into
ashes. Every thing in which he had
so long and so trustingly confided,
fell to pieces, and shrivelled up in the
flame of indignation. Several times
he tried to speak, but the words died
away in a sickly gasp; and at last
the wild beast which Verkh&oacute;ffsky had
tamed, which Ammal&aacute;t had lulled to
sleep, burst from his chain: a flood of
curses and menaces poured from the lips
of the furious Bek. &quot;Revenge, revenge!&quot;
he cried, &quot;merciless revenge,
and woe to the hypocrites!&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;This is the first word worthy of you,&quot;
said the Khan, concealing the joy of
success; &quot;long enough have you crept
like a serpent, laying your head under
the feet of the Russians! 'Tis time to
soar like an eagle to the clouds; to
look down from on high upon the
enemy who cannot reach you with
their arrows. Repay treachery with
treachery, death with death!&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Then death and ruin be to the
Shamkh&aacute;l, the robber of my liberty;
and ruin be to Abdoul Mo&uacute;sselin, who
dared to stretch forth his hand to my
treasure!&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;The Shamkh&aacute;l? His son&mdash;his
family? Are they worthy of your
first exploits? They are all but little
loved by the Tarkov&eacute;tzes; and if we
attack the Shamkh&aacute;l, they will give
up his whole family with their own
hands. No, Ammal&aacute;t, you must aim
your first blow next to you; you must
destroy your chief enemy; you must
kill Verkh&oacute;ffsky.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Verkh&oacute;ffsky!&quot; exclaimed Ammal&aacute;t,
stepping back.... &quot;Yes!.... he
is my enemy; but he was my
friend. He saved me from a shameful
death.</p>

<p>&quot;And has now sold you to a shameful
life!.... A noble friend! And
then you have yourself saved him from
the tusks of the wild-boar&mdash;a death
worthy of a swine-eater! The first
debt is paid, the second remains due:
for the destiny which he is so deceitfully
preparing for you&quot;....</p>

<p>&quot;I feel ... this ought to be ... but
what will good men say? What
will my conscience say?&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;It is for a man to tremble before
old women's tales, and before a
whimpering child&mdash;conscience&mdash;when
honour and revenge are at stake? I
see Ammal&aacute;t, that without me you
will decide nothing; you will not
even decide to marry Seltanetta. Listen
to me. Would you be a son-in-law
worthy of me, the first condition
is Verkh&oacute;ffsky's death. His head shall
be a marriage-gift for your bride,
whom you love, and who loves you.
Not revenge only, but the plainest
reasoning requires the death of the
Colonel. Without him, all Daghest&aacute;n
will remain several days without
a chief, and stupefied with horror. In
this interval, we come flying upon the
Russians who are dispersed in their
quarters. I mount with twenty thousand
Avar&eacute;tzes and Akoush&eacute;tzes: and
we fall from the mountains like a cloud
of snow upon Tarki. Then Ammal&aacute;t,
Shamkh&aacute;l of Daghest&aacute;n, will embrace
me as his friend, as his father-in-law.
These are my plans, this is
your destiny. Choose which you
please; either an eternal banishment,
or a daring blow, which promises you
power and happiness; but know, that
next time we shall meet either as kinsmen,
or as irreconcilable foes!&quot;</p>

<p>The Khan disappeared. Long stood
Ammal&aacute;t, agitated, devoured by new
and terrible feelings. At length Samit
reminded him that it was time to
return to the camp. Ignorant himself
how and where he had found his way
to the shore, he followed his mysterious
guide, found his horse, and without
answering a word to the thousand
questions of Saphir Ali, rode up to his
tent. There, all the tortures of the
soul's hell awaited him. Heavy is the
first night of sorrow, but still more
terrible the first bloody thoughts of
crime.</p>

<hr class="full" />



<a name="bw329s3" id="bw329s3"></a><h2>REYNOLDS'S DISCOURSES. CONCLUSION.</h2>

<p>We omit any notice of the other
written works of Sir Joshua&mdash;his
&quot;Journey to Flanders and Holland,&quot;
his Notes to Mason's verse translation
of Du Fresnoy's Latin poem, &quot;Art
of Painting,&quot; and his contributions to
the &quot;Idler.&quot; The former is chiefly a
notice of pictures, and of value to
those who may visit the galleries
where most of them may be found;
and in some degree his remarks will
attach a value to those dispersed; the
best part of the &quot;Journey,&quot; perhaps,
is his critical discrimination of the
style and genius of Rubens. The
marrow of his Notes to Du Fresnoy's
poem, and indeed of his papers
in the &quot;Idler,&quot; has been transferred
to his Discourses, which, as
they terminate his literary labours,
contain all that he considered important
in a discussion on taste and art.
The notes to Du Fresnoy may, however,
be consulted by the practical
painter with advantage, as here and
there some technical directions may
be found, which, if of doubtful utility
in practice, will at least demand
thought and reasoning upon this not
unimportant part of the art. To
doubt is to reflect; judgment results,
and from this, as a sure source, genius
creates. There are likewise some
memoranda useful to artists to be read
in Northcote's &quot;Life.&quot; The influence
of these Discourses upon art in this
country has been much less than
might have been expected from so
able an exposition of its principles.
They breathe throughout an admiration
of what is great, give a high aim
to the student, and point to the path
he should pursue to attain it: while
it must be acknowledged our artists
as a body have wandered in another
direction. The Discourses speak to
cultivated minds only. They will
scarcely be available to those who
have habituated their minds to lower
views of art, and have, by a fascinating
practice, acquired an inordinate
love for its minor beauties. It is true
their tendency is to teach, to <i>cultivate</i>:
but in art there is too often as much
to unlearn as to learn, and the <i>unlearning</i>
is the more irksome task;
prejudice, self-gratulation, have removed
the humility which is the first
step in the ladder of advancement.
With the public at large, the Discourses
have done more; and rather
by the reflection from that improvement
in the public taste, than from
any direct appeal to artists, our exhibitions
have gained somewhat in refinement.
And if there is, perhaps,
less vigour now, than in the time of
Sir Joshua, Wilson, and Gainsborough,
those fathers of the English School,
we are less seldom disgusted with the
coarseness, both of subject and manner,
that prevailed in some of their
contemporaries and immediate successors.
In no branch of art is this improvement
more shown than in scenes
of familiar life&mdash;which meant, indeed
&quot;Low Life.&quot; Vulgarity has given
place to a more &quot;elegant familiar.&quot;
This has necessarily brought into play
a nicer attention to mechanical excellence,
and indeed to all the minor
beauties of the art. We almost fear
too much has been done this way, because
it has been too exclusively pursued,
and led astray the public taste
to rest satisfied with, and unadvisedly
to require, the less important perfections.
From that great style which
it may be said it was the sole object
of the Discourses to recommend, we
are further off than ever. Even in
portrait, there is far less of the historical,
than Sir Joshua himself introduced
into that department&mdash;an adoption
which he has so ably defended by
his arguments. But nothing can be
more unlike the true historical, as defined
in the precepts of art, than the
modern representation of national (in
that sense, historical) events. The
precepts of the President have been
unread or disregarded by the patronized
historical painters of our day.
It would seem to be thought a greater
achievement to identify on canvass the
millinery that is worn, than the characters
of the wearers, silk stockings,
and satins, and faces, are all of the
same common aim of similitude; arrangement,
attitude, and peculiarly
inanimate expression, display of finery,
with the actual robes, as generally
announced in the advertisement, render
such pictures counterparts, or
perhaps inferior counterfeits to Mrs
Jarley's wax-work. And, like the wax-work,
they are paraded from town to
town, to show the people how much
the tailor and mantua-maker have to
do in state affairs; and that the greatest
of empires is governed by very
ordinary-looking personages. Even
the Venetian painters, called by way
of distinction the &quot;Ornamental
School,&quot; deemed it necessary to avoid
prettinesses and pettinesses, and by
consummate skill in artistical arrangement
in composition, in chiaro-scuro
and colour, to give a certain greatness
to the representations of their national
events. There is not, whatever
other faults they may have, this
of poverty, in the public pictures of
Venice; they are at least of a magnificent
ambition: they are far removed
from the littleness of a show.
We are utterly gone out of the way
of the first principles of art in our
national historical pictures. Yet was
the great historical the whole subject
of the Discourses&mdash;it was to be the
only worthy aim of the student. If
the advice and precepts of Sir Joshua
Reynolds have, then, been so entirely
disregarded, it may be asked what
benefit he has conferred upon the
world by his Discourses. We answer,
great. He has shown what
should be the aim of art, and has
therefore raised it in the estimation
of the cultivated. His works are
part of our standard literature; they
are in the hands of readers, of scholars;
they materially help in the formation
of a taste by which literature
is to be judged and relished. Even
those who never acquire any very
competent knowledge of, or love for
pictures, do acquire a respect for art,
connect it with classical poetry&mdash;the
highest poetry, with Homer, with the
Greek drama, with all they have read
of the venerated works of Phidias,
Praxiteles, and Apelles; and having
no too nice discrimination, are credulous
of, or anticipate by remembering
what has been done and valued&mdash;the
honour of the profession. We assert
that, by bringing the precepts of art
within the pale of our accepted literature,
Sir Joshua Reynolds has given
to art a better position. Would that
there were no counteracting circumstances
which still keep it from reaching
its proper rank! Some there are,
which materially degrade it, amongst
which is the attempt to force patronage;
the whole system of Art Unions,
and of Schools of Design, the &quot;in form&acirc;
pauperis&quot; petitioning and advertising,
and the rearing innumerable artists,
ill-educated in all but drawing, and
mere degrading still, the binding art,
as it were, apprenticed to manufacture
in such Schools of Design; connecting,
in more than idea, the drawer of
patterns with the painter of pictures.
Hence has arisen, and must necessarily
arise, an inundation of mediocrity,
the aim of the painter being to reach
some low-prize mark, an unnatural
competition, inferior minds brought
into the profession, a sort of painting-made-easy
school, and pictures, like
other articles of manufacture, cheap
and bad. We should say decidedly,
that the best consideration for art, and
the best patronage too, that we would
give to it, would be to establish it in
our universities of Cambridge and
Oxford. In those venerated places to
found professorships, that a more sure
love and more sure taste for it may be
imbedded with every other good and
classical love and taste in the early
minds of the youth of England's pride,
of future patrons; and where painters
themselves may graduate, and associate
with all noble and cultivated minds,
and be as much honoured in their profession
as any in those usually called
&quot;learned.&quot; But to return to Sir Joshua.
He conferred upon his profession not
more benefit by his writings and paintings,
than by his manners and conduct.
To say that they were irreproachable
would be to say little&mdash;they were such
as to render him an object of love and
respect. He adorned a society at that
time remarkable for men of wit and
wisdom. He knew that refinement
was necessary for his profession, and
he studiously cultivated it&mdash;so studiously,
that he brought a portion of his
own into that society from which he
had gathered much. He abhorred
what was low in thought, in manners,
and in art. And thus he tutored his
genius, which was great rather from
the cultivation of his judgment, by
incessantly exercising his good sense
upon the task before him, than from
any innate very vigorous power. He
thought prudence the best guide of
life, and his mind was not of an eccentric
daring, to rush heedlessly beyond
the bounds of discretion. And
this was no small proof of his good
sense; when the prejudice of the age
in which he lived was prone to consider
eccentricity as a mark of genius; and
genius itself, inconsistently with the
very term of a silly admiration, an
<i>inspiration</i>, that necessarily brought
with it carelessness and profligacy.
By his polished manners, his manly
virtues, and his prudential views,
which mainly formed his taste, and
enabled him to disseminate taste, Sir
Joshua rescued art from this degrading
prejudice, which, while it flattered
vanity and excused vice, made the objects
of the flattery contemptible and
inexcusable. If genius be a gift, it
is one that passes through the mind,
and takes its colour; the love of all
that is pure, and good, and great, can
alone invest genius with that habit of
thought which, applied to practice,
makes the perfect painter. Castiglione
considered painting the proper acquirement
of the perfect gentleman&mdash;Sir
Joshua Reynolds thought that to be in
mind and manners the &quot;gentlemen,&quot;
was as necessary to perfect the painter.
The friend of Johnson and Burke,
and of all persons of that brilliant
age, distinguished by abilities and
worth, was no common man. In
raising himself, he was ever mindful
to raise the art to which he had
devoted himself, in general estimation.</p>

<p>We have noticed a charge against
the writer of the Discourses, that
he did not pursue that great style
which he so earnestly recommended.
Besides that this is not quite true&mdash;for
he unquestionably did adopt so much
of the great manner as his subjects
would, generally speaking, allow&mdash;there
was a sufficient reason for the
tone he adopted, that it was one useful
and honourable, and none can deny
that it was suited to his genius. He
was doubtless conscious of his own
peculiar powers, and contemplated the
degree of excellence which he attained.
He felt that he could advance
that department of his profession, and
surely no unpardonable prudential
views led him to the adoption of it. It
was the one, perhaps, best suited to his
abilities; and there is nothing in his
works which might lead us to suspect
that he would have succeeded so well
in any other. The characteristic of
his mind was a nice observation.
It was not in its native strength
creative. We doubt if Sir Joshua
Reynolds ever attempted a perfectly
original creation&mdash;if he ever designed
without having some imitation in
view. We mean not to say, that in
the process he did not take slight
advantages of accidents, and, if the
expression may be used, by a second
sort of creation, make his work in the
end perfectly his own. But we should
suppose that his first conceptions for
his pictures, (of course, we speak
principally of those not strictly portraits,)
came to him through his admiration
of some of the great originals,
which he had so deeply studied.
In almost every work by his hand,
there is strongly marked his good
sense&mdash;almost a prudent forbearance.
He ever seemed too cautious not to
dare beyond his tried strength, more
especially in designing a subject of
several figures. His true genius as
alone conspicuous in those where
much of the portrait was admissible;
and such was his &quot;Tragic Muse,&quot; a
strictly historical picture: was it
equally discernible in his &quot;Nativity&quot;
for the window in New College Chapel?
We think not. There is nothing
in his &quot;Nativity&quot; that has not
been better done by others; yet, as a
whole, it is good; and if the subject
demands a more creative power, and
a higher daring than was habitual to
him, we are yet charmed with the
good sense throughout; and while we
look, are indisposed to criticise. We
have already remarked how much Sir
Joshua was indebted to a picture by
Domenichino for the &quot;Tragic Muse.&quot;
Every one knows that he borrowed
the &quot;Nativity&quot; from the &quot;Notte&quot; of
Correggio, and perhaps in detail from
other and inferior masters. His
&quot;Ugolino&quot; was a portrait, or a study,
in the commencement; it owes its
excellence to its retaining this character
in its completion. If we were to point
to failures, in single figures, (historical,)
we should mention his &quot;Puck&quot;
and his &quot;Infant Hercules.&quot;  The
latter we only know from the print.
Here he certainly had an opportunity
of displaying the great style of Michael
Angelo; it was beyond his
daring; the Hercules is a sturdy
child, and that is all, we see not the
<i>ex pede Herculem</i>. We can imagine
the colouring, especially of the serpents
and back-ground, to have been
impressive. The picture is in the
possession of the Emperor of Russia.
The &quot;Puck&quot; is a somewhat mischievous
boy&mdash;too substantially, perhaps
heavily, given for the fanciful
creation. The mushroom on which
he is perched is unfortunate in shape
and colour; it is too near the semblance
of a bullock's heart. His
&quot;Cardinal Beaufort,&quot; powerful in
expression, has been, we think, captiously
reprehended for the introduction
of the demon. The mind's eye
has the privilege of poetry to imagine
the presence; the personation is therefore
legitimate to the sister art. The
National Gallery is not fortunate
enough to possess any important picture
of the master in the historical style.
The portraits there are good.
There was, we have been given to
understand, an opportunity of purchasing
for the National Gallery the
portrait of himself, which Sir Joshua
presented to his native town of Plympton
as his substitute, having been
elected mayor of the town&mdash;an honour
that was according to the expectation
of the electors thus repaid. The
Municipal Reform brought into office
in the town of Plympton, as elsewhere,
a set of men who neither valued art
nor the fame of their eminent townsman.
Men who would convert the
very mace of office into cash, could
not be expected to keep a portrait;
so it was sold by auction, and for a mere
trifle. It was offered to the
nation; and by those whose business
it was to cater for the nation, pronounced
a copy. The history of its
sale did not accompany the picture;
when that was known, as it is said,
a very large sum was offered, and refused.
It is but justice to the committee
to remind them of the fact,
that Sir Joshua himself, as he tells us,
very minutely examined a picture
which he pronounced to be his own,
and which was nevertheless a copy.
Unquestionably his genius was for
portrait; it suited his strictly observant
character; and he had this great
requisite for a portrait-painter, having
great sense himself, he was able to
make his heads intellectual. His
female portraits are extremely lovely;
he knew well how to represent intellect,
enthusiasm, and feeling. These
qualities he possessed himself. We
have observed, in the commencement
of these remarks upon the Discourses,
that painters do not usually paint
beyond themselves, either power or
feeling&mdash;beyond their own grasp and
sentiments; it was the habitual good
sense and refinement of moral feeling
that made Sir Joshua Reynolds so
admirable a portrait-painter. He has
been, and we doubt not justly, celebrated
as a colourist. Unfortunately,
we are not now so capable of judging,
excepting in a few instances, of this his
excellence. Some few years ago, his
pictures, to a considerable amount in
number, were exhibited at the British
Institution. We are forced to confess
that they generally looked too
brown&mdash;many of them dingy, many
loaded with colour, that, when put
on, was probably rich and transparent:
we concluded that they had
changed. Though Sir Joshua, as
Northcote in his very amusing Memoirs
of the President assures us,
would not allow those under him to
try experiments, and carefully locked
up his own, that he might more effectually
discourage the attempt&mdash;considering
that, in students, it was beginning
at the wrong end&mdash;yet was
he himself a great experimentalist.
He frequently used wax and varnish;
the decomposition of the latter (mastic)
would sufficiently account for the
appearance those pictures wore. We
see others that have very much faded;
some that are said to be faded may
rather have been injured by cleaners;
the colouring when put on with
much varnish not bearing the process
of cleaning, may have been removed,
and left only the dead and crude
work. It has been remarked, that
his pictures have more especially suffered
under the hands of restorers.
It must be very difficult for a portrait-painter,
much employed, and called
upon to paint a portrait, where short
time and few sittings are the conditions,
to paint a lasting work. He is
obliged to hasten the drying of the
paint, or to use injurious substances,
which answer the purpose only for a
short present. Sir Joshua, too, was
tempted to use orpiment largely in
some pictures, which has sadly changed.
An instance may be seen in the &quot;Holy
Family&quot; in our National Gallery&mdash;the
colour of the flesh of the St John is
ruined from this cause. It is, however,
one of his worst pictures, and
could not have been originally designed
for a &quot;holy family.&quot; The
Mater is quite a youthful peasant
girl: we should not regret it if it were
totally gone. Were Sir Joshua living,
and could he see it in its present state,
he would be sure to paint over it, and
possibly convert it into another subject.
We do not doubt, however, that
Sir Joshua deserved the reputation he
obtained as a colourist in his day. We
attribute the brown, the horny asphaltum
look they have, to change. It is
unquestionably exceedingly mortifying
to see, while the specimens of the
Venetian and Flemish colourists are
at this day so pure and fresh, though
painted centuries before our schools,
our comparatively recent productions
so obscured and otherwise injured. Tingry,
excellent authority, the Genevan
chemical professor, laments the practice
of the English painters of mixing varnish
with their colours, which, he says,
shows that they prefer a temporary
brilliancy to lasting beauty; for that it
is impossible, that with this practice,
pictures should either retain their
brilliancy or even be kept from decay.
We do not remember to have seen a
single historical picture of Sir Joshua's
that has not suffered; happily there
are yet many of his portraits fresh,
vigorous, and beautiful in colouring.
It should seem, that he thought it
worth while to speculate upon those
of least value to his reputation.</p>

<p>Portrait-painting, at the commencement
of Sir Joshua's career, was certainly
in a very low condition. A general
receipt for face-making, with
the greatest facility seemed to have
been current throughout the country.
Attitudes and looks were according to
a pattern; and, accordingly, there was
so great a family resemblance, however
unconnected the sitters, that it
might seem to have been intended to
promote a brotherly and sisterly bond
of union among all the descendants of
Adam. Portrait-painting, which had
in this country been so good, was in
fact, with here and there an exception,
and generally an exception not
duly estimated, in a degraded state:
the art in this respect, as in others,
had become vulgarized. From this
universal family-likeness recipe, Reynolds
came suddenly, and at once successfully,
before the world, with individual
nature, and variety of character,
and portraits that had the merit
of being pictures as well as portraits.
He led to a complete revolution in this
department, so that if he had rivals&mdash;and
he certainly had one in Gainsborough&mdash;they
were of his own making.
The change is mostly perceptible in
female portraits. They assumed grace
and beauty. Our grandmothers and
great-grandmothers were strangely
vilified in their unpleasing likenesses.
The somewhat loose satin evening-dress,
with the shepherdess's crook,
was absurd enough; and no very great
improvement upon the earlier taste of
complimenting portraits with the personation
of the heathen deities. The
poetical pastoral, however, very soon
descended to the real pastoral; and,
as if to make people what they were
not was considered enough of the historical
of portrait, even this took.
We suspect Gainsborough was the
first to sin in this degradation line,
by no means the better one for being
the furthest from the divinities. He
had painted some rustic figures very
admirably, and made such subjects a
fashion; but why they should ever be
so, we could never understand; or
why royalty should not be represented
as royalty, gentry as gentry; to represent
them otherwise, appears as
absurd as if our Landseer should attempt
a greyhound in the character
of a Newfoundland dog. A picture
of Gainsborough's was exhibited, a
year or two ago, in the British Institution,
Pall-Mall, which we were
astonished to hear was most highly
valued; for it was a weak, washy,
dauby, ill-coloured performance, and
the design as bad as well could be.
It was a scene before a cottage-door,
with the children of George the Third
as peasant children, in village dirt
and mire. The picture had no merit
to recommend it; if we remember
rightly, it had been painted over, or
in some way obscured, and unfortunately
brought to light. Although
Sir Joshua Reynolds generally introduced
a new grace into his portraits,
and mostly so without deviating from
the character as he found it, dispensing
indeed with the old affectation,
we fear he cannot altogether be acquitted
from the charge of deviating
from the true propriety of portrait.
Ladies as Miranda, as Hebe, and even
as Thais, no very moral compliment,
are examples&mdash;some there are of the
lower pastoral. Mrs Macklin and her
daughter were represented at a spinning-wheel,
and Miss Potts as a
gleaner. There is one of somewhat
higher pretensions, but equally a deviation
from propriety, in his portraits
of the Honourable Mistresses Townshend,
Beresford, and Gardiner. They
are decorating the statue of Hymen;
the grace of one figure is too theatrical,
the others have but little. The
one kneeling on the ground, and collecting
the flowers, is, in one respect,
disagreeable&mdash;the light of the sky,
too much of the same hue and tone as
the face, is but little separated from
it&mdash;in fact, only by the dark hair;
while all below the face and bosom is
a too heavy dark mass. Portrait-painters
are very apt to fail whenever
they colour their back-grounds to the
heads of a warm and light sky-colour;
the force of the complexion is very
apt to be lost, and the portrait is sure
to lose its importance. The &quot;General
on Horseback,&quot; in our National Gallery,
(Ligonier,) a fine picture, is in
no small degree hurt by the absence
of a little greyer tone in the part of
the sky about the head. By far the
best portraits by Sir Joshua&mdash;and, fortunately,
they are the greater part&mdash;are
those in real character. His very
genius was for unaffected simplicity;
attitudinizing recipes could never have
been adopted by him with satisfaction
to himself. Some of his slight, more
sketchy portraits, as yet unexperimented
upon by his powerful, frequently
rather too powerful, colouring,
his deep browns and yellows, are
unrivalled. Such is his Kitty Fisher,
not long since exhibited in the British
Gallery, Pall-Mall. There the character
is not overpowered by the
effect.</p>

<p>Gainsborough was the only painter
of his day that could, with any pretension,
vie with Sir Joshua Reynolds
in portrait. In some respects they
had similar excellences. Both were
alike, by natural taste, averse to affectation,
and both were colourists. As
a colourist, Gainsborough, as his pictures
are now, may be even preferred
to Reynolds. They seem to have
been painted off more at once, and
have therefore a greater freshness;
his flesh tints are truly surprising,
most true to life. He probably painted
with a more simple palette. The
pains and labour which Sir Joshua
bestowed, and which were perhaps
very surprising when his pictures
were fresh from the easel, have lost
much of their virtue. The great difference
between these great cotemporaries
lay in their power of character.
Gainsborough was as true as
could be to nature, where the character
was not of the very highest order.
Plain, downright common sense he
would hit off wonderfully, as in his
portrait of Ralphe Schomberg&mdash;a
picture, we are sorry to find, removed
from the National Gallery. The
world's every-day men were for his
pencil. He did not so much excel in
women. The bent of Sir Joshua's
mind was to elevate, to dignify, to intellectualize.
Enthusiasm, sentiment,
purity, and all the varied poetry of
feminine beauty, received their kindred
hues and most exquisite expression
under his hand. Whatever was
dignified in man, or lovely in woman,
was portrayed with its appropriate
grace and strength. Sir Joshua was,
in fact, himself the higher character;
ever endeavouring to improve and
cultivate his own mind, to raise it by
a dignified aim in his art and in his
life, and gathering the beauty of sentiment
to himself from its best source&mdash;the
practice of social and every
amiable charity&mdash;he was sure to transfer
to the canvass something characteristic
of himself. Gainsborough
was, in his way, a gentle enthusiast,
altogether of an humbler ambition.
Even in his landscapes, he showed
that he saw little in nature but what
the vulgar see; he had little idea that
what is commonly seen are the materials
of a better creation. Gainsborough
was unrivalled in his portraiture
of common truth, Reynolds in
poetical truth. Gainsborough spoke
in character in one of his letters,
wherein he said, that he &quot;was well
read in the volume of nature, and that
was learning sufficient for him.&quot; It
is said that he was proud&mdash;perhaps
his pride was shown in this remark&mdash;but
it was not a pride allied with
greatness. The pride of Reynolds
was quite of another stamp; it did not
disagree with his soundest judgment;
his estimate of himself was more true,
and it showed itself in modesty. That
such men should meet and associate
but little, is not surprising. That
Reynolds withdrew in &quot;cold and
carefully meted out courtesy,&quot; is not
surprising, though the expressions
quoted are written to disparage Reynolds.
The man of fixed purpose may
appear cold when he does not assimilate
with the man of caprice, (as was
Gainsborough,) in whose company
there is nothing to call forth a congeniality,
a sympathy; and it is probable
that Gainsborough felt as little
disposed as Sir Joshua, to preserve, or
even to seek, an intimacy. Their
final parting at the deathbed of Gainsborough
was most honourable to them
both; and the merit of seeking it was
entirely Gainsborough's. It is singular
that any facts should be so perverted,
as to justify an insinuation
that Reynolds, whose whole life exhibited
the continued acts of a kind
heart, was a cautious and cold calculator.
Good sense has ever a reserve
of manner, the result of a habit of
thinking&mdash;and in one of a high aim,
it is apt to acquire almost a stateliness;
but even such stateliness is not inconsistent
with modesty and with feeling;
it is, in fact, the carriage of the
mind, seen in the manner and the
person. We make these remarks
under a disgust produced by the singularly
illiberal Life of Reynolds
by Allan Cunningham; we think we
should not err in saying, that it is
maliciously written. We were reading
this Life, and made many indignant
remarks as we read, when the
death of the author was announced
in the newspapers. We had determined,
as far as our power might extend,
to rescue the name and fame of
Reynolds from the mischief which so
popular a writer as Allan Cunningham
was likely to inflict. Death has
its sanctity, and we hesitated; indeed,
in regret for the loss of a man of talent,
we felt for a time little disposed
to think of the ill he may have done;
nor was, on mature consideration, the
regret less, that he could not, by our
means, be called to review his own
work&mdash;his &quot;Lives of the British
Painters&quot;&mdash;in a more candid spirit
than that in which they appear to have
been written. It is to be lamented
that he did not revise it. Its illiberality
and untruth render it very unfit
for a &quot;Family Library,&quot; for which it
was composed. Yet it must be confessed,
that such regret was rather
one of momentary feeling, than accompanied
with any thing like conviction,
or even hope, that our endeavour
would have been successful.
There was no one better acquainted
with the life of one of the painters in
his work than ourselves. His Life,
too, was written in a most illiberal
spirit, though purposely in praise of
the artist. But it was as untrue as it
was illiberal. In a paper in <i>Blackwood</i>,
some years ago, we noticed some
of the errors and mistatements. This,
we happen to know, was seen by the
author of the &quot;Lives;&quot; for we were,
in consequence, applied to upon the
subject; and there being an intention
expressed to bring out a new edition,
we were invited to correct what was
wrong. We did not hesitate, and
wrote some two or three letters for
the purpose, and entertained but little
doubt of their having been favourably
received, and that they would be used,
until we were surprised by a communication,
that the author &quot;was
much obliged, but was perfectly satisfied
with his own account.&quot; That is,
that he was much <i>obliged</i> for an endeavour
to mislead him by falsehood.
For both accounts could not
be true. There were, then, but small
grounds to hope that Allan Cunningham
would have so revised his
work, as to have done justice to Sir
Joshua Reynolds. Besides, after
all, &quot;respect for the dead&quot; moves
both ways. The question is between
the recently dead and the long since
dead. In the literary world, and in
the world of art, both yet live; and
the author of the Life has this advantage,
that thousands read the &quot;Family
Library,&quot; whilst but few, comparatively
speaking, make themselves
acquainted with Sir Joshua Reynolds
and his works. We revere this founder
of our English school, and feel it due
to the art we love, to condemn the
ungenerous and sarcastic spirit of
The Life, by Allan Cunningham.
And if the dead could have any interest
in and guidance of things on earth,
we can imagine no work that would
be more pleasing to them, than the
removal of even the slightest evils
they may have inflicted; thus making
restitution for them. It is very evident
throughout the &quot;Lives,&quot; that the
author has a prejudice against, an absolute
dislike to, Sir Joshua Reynolds.
We stay not to account for it. There
are men of some opinions who, whether
from pride, or other feeling, have
an antipathy to courtly manners, and
what is called higher society: jealous
and suspicious lest they should not
owe, and seen to owe, every thing to
themselves, there is a constant and irritable
desire to set aside, with a feigned,
oftener than a real, contempt, the
influence and the homage the world
pays to superiority of rank, station,
and education. They would wish to
have nothing above themselves. How
far such may have been the case with
the writer of the &quot;Lives,&quot; we know
not, totally unacquainted as we have
ever been, but by his writings. In
them there appears very strongly
marked this vulgar feeling. He has stepped
out of his way in other lives, such
as those of Wilson and Gainsborough,
to attack Sir Joshua by surmises and
insinuations of meanness, blurring the
fair character of his best acts. The
generous doings of the President were
too notorious not to be admitted, but
generally a sinister or selfish motive
is insinuated. His courtesy was unpleasing,
while extreme coarseness
met with a ready apologist. In the
several Lives of Sir Joshua Reynolds,
there does not appear the slightest
ground upon which to found a charge
of meanness of character: it is inconceivable
how such should have ever
been insinuated, while Northcote's
&quot;Life&quot; of him was in existence, and
Northcote must have known him well.
He was most liberal in expenditure,
as became his station, and the dignity
which he was ambitiously desirous of
conferring upon the art over which
he presided. To artists and others in
their distresses he was most generous:
numerous, indeed, are the recorded
instances; those unrecorded may be
infinitely more numerous, for generosity
was with him a habit. In the
teeth of Mr Cunningham's insinuations
we will extract from Northcote some
passages upon this point. &quot;At that
time, indeed, Johnson was under many
pecuniary obligations, as well as literary
ones, to Sir Joshua, whose generous
kindness would never permit his
friends to <i>ask</i> a pecuniary favour, his
purse and heart being always open.&quot;
That his heart as well as his purse was
open, the following anecdote more
than indicates. We are tempted to
give it unaltered, as we find it in the
words of Northcote:&mdash;</p>

<div class="blkquot"><p>&quot;Sir Joshua, as his usual custom, looked
over the daily morning paper at his
breakfast time; and on one of those perusals,
whilst reading an account of the
Old Bailey sessions, to his great astonishment,
saw that a prisoner had been tried
and condemned to death for a robbery
committed on the person of one of his own
servants, a negro, who had been with him
for some time. He immediately rung the
bell for the servants, in order to make his
enquiries, and was soon convinced of the
truth of the matter related in the newspaper.
This black man had lived in his
service as footman for several years, and
has been portrayed in several pictures,
particularly in one of the Marquis of
Granby, where he holds the horse of that
general. Sir Joshua reprimanded this
black servant for his conduct, and especially
for not having informed him of this
curious adventure; when the man said he
had concealed it only to avoid the blame
he should have incurred had he told it.
He then related the following circumstances
of the business, saying, that Mrs
Anna Williams (the old blind lady
lived at the house of Dr Johnson) had
some time previous dined at Sir Joshua's
with Miss Reynolds; that in the evening
she went home to Bolt Court, Fleet Street,
in a hackney coach, and that he had been
sent to attend her to her house. On his
return he had met with companions who
had detained him till so late an hour, that
when he came to Sir Joshua's house, he
found the doors were shut, and all the servants
gone to rest. In this dilemma he
wandered in the street till he came to a
watch-house, in which he took shelter for
the remainder of the night, among the variety
of miserable companions to be found
in such places; and amidst this assembly
of the wretched, the black man fell sound
asleep, when a poor thief, who had been
taken into custody by the constable of the
night, perceiving, as the man slept, that
he had a watch and money in his pocket,
(which was seen on his thigh,) watched
his opportunity and stole the watch, and
with a penknife cut through the pocket,
and so possessed himself of the money.
When the black awaked from his nap, he
soon discovered what had been done, to his
cost, and immediately gave the alarm, and
a strict search was made through the company;
when the various articles which the
black had lost were found in the possession
of the unfortunate wretch who had
stolen them. He was accordingly secured,
and next morning carried before the justice,
and committed to take his trial at the
Old Bailey, (the black being bound over
to prosecute,) and, as we have seen, was
at his trial cast and condemned to death.
Sir Joshua, much affected by this recital,
immediately sent his principal servant,
Ralph Kirkly, to make all enquiries into
the state of the criminal, and, if necessary,
to relieve his wants in whatever way could
be done. When Kirkly came to the prison he
was soon admitted to the cell of the prisoner,
where he beheld the most wretched spectacle
that imagination can conceive&mdash;a
poor forlorn criminal, without a friend on
earth who could relieve or assist him, and
reduced almost to a skeleton by famine
and filth, waiting till the dreadful morning
should arrive when he was to be made an
end of by a violent death. Sir Joshua
now ordered fresh clothing to be sent to
him, and also that the black servant should
carry him every day a sufficient supply of
food from his own table; and at that time
Mr E. Burke being very luckily in office,
he applied to him, and by their joint interest
they got his sentence changed to
transportation; when, after being furnished
with all necessaries, he was sent out of
the kingdom.&quot;&mdash;P. 119.</p>

<p>&quot;In this year Sir Joshua raised his
price to fifty guineas for a head size,
which he continued during the remainder
of his life. His rapidly accumulating fortune
was not, however, for his own sole
enjoyment; he still felt the luxury of doing
good, and had many objects of bounty
pointed out to him by his friend Johnson,
who, in one of his letters, in this year, to
Mrs Piozzi, enquires 'will the master give
me any thing for my poor neighbours? I
have had from Sir Joshua and Mr Strahan.'&quot;&mdash;P. 264.</p>

<p>&quot;Sir Joshua, indeed, seems to have
been applied to by his friends on all occasions;
and by none oftener than by Dr
Johnson, particularly for charitable purposes.
Of this there is an instance, in a
note of Johnson's preserved in his Life, too
honourable to him to be here omitted.</p>

<p>'To Sir Joshua Reynolds.</p>

<p>'Dear Sir&mdash;It was not before yesterday
that I received your splendid benefaction.
To a hand so liberal in distributing,
I hope nobody will envy the power of acquiring.&mdash;I
am, dear sir, your obliged
and most humble servant,</p>

<p>'SAM. JOHNSON.'</p>

<p>'June 23, 1781.'&quot;&mdash;P. 278.</p></div>

<p>The following anecdote is delightful:&mdash;</p>

<div class="blkquot"><p>&quot;Whilst at Antwerp, Sir Joshua had taken
particular notice of a young man of
the name of De Gree, who had exhibited
some considerable talents as a painter:
his father was a tailor; and he himself had
been intended for some clerical office, but,
as it is said by a late writer, having formed
a different opinion of his religion than
was intended, from the books put into his
hand by an Abb&eacute; who was his patron, it
was discovered that he would not do for a
priest, and the Abb&eacute;, therefore, articled
him to Gerrards of Antwerp. Sir Joshua
received him, on his arrival in England,
with much kindness, and even recommended
him most strongly to pursue his profession
in the metropolis; but De Gree
was unwilling to consent to this, as he had
been previously engaged by Mrs Latouche
to proceed to Ireland. Even here Sir
Joshua's friendly attentions did not cease,
for he actually made the poor artist a present
of fifty guineas to fit him for his Hibernian
excursion; the whole of which,
however, the careful son sent over to
Antwerp for the use of his aged parents.&quot;&mdash;P. 284.</p>

<p>&quot;It is also recorded, as an instance of
his prizing extraordinary merit, that when
Gainsborough asked him but sixty guineas
for his celebrated Girl and Pigs, yet being
conscious in his own mind that it was worth
more, he liberally paid him down one
hundred guineas for the picture. I also find
it mentioned on record, that a painter of
considerable merit, having unfortunately
made an injudicious matrimonial choice, was
along with that and its consequences as
well as an increasing family, in a few years
reduced so very low, that he could not
venture out without danger of being arrested&mdash;a
circumstance which, in a great
measure, put it out of his power to dispose
of his pictures to advantage. Sir Joshua
having accidentally heard of his situation,
immediately hurried to his residence to
enquire into the truth of it, when the unfortunate
man told him all the melancholy
particulars of his lot, adding, that forty
pounds would enable him to compound
with his creditors. After some further
conversation, Sir Joshua took his leave,
telling the distressed man he would do
something for him; and when he was bidding
him adieu at the door, he took him
by the hand, and after squeezing it in a
friendly way hurried off with that kind of
triumph in his heart the exalted of human
kind only know by experience whilst the
astonished artist found that he had left in his
hand a bank-note for one hundred pounds.&quot;</p></div>

<p>Of such traits of benevolence certainly
many other instances may be
recorded, but I shall only mention
two; &quot;the one is the purchasing a picture
of Zoffani, who was without a
patron, and selling it to the Earl of
Carlisle for twenty guineas above the
price given for it; and he sent the
advanced price immediately to Zoffani,
saying 'he thought he had sold the
picture at first below its real value.'&quot;</p>

<p>The other is&mdash;&quot;the clergyman who
succeeded Sir Joshua's father as master
of the grammar-school at Plympton,
at his decease left a widow, who,
after the death of her husband, opened
a boarding school for the education of
young ladies. The governess who
taught in this school had but few
friends in situations to enable them to
do her much service, and her sole dependence
was on her small stipend
from the school: hence she was unable
to make a sufficiently reputable appearance
in apparel at their accustomed
little balls. The daughter of
the schoolmistress, her only child,
and at that time a very young girl,
felt for the poor governess, and the
pitiable insufficiency in the article of
finery; but being unable to help her
from her own resources, devised within
herself a means by which it might be
done otherwise. Having heard of the
great fame of Sir Joshua Reynolds,
his character for generosity, and charity,
and recollecting that he had
formerly belonged to the Plympton
school, she, without mentioning a syllable
to any of her companions, addressed
a letter to Sir Joshua, whom
she had never even seen, in which she
represented to him the forlorn state
of the poor governess's wardrobe,
and begged the gift of a silk gown for
her. Very shortly after, they received
a box containing silks of different patterns,
sufficient for two dresses, to the
infinite astonishment of the simple governess,
who was totally unable to
account for this piece of good fortune,
as the compassionate girl was afraid
to let her know the means she had
taken in order to procure the welcome
present.&quot;&mdash;P. 307.</p>

<p>Mr Duyes, the artist, says&mdash;&quot;malice
has charged him with avarice,
probably from his not having been
prodigal, like too many of his profession;
his offer to me proves the contrary.
At the time that I made the
drawings of the King at St Paul's after
his illness, Reynolds complimented
me handsomely on seeing them, and
afterwards observed, that the labour
bestowed must have been such, that I
could not be remunerated from selling
them; but if I would publish them
myself, he would lend me the money
necessary, and engage to get me a
handsome subscription among the nobility.&quot;&mdash;P. 35l.</p>

<p>We will here mention an anecdote
which we believe has never been published;
we heard it from our excellent
friend, and enthusiastic admirer
of all that taste, good sense, and good
feeling should admire and love, in
art or out of it&mdash;now far advanced in
years, and, like Sir Joshua, blind, but
full of enjoyment and conversation
fresh as ever upon art, for he remembers
and hears, beloved by all who
know him, G. Cumberland, Esq., author
of &quot;Outlines,&quot; &amp;c. &amp;c. He it was
who recommended Collins, the miniature-painter,
to Sir Joshua. Now
poor Collins was one of the most nervous
of men, morbidly distrustful of
himself and his powers. Our friend
showed us a portrait of Collins, painted
by himself, the very picture of most
sensitive nervousness. Well&mdash;Collins
waited upon Sir Joshua, who gave him
a picture to copy for him in miniature.
Collins took it, and trembled, and
looked all diffidence as he examined
Sir Joshua's original. However, he
took it home with him, and after some
time came to Cumberland in great
agitation, expressing a conviction
that he never could copy it, that he
had destroyed three attempts, and
this, said he, is the best I can do, and
I will destroy it. This Cumberland
would not allow, and took possession
of it, and an admirable performance
it is. Soon another was done, and
Collins took it to Sir Joshua, with
many timid expressions and apologies
for his inability, that he feared displeasure
for having undertaken a work
above him. Sir Joshua looked at it,
declared it to be, as it was, a most excellent
copy, and gave him more to
do in the same way&mdash;telling him to
go to his scrutoire, open a drawer,
and he would find some guineas,
and to take out twenty to pay himself.
&quot;Twenty guineas!&quot; said Collins,
&quot;I should not have thought
of receiving more than three!&quot; This
kindness and liberality set up poor
Collins with a better stock of self-confidence,
and he made his way to
celebrity in his line, and to fortune.</p>

<p>Is it in human nature, that the man
of whom such anecdotes are told, and
truly told, could be guilty of a mean
unworthy action? Perhaps the reader
will be curious to see how the
writer of the &quot;British Painters,&quot; who,
from the recent date of his publication,
must have known all these incidents,
excepting the last, has converted
some of them, by insinuating
sarcasm, into charges that blurr their
virtue. We should say that he has
omitted, where he could omit&mdash;where
he could not, he is compelled to contradict
himself; for it is impossible that
the insinuations, and the facts, and
occasional acknowledgments, should
be together true of one and the same
man. We shall offer some specimens
of this <i>illiberal style</i>:&mdash;A neighbour of
Reynolds's first advised him to settle
in London. His success there made
him remember this friendly advice&mdash;(the
neighbour's name was Cranch.)
We quote now from Cunningham.
&quot;The timely counsel of his neighbour
Cranch would have long afterwards
been rewarded with the present
of a silver cup, had not accident interfered.
'Death,' says Northcote,
'prevented this act of gratitude. I
have seen the cup at Sir Joshua's
table.' The painter had the honour
of the intention and the use of the
cup&mdash;a twofold advantage, of which he
was not insensible.&quot;&mdash;<i>Lives of British
Painters</i>, Vol. i, p. 220.&mdash;&quot;Of lounging
visitors he had great abhorrence,
and, as he reckoned up the fruits of
his labours, 'Those idle people,' said
this disciple of the grand historical
school of Raphael and Angelo&mdash;'those
idle people do not consider that my
time is worth five guineas an hour.'
This calculation incidentally informs
us, that it was Reynolds's practice, in
the height of his reputation and success,
to paint a portrait in four hours.&quot;&mdash;P. 251.
In <i>this</i> Life, he could depreciate
art, (in a manner we are persuaded
he could not feel,) because it
lowered the estimation of the painter
whom he disliked. &quot;One of the biographers
of Reynolds imputes the
reflections contained in the conclusion
of this letter, 'to that envy, which
perhaps even Johnson felt, when comparing
his own annual gains with
those of his more fortunate friend.'
They are rather to be attributed to
the sense and taste of Johnson, who
could not but feel the utter worthlessness
of the far greater part of the
productions with which the walls of
the Exhibition-room were covered.
Artists are very willing to claim for
their profession and its productions
rather more than the world seems disposed
to concede. It is very natural
that this should be so; but it is also
natural, that man of Johnson's taste
should be conscious of the dignity of
his own pursuits, and agree with the
vast majority of mankind in ranking
a Homer, a Virgil, a Milton, or a
Shakspeare, immeasurably above all
the artists that ever painted or carved.
Johnson, in a conversation with Boswell,
defined painting to be an art which
could illustrate, but could not inform.&quot;&mdash;P. 255.
Does he so speak
of this art in any other Life; and
is not this view false and ill-natured?
Were not Raffaelle, Michael Angelo,
Correggio, Titian, Piombo, epic
poets?</p>

<p>&quot;Johnson was a frequent and a
welcome guest. Though the sage was
not seldom sarcastic and overbearing,
he was endured and caressed, because
he poured out the riches of his conversation
more lavishly than Reynolds
did his wines.&quot;  He was compelled,
a sentence or two after, to add,
&quot;It was honourable to that distinguished
artist, that he perceived the
worth of such men, and felt the honour
which their society shed upon
him; but it stopped not here, he often
aided them with his purse, nor <i>insisted</i>
upon repayment.&quot;&mdash;P. 258. We
have marked &quot;insisted&quot;&mdash;it implies repayment
was expected, if not enforced;
and it might have been said, that a
mutual &quot;honour&quot; was conferred.
Speaking of Northcote's and Malone's
account of Sir Joshua's &quot;social
and well-furnished table,&quot; he adds,
&quot;these accounts, however, in as far
as regards the splendour of the entertainments,
must be received with some
abatement. The eye of a youthful
pupil was a little blinded by enthusiasm.
That of Malone was rendered
friendly, by many acts of hospitality,
and a handsome legacy; while literary
men and artists, who came to
speak of books and paintings, cared
little for the most part about the delicacy
of the entertainment, provided
it were wholesome.&quot; Here he quotes
at length, no very good-natured account
of the dinners given by Courteney.&mdash;P.
273. Even his sister, poor
Miss Reynolds, whom Johnson loved
and respected, must have her share of
the writer's sarcasm. &quot;Miss
Reynolds seems to have been as indifferent
about the good order of her
domestics, and the appearance of her
dishes at table, as her brother was
about the distribution of his wine and
venison. Plenty was the splendour,
and freedom was the elegance, which
Malone and Boswell found in the entertainments
of the artist.&quot;&mdash;P. 275.
If Reynolds was sparing of his wine,
the word &quot;plenty&quot; was most inappropriate.
Even the remark of Dunning,
Lord Ashburton, is perverted from its
evident meaning, and as explained by
Northcote, and the perversion casts a
slur upon Sir Joshua's guests; yet is
it well known who they were. &quot;Well,
Sir Joshua,&quot; he said, &quot;and who have
you got to dine with you to-day?&mdash;the
last time I dined in your house,
the company was of such a sort, that
by &mdash;&mdash;, I believe all the rest of the
world enjoyed peace for that
afternoon.&quot;&mdash;P. 276. This is a gross
idea, and unworthy a gentle mind.
&quot;By an opinion so critically sagacious,
and an apology for portrait-painting,
which appeals so effectually
to the kindly side of human nature,
Johnson repaid a hundred dinners.&quot;&mdash;P.
276. The liberality to De Gree
is shortly told.&mdash;P. 298. &quot;I have
said that the President was frugal in
his communications respecting the
sources from whence he drew his own
practice&mdash;he forgets his caution in one
of these notes.&quot;&mdash;P. 303. We must
couple this with some previous remarks;
it is well known that Sir
Joshua, as Northcote tells us, carefully
locked up his experiments, and
for more reasons than one: first, he
was dissatisfied, as these were but
experiments; secondly, he considered
experimenting would draw away
pupils from the rudiments of the art.
Surely nothing but illiberal dislike
would have perverted the plain meaning
of the act. &quot;The secret of Sir
Joshua's own preparations was
carefully kept&mdash;he permitted not even the
most favoured of his pupils to acquire
the knowledge of his colours&mdash;he had
all securely locked, and allowed no
one to enter where these treasures
were deposited. What was the use
of all this secrecy? Those who stole
the mystery of his colours, could not
use it, unless they stole his skill and
talent also. A man who, like Reynolds,
chooses to take upon himself
the double office of public and private
instructor of students in painting,
ought not surely to retain a secret in
the art, which he considers of real
value.&quot;&mdash;P. 287. He was, in fact,
too honest to mislead; and that he
did not think the right discovery made,
the author must have known; for
Northcote says&mdash;&quot;when I was a student
at the Royal Academy, I was accidentally
repeating to Sir Joshua
the instructions on colouring I had
heard there given by an eminent painter,
who then attended as visitor. Sir
Joshua replied, that this painter was
undoubtedly a very sensible man, but
by no means a good colourist; adding,
that there was not a man then
on earth who had the least notion of
colouring. 'We all of us,' said he,
'have it equally to seek for and find
out&mdash;as, at present, it is totally lost to
the art.'&quot;&mdash;&quot;In his economy he was
close and saving; while he poured out
his wines and spread out his tables to
the titled or the learned, he stinted
his domestics to the commonest fare,
and rewarded their faithfulness by
very moderate wages. One of his
servants, who survived till lately, described
him as a master who exacted
obedience in trifles&mdash;was prudent in
the matter of pins&mdash;a saver of bits of
thread&mdash;a man hard and parsimonious,
who never thought he had enough of
labour out of his dependents, and
always suspected that he overpaid them.
To this may be added the public opinion,
which pictured him close, cautious,
and sordid. On the other side, we
have the open testimony of Burke,
Malone, Boswell, and Johnson, who
all represent him as generous,
open-hearted, and humane. The servants
and the friends both spoke, we doubt
not, according to their own experience
of the man. Privations in early
life rendered strict economy
necessary; and in spite of many acts of
kindness, his mind, on the whole,
failed to expand with his fortune. He
continued the same system of saving
when he was master of sixty thousand
pounds, as when he owned but sixpence.
He loved reputation dearly,
and it would have been well for his
fame, if, over and above leaving legacies
to such friends as Burke and
Malone, he had opened his heart to
humbler people. A little would have
gone a long way&mdash;a kindly word and
a guinea prudently given.&quot;&mdash;P. 319.
Opened his heart to humbler people!
was the author of this libel upon a
generous character, ignorant of his
charity to humbler people, which
Johnson certified? Why did he not
narrate the robbery of the black
servant, and his kindness to the
humblest and the most wretched? What
was fifty guineas to poor De Gree?
Who were the humbler people to
whom he denied his bounty? And is
the fair fame, the honest reputation&mdash;the
honourable reputation, we
should say&mdash;of such a man as Sir
Joshua Reynolds&mdash;such as he has
been proved to be&mdash;such as not only
such men as Burke and Johnson knew
him, but such as his pupil and inmate
Northcote knew him&mdash;to be vilified by
a low-minded biography, the dirty
ingredients of which are raked up from
lying mouths, or, at least, incapable
of judging of such a character&mdash;from
the lips of servants, whose idle tales of
masters who discard them, it is the
common usage of the decent, not to
say well-bred world, to pay no attention
to&mdash;not to listen to&mdash;and whom
none hear but the vulgar-curious, or
the slanderous? But if a servant's
evidence must be taken, the fact of
the exhibition of Sir Joshua's works
for his servant Kirkly should have
been enough&mdash;to say nothing here of
his black servant. But the story of
Kirkly is mentioned&mdash;and how
mentioned? To rake up a malevolent or
a thoughtless squib of the day, to
make it appear that Sir Joshua shared
in the gains of an exhibition ostensibly
given to his servant. The joke
is noticed by Northcote, and the
exhibition, thus:&mdash;&quot;The private exhibition
of 1791, in the Haymarket, has
been already mentioned, and some
notice taken of it by a wicked wit,
who, at the time, wished to insinuate
that Sir Joshua was a partaker in the
profits. But this was not the truth;
neither do I believe there were any
profits to share. However, these lines
from Hudibras were inserted in a
morning paper, together with some
observations on the exhibition of
pictures collected by the knight&mdash;</p>

<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<p>'A squire he had whose name was Ralph</p>
<p>Who in the adventure went his half,'</p>
</div></div>

<p>thus gaily making a sacrifice of truth
to a joke.&quot; It is very evident that this
was a mere newspaper squib, and
suggested by the &quot;knight and his
squire Ralph;&quot; but Cunningham so
gives it as &quot;the opinion of many,&quot;
and with rather more than a suspicion
of its truth. &quot;Sir Joshua made an
exhibition of them in the Haymarket,
for the advantage of his faithful
servant Ralph Kirkly; but our painter's
well-known love of gain excited public
suspicion; he was considered by
many as a partaker in the profits, and
reproached by the application of two
lines from Hudibras.&quot;&mdash;P. 117. But
this report from a servant is evidently
no servant's report at all, as far as the
words go: they are redolent throughout
of the peculiar satire of the author
of the &quot;Lives,&quot; who so loves point
and antithesis, who tells us Sir Joshua
&quot;poured&quot; out his wines, (the
distribution of which he had otherwise
spoken of,) that the <i>stint</i> to the
servants may have its fullest opposition.
And again, as to the humbler, does he
not contradict himself? He prefaces
the fact that Sir Joshua gave a
hundred guineas to Gainsborough, who
asked sixty, for his &quot;Girl and Pigs,&quot;
thus&mdash;&quot;Reynolds was commonly
humane and tolerant; he could indeed
afford, both in fame and purse, to
commend and aid the timid and
needy.&quot;&mdash;P. 304. This is qualifying
vilely a generous action, while it
contradicts his assertion of being sparing
of &quot;a kindly word and a guinea.&quot; Nor
are the occasional criticisms on
passages in the &quot;Discourses&quot; in a better
spirit, nor are they exempt from a
vulgar taste as to views of art; their
sole object is, apparently, to depreciate
Reynolds; and though a selection of
individual sentences might be picked
out, as in defence, of an entirely
laudatory character, they are contradicted
by others, and especially by the
sarcastic tone of the Life, taken as
a whole. But it is not only in the
Life of Reynolds that this attempt
is made to depreciate him. In his
&quot;Lives&quot; of Wilson and Gainsborough,
he steps out of his way to throw his
abominable sarcasm upon Reynolds.
One of many passages in Wilson's
Life says, &quot;It is reported that
Reynolds relaxed his hostility at last, and,
becoming generous when it was too
late, obtained an order from a nobleman
for two landscapes at a proper price.&quot;
So he insinuates an unworthy hypocrisy,
while lauding the bluntness of
Wilson. &quot;Such was the blunt
honesty of his (Wilson's) nature, that,
when drawings were shown him which
he disliked, he disdained, or was
unable to give a courtly answer, and
made many of the students his
enemies. Reynolds had the sagacity to
escape from such difficulties, by looking
at the drawings and saying
'Pretty, pretty,' which vanity invariably
explained into a compliment.&quot;&mdash;P. 207.
After having thus spoken
shamefully of Sir Joshua Reynolds in
the body of his work, he reiterates all
in a note, confirming all as his not
hasty but deliberate opinion, having
&quot;now again gone over the narrative
very carefully, and found it impossible,
without violating the truth, to
make any alteration of importance as
to its facts;&quot; and though he has
omitted so much which might have
been given to the honour of Reynolds,
he is &quot;unconscious of having omitted
any enquiry likely to lead him aright.&quot;&mdash;P. 320.
He may have made the
enquiry without using the information&mdash;a
practice not inconsistent in
such a biographer. For instance,
when he assumes, that in the portrait
of Beattie, the figures of Scepticism,
Sophistry, and Infidelity, represent
Hume, Voltaire, and Gibbon;
remarking, that they have survived the
&quot;insult of Reynolds.&quot; An enquiry
from Northcote ought to have led him
to conclude otherwise, for Northcote,
who had the best means of knowing,
says, &quot;Because one of those figures
was a lean figure, (alluding to the
subordinate ones introduced,) and the
other a fat one, people of lively
imaginations pleased themselves with
finding in them the portraits of
Voltaire and Hume. But Sir Joshua, I
have reason to believe, had no such
thought when he painted those figures.&quot;
We have done with this disgusting
Life. We would preserve to art
and the virtue-loving part of mankind
the great <i>integrity</i> of the character of
Sir Joshua Reynolds. Documents and
testimonies are sufficient to establish
as much entire worth as falls to the
lot and adornment of the best; and to
bring this conviction, that, for the
justice, candour, liberality, kindness,
and generosity, which he showed in
his dealings with all, even his
professional rivals, if he had not had the
extraordinary merit of being the greatest
British painter, he deserved, and
will deserve, the respect of mankind;
and to have had his many and great
virtues recorded in a far other manner
than in that among the &quot;Lives of
the British Painters.&quot; His pictures
may have faded, and may decay; but
his precepts will still live, and tend to
the establishment and continuance of
art built upon the soundest principles;
and the virtues of the man will ever
give a grace to the profession which
he adorned, and, for the benefit of art,
contribute mainly to his own fame.</p>

<p>&quot;Nihil enim est opere aut manu
factum, quod aliquando non conficiat
et consumat Vetustas; at vero h&aelig;c
tua justitia et lenitas animi florescet
quotidie magis, ita ut quantum operibus
tuis dinturnitas detrahet, tantum
afferet laudibus.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;He had,&quot; says Burke, &quot;from the
beginning of his malady, a distinct
view of his dissolution; and he
contemplated it with that entire composure,
which nothing but the innocence,
integrity, and usefulness of his life,
and an unaffected submission to the
will of Providence, could bestow.&quot;</p>

<hr class="full" />



<a name="bw329s4" id="bw329s4"></a><h2>LEAP-YEAR.&mdash;A TALE.</h2>

<h3>CHAPTER I.</h3>
<br>

<p>In the summer of 1838, in the pleasant
little county of Huntingdon, and
under the shade of some noble elms
which form the pride of Lipscombe
Park, two young men might have
been seen reclining. The thick, and
towering, and far-spreading branches
under which they lay, effectually
protected them from a July sun, which
threw its scorching brilliancy over
the whole landscape before them.
They seemed to enjoy to the full that
delightful <i>retired openness</i> which an
English park affords, and that easy
effortless communion which only old
companionship can give. They were,
in fact, fellow collegians. The one,
Reginald Darcy by name, was a ward
of Mr Sherwood, the wealthy
proprietor of Lipscombe Park; the other,
his friend, Charles Griffith, was passing
a few days with him in this agreeable
retreat. They had spent the
greater part of the morning strolling
through the park, making short
journeys from one clump of trees to
another, and traversing just so much of
the open sunny space which lay
exposed to all the &quot;bright severity of
noon,&quot; as gave fresh value to the shade,
and renewed the luxury of repose.</p>

<p>&quot;Only observe,&quot; said Darcy, breaking
silence, after a long pause, and
without any apparent link of
connexion between their last topic of
conversation and the sage reflection he
was about to launch&mdash;&quot;only
observe,&quot; and, as he raised himself upon
his elbow, something very like a sigh
escaped from him, &quot;how complete, in
our modern system of life, is the
ascendency of woman over us! Every art
is hers&mdash;is devoted to her service.
Poetry, music, painting, sculpture&mdash;all
seem to have no theme but
woman. It is her loveliness, her power
over us, that is paraded and chanted
on every side. Poets have been always
mad on the beauty of woman, but
never so mad as now; we must not
only submit to be sense-enthralled,
the very innermost spirit of a man is
to be deliberately resigned to the
tyranny of a smooth brow and a soft
eye. Music, which grows rampant
with passion, speaks in all its tones of
woman: as long as the strain lasts
we are in a frenzy of love, though it
is not very clear with whom, and
happily the delirium ends the moment
the strings of the violin have ceased
to vibrate. What subject has the
painter worth a rush but the beauty
of woman? We gaze for ever on the
charming face which smiles on us
from his canvass; we may gaze with
perfect license&mdash;that veil which has
just been lifted to the brow, it will
never be dropt again&mdash;but we do not
gaze with perfect impunity; we turn
from the lovely shadow with knees how
prone to bend! And as to the sculptor,
on condition that he hold to the pure
colourless marble, is he not permitted
to reveal the sacred charms of Venus
herself? Every art is hers. Go to
the theatre, and whether it be tragedy,
or comedy, or opera, or dance,
the attraction of woman is the very life
of all that is transacted there. Shut
yourself up at home with the poem or
the novel, and lo! to love, and to be
loved, by one fair creature, is all that
the world has to dignify with the name
of happiness. It is too much. The
heart aches and sickens with an
unclaimed affection, kindled to no
purpose. Every where the eye, the ear,
the imagination, is provoked, bewildered,
haunted by the magic of this
universal syren.</p>

<p>&quot;And what is worse,&quot; continued
our profound philosopher&mdash;and here
he rose from his elbow, and supported
himself at arm's length from the
ground, one hand resting on the turf,
the other at liberty, if required, for
oratorical action&mdash;&quot;what is worse,
this place which woman occupies in
<i>art</i> is but a fair reflection of that
which she fills in real life. Just
heavens! what a perpetual wonder it is,
this living, breathing beauty! Throw
all your metaphors to the winds&mdash;your
poetic raptures&mdash;your ideals&mdash;your
romance of position and of
circumstance: look at a fair, amiable,
cultivated woman, as you meet her in
the actual, commonplace scenes of
life: she is literally, prosaically
speaking, the last consummate result of
the creative power of nature, and the
gathered refinements of centuries of
human civilization. The world can
show nothing comparable to that light,
graceful figure of the girl just blooming
into perfect womanhood. Imagination
cannot go beyond it. There
is all the marvel, if you think of it,
in that slight figure, as she treads
across the carpet of a modern drawing-room,
that has ever been expressed
in, or given origin to, the nymphs,
goddesses, and angels that the fancy of
man has teemed with. I declare that
a pious heathen would as soon insult
the august statue of Minerva herself,
as would any civilized being treat
that slender form with the least show
of rudeness and indignity. A Chartist,
indeed, or a Leveller, would do it;
but it would pain him&mdash;he would be
a martyr to his principles. Verily
we are slaves to the fair miracle!&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Well,&quot; said his companion, who
had all this time been leisurely pulling
to pieces some wild flowers he had
gathered in the course of the morning's
ramble, &quot;what does it all end
in? What, at last, but the old story&mdash;love
and a marriage?&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Love often where there is no possibility
of marriage,&quot; replied Darcy,
starting up altogether from his recumbent
posture, and pacing to and fro under
the shadow of the tree. &quot;The full
heart, how often does it swell only to
feel the pressure of the iron bond of
poverty! This very sentiment, which
our cultivation refines, fosters, makes
supreme, is encountered by that harsh
and cruel evil which grows also with
the growth of civilization&mdash;poverty&mdash;civilized
poverty. Oh, 'tis a frightful
thing, this well-born, well-bred poverty!
There is a pauper state,
which, loathsome as it is to look upon,
yet brings with it a callousness to
endure all inflictions, and a recklessness
that can seize with avidity whatever
coarse fragments of pleasure the
day or the hour may afford. But this
poverty applies itself to nerves strung
for the subtlest happiness. No torpor
here; no moments of rash and unscrupulous
gratification&mdash;unreflected
on, unrepented of&mdash;which being often
repeated make, in the end, a large
sum of human life; but the heart incessantly
demands a genuine and enduring
happiness, and is incessantly
denied. It is a poverty which even
helps to keep alive the susceptibility
it tortures; for the man who has
never loved, or been the object of affection,
whose heart has been fed only
by an untaught imagination, feels a
passion&mdash;feels a regret&mdash;it may be
far more than commensurate with
that envied reality which life possesses
and withholds from him. No!
there is nothing in the circle of human
existence more fearful to contemplate
than this perpetual divorce&mdash;irrevocable,
yet pronounced anew each instant
of our lives&mdash;between the soul and its
best affections. And&mdash;look you!--this
misery passes along the world under
the mask of easy indifference, and
wears a smiling face, and submits to
be rallied by the wit, and assumes itself
the air of vulgar jocularity. Oh,
this penury that goes well clad, and
is warmly housed, and makes a mock
of its own anguish&mdash;I'd rather die on
the wheel, or be starved to death in a
dungeon!</p>

<p>&quot;My excellent friend!&quot; cried Griffith,
startled from his quiescent posture,
and tranquil occupation, by the
growing excitement of his companion,
&quot;what has possessed you? Is it the
daughter of our worthy host&mdash;is it
Emily Sherwood, the nymph who
haunts these woods&mdash;who has given
birth to this marvellous train of reflection?
to this rhapsody on the omnipresence
of woman, which I certainly
had never discovered, and on the
misery of a snug bachelor's income,
which to me is still more incomprehensible?
I confess, however, it
would be difficult to find a better specimen
of this fearfully fascinating sex.&quot;&mdash;</p>

<p>&quot;Pshaw!&quot; interrupted Darcy, &quot;what
is the heiress of Lipscombe Park to
me?&mdash;a girl who might claim alliance
with the wealthiest and noblest of the
land&mdash;to me, who have just that rag
of property, enough to keep from open
shame one miserable biped? Can a
man never make a general reflection
upon one of the most general of all
topics, without being met by a personal
allusion? I thought you had
been superior, Griffith, to this dull
and hackneyed retort.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Well, well; be not wroth&quot;&mdash;</p>

<p>&quot;But I <i>am</i>. There is something
so odious in this trite and universal
banter. Besides, to have it intimated,
even in jest, that I would take advantage
of my position in this family to
pay my ridiculous addresses to Miss
Sherwood&mdash;I do declare, Griffith, I
never will again to you, or any other
man, touch upon this subject, but in
the same strain of unmeaning levity
one is compelled to listen to, and imitate,
in the society of coxcombs.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;At all events,&quot; said Griffith,
&quot;give me leave to say that <i>I</i> admire
Miss Sherwood, and that I shall think
it a crying shame if so beautiful and
intelligent a girl is suffered to fall into
the clutches of this stupid baronet who
is laying siege to her&mdash;this pompous,
empty-headed Sir Frederic Beaumantle.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Sir Frederic Beaumantle,&quot; said
Darcy, with some remains of humour,
&quot;may be all you describe him, but he
is very rich, and, mark me, he will
win the lady. Old Sherwood suspects
him for a fool, but his extensive estates
are unincumbered&mdash;he will approve his
suit. His daughter makes him a constant
laughing-stock, she is perpetually
ridiculing his presumption and his vanity;
but she will end by marrying
the rich baronet. It will be in the
usual course of things; society will
expect it; and it is so safe, so prudent,
to do what society expects. Let
wealth wed with wealth. It is quite
right. I would never advise any man
to marry a woman much richer than
himself, so as to be indebted to her
for his position in society. It is useless
to say, or to feel, that her
wealth was not the object of your suit. You
may carry it how you will&mdash;what says
the song?</p>

<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<p>'<i>She</i> never will forget;</p>
<p>The gold she gave was not thy <i>gain</i>,</p>
<p>But it must be thy <i>debt</i>.'</p>
</div></div>

<p>&quot;But come, our host is punctual to
his dinner hour, and if we journey
back at the same pace we have travelled
here, we shall not have much
time upon our hands.&quot; And accordingly
the two friends set themselves in
motion to return to the house.</p>

<p>Our readers have, of course, discovered
that, in spite of his disclaimer,
Reginald Darcy <i>was</i> in love with
Emily Sherwood. He was, indeed,
very far gone, and had suffered great
extremities; but his pride had kept
pace with his passion. Left an orphan
at an early age, and placed by
the will of his father under the guardianship
of Mr Sherwood, Darcy had
found in the residence of that gentleman
a home during the holidays when
a schoolboy, and during the vacations
when a collegian. Having lately taken
his degree at Cambridge, with
high honours, which had been strenuously
contended for, and purchased by
severe labour, he was now recruiting
his health, and enjoying a season of
well-earned leisure under his guardian's
roof. As Mr Sherwood was old
and gouty, and confined much to his
room, it fell on him to escort Emily
in her rides or walks. She whom he
had known, and been so often delighted
with, as his little playmate, had grown
into the young and lovely woman.
Briefly, our Darcy was a lost man&mdash;gone&mdash;head
and heart. But then&mdash;she
was the only daughter of Mr
Sherwood, she was a wealthy heiress&mdash;he
was comparatively poor. Her
father had been to him the kindest of
guardians: ought he to repay that
kindness by destroying, perhaps, his
proudest schemes? Ought he, a man
of fitting and becoming pride, to put
himself in the equivocal position which
the poor suitor of a wealthy heiress must
inevitably occupy? &quot;He invites me,&quot;
he would say to himself, &quot;he presses
me to stay here, week after week,
and month after month, because the
idea that I should seek to carry away
his daughter never enters into his
head. And she&mdash;she is so frank, so
gay, so amiable, and almost fond, because
she has never recognized, with
the companion of her childhood, the
possibility of such a thing as marriage.
There is but one part for me&mdash;silence,
strict, unbroken silence!&quot;</p>

<p>Charles Griffith was not far from
the truth, when he said that it would
be difficult to find a better specimen
of her fascinating sex than the daughter
of their host. But it was not her
beauty, remarkable as this was&mdash;it
was not her brightest of blue eyes, nor
her fairest of complexions, nor those
rich luxuriant tresses&mdash;that formed the
greatest charm in Emily Sherwood.
It was the delightful combination she
displayed of a cheerful vivacious temper
with generous and ardent feelings.
She was as light and playful as one of
the fawns in her own park, but her
heart responded also to every noble
and disinterested sentiment; and the
poet who sought a listener for some
lofty or tender strain, would have
found the spirit that he wanted in the
gay and mirth-loving Emily Sherwood.</p>

<p>Poor Darcy! he would sit, or walk,
by her side, talking of this or that, no
matter what, always happy in her presence,
passing the most delicious hours,
but not venturing to betray, by word
or look, how very content he was.
For these hours of stolen happiness
he knew how severe a penalty he must
pay: he knew and braved it. And
in our poor judgment he was right.
Let the secret, stealthy, unrequited
lover enjoy to the full the presence,
the smiles, the bland and cheerful society
of her whom his heart is silently
worshipping. Even this shall in future
hours be a sweet remembrance.
By and by, it is true, there will come
a season of poignant affliction. But
better all this than one uniform, perpetual
torpor. He will have felt that
mortal man <i>may</i> breathe the air of
happiness; he will have learned something
of the human heart that lies
within him.</p>

<p>But all this love&mdash;was it seen&mdash;was
it returned&mdash;by her who had inspired
it? Both, both. He thought, wise
youth! that while he was swallowing
draught after draught of this delicious
poison, no one perceived the deep intoxication
he was revelling in. Just
as wisely some veritable toper, by putting
on a grave and demure countenance,
cheats himself into the belief
that he conceals from every eye that
delectable and irresistible confusion
in which his brain is swimming. His
love was seen. How could it be otherwise?
That instantaneous, that complete
delight which he felt when she
joined him in his rambles, or came to
sit with him in the library, could not
be disguised nor mistaken. He was
a scholar, a reader and lover of books,
but let the book be what it might
which he held in his hand, it was abandoned,
closed, pitched aside, the moment
she entered. There was no
stolen glance at the page left still
open; nor was the place kept marked
by the tenacious finger and thumb.
If her voice were heard on the terrace,
or in the garden&mdash;if her laugh&mdash;so
light, merry, and musical, reached his
ear&mdash;there was no question or debate
whether he should go or stay, but
down the stairs, or through the avenues
of the garden&mdash;he sprung&mdash;he
ran;&mdash;only a little before he came in
sight he would assume something of
the gravity becoming in a senior
wrangler, or try to look as if he came
there by chance. His love was seen,
and not with indifference. But what
could the damsel do? How presume
to know of an attachment until in due
form certified thereof? If a youth
will adhere to an obstinate silence,
what, we repeat, can a damsel do but
leave him to his fate, and listen to
some other, who, if he loves less, at least
knows how to avow his love?</p>



<hr style="width: 65%;">
<h3>CHAPTER II.</h3>
<br>

<p>We left the two friends proceeding
towards the mansion; we enter before
them, and introduce our readers
into the drawing-room. Here, in a
spacious and shaded apartment, made
cool, as well by the massive walls of
the noble edifice as by the open and
protected windows, whose broad balcony
was blooming with the most
beautiful and fragrant of plants, sat
Emily Sherwood. She was not, however,
alone. At the same round table,
which was covered with vases of
flowers, and with books as gay as
flowers, was seated another young
lady, Miss Julia Danvers, a friend
who had arrived in the course of the
morning on a visit to Lipscombe Park.
The young ladies seemed to have been
in deep consultation.</p>

<p>&quot;I can never thank you sufficiently,&quot;
said Miss Danvers, &quot;for your
kindness in this affair.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Indeed but you can very soon
thank me much more than sufficiently,&quot;
replied her more lively companion,
&quot;for there are few things in the world
I dislike so much as thanks. And yet
there is one cause of thankfulness you
have, and know not of. Here have I
listened to your troubles, as you call
them, for more than two hours, and
never once told you any of my own.
Troubles! you are, in my estimation,
a very happy, enviable girl.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Do you think it then so great a
happiness to be obliged to take refuge
from an absurd selfish stepmother, in
order to get by stealth one's own lawful
way?&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;One's own way is always lawful,
my dear. No tautology. But you
<i>have</i> it&mdash;while I&quot;&mdash;&mdash;</p>

<p>&quot;Well, what is the matter?&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Julia, dear&mdash;now do not laugh&mdash;I
have a lover that <i>won't speak</i>. I have
another, or one who calls himself such,
who has spoken, or whose wealth, I
fear, has spoken, to some purpose&mdash;to
my father.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;And you would open the mouth
of the dumb, and stop the mouth
of the foolish?&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Exactly.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Who are they? And first, to proceed
by due climax, who is he whose
mouth is to be closed?&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;A baronet of these parts, Sir
Frederic Beaumantle. A vain, vain,
vain man. It would be a waste of
good words to spend another epithet
upon him, for he is all vanity. All
his virtues, all his vices, all his actions,
good, bad, and indifferent, are nothing
but vanity. He praises you from vanity,
abuses you from vanity, loves and
hates you from vanity. He is vain of
his person, of his wealth, of his birth,
of his title, vain of all he has, and all
he has not. He sets so great a value
on his innumerable and superlative
good qualities, that he really has not
been able (until he met with your
humble servant) to find any individual
of our sex on whom he could, conscientiously,
bestow so great a treasure
as his own right hand must inevitably
give away. This has been the only
reason&mdash;he tells me so himself&mdash;why
he has remained so long unmarried;
for he has rounded the arch, and is
going down the bridge. To take his
own account of this delicate matter, he
is fluctuating, with an uneasy motion,
to and fro, between forty and forty-five.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Old enough, I doubt not, to be
your father. How can he venture on
such a frolicsome young thing as
you?&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;I asked him that question myself
one day; and he told me, with a
most complacent smile, that I should
be the perfect compendium of matrimony&mdash;he
should have wife and child
in one.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;The old coxcomb! And yet
there was a sort of providence in
that.&mdash;Now, who is he whose mouth
is to be opened?&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Oh&mdash;he!--can't you guess?&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Your cousin Reginald, as you
used to call him&mdash;though cousin
I believe he is none&mdash;this learned
wrangler?&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;The same. Trust me, he loves
me to the bottom of his heart; but
because his little cousin is a great
heiress, he thinks it fit to be very
proud, and gives me over&mdash;many
thanks to him&mdash;to this rich baronet.
But here he comes.&quot;</p>

<p>As she spoke, Darcy and Griffith
entered the room.</p>

<p>&quot;We have been canvassing,&quot; said
Emily, after the usual forms of introduction
had been gone through, &quot;the
merits of our friend, Sir Frederic
Beaumantle. By the way, Reginald,
he dines here to-day, and so will another
gentleman, whom I shall be
happy to introduce to you, Captain
Garland, an esteemed friend of mine
and Miss Danvers'.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Sir Frederic seems,&quot; said Griffith,
by way merely of taking part
in the conversation, &quot;at all events, a
very good-natured man. I have seen
him but once, and he has already
promised to use all his influence in my
behalf, in whatever profession I may
embark. If medicine, I am to have
half-a-dozen dowagers, always ailing
and never ill, put under my charge
the moment I can add M.D. to my
name; not to speak of certain mysterious
hints of an introduction at
court, and an appointment of physician
extraordinary to Her Majesty.
I suppose I may depend upon Sir
Frederic's promises?&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Oh, certainly,&quot; said Miss Sherwood,
&quot;you may depend upon Sir
Frederic Beaumantle's promises; they
will never fail; they are inexhaustible.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;The fool!&quot; said Darcy with impatience,
&quot;I could forgive him any
thing but that ridiculous ostentation
he has of patronizing men, who, but
they have more politeness than himself,
would throw back his promises
with open derision.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Reginald,&quot; said Miss Sherwood,
&quot;is always forgiving Sir Frederic
every fault but one. But then that
one fault changes every day. Last
time he would pardon him every
thing except the fulsome eulogy he is
in the habit of bestowing upon his
friends, even to their faces. You
must know, Mr Griffith, that Sir
Frederic is a most liberal chapman in
this commodity of praise: he will
give any man a bushel-full of compliments
who will send him back the
measure only half filled. Nay, if
there are but a few cherries clinging
to the wicker-work he is not wholly
dissatisfied.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;What he gives he knows is trash,&quot;
said Darcy; &quot;what he receives he
always flatters himself to be true coin.
But indeed Sir Frederic is somewhat
more just in his dealings than you,
perhaps, imagine. If he bestows excessive
laudation on a friend in one
company, he takes it all back again
in the very next he enters.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;And still his amiability shines
through all; for he abuses the absent
friend only to gratify the self-love
of those who are present.&quot;</p>

<p>The door opened as Miss Sherwood
gave this <i>coup-de-grace</i> to the character
of the baronet, and Sir Frederic
Beaumantle was announced,
and immediately afterwards, Captain
Garland.</p>

<p>Miss Sherwood, somewhat to the
surprise of Darcy, who was not aware
that any such intimacy subsisted between
them, received Captain Garland
with all the cordiality of an old
acquaintance. On the other hand she
introduced the baronet to Miss Danvers
with that slightly emphatic manner
which intimates that the parties
may entertain a &quot;high consideration&quot;
for each other.</p>

<p>&quot;You are too good a herald, Sir
Frederic,&quot; she said, &quot;not to know
the Danverses of Dorsetshire.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;I shall be proud,&quot; replied the
baronet, &quot;to make the acquaintance
of Miss Danvers.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;She has come to my poor castle,&quot;
continued Miss Sherwood, &quot;like the
distressed princess in the Faery Queen,
and I must look out for some red-cross
knight to be her champion,
and redress her wrongs.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;It is not the first time,&quot; said the
lady thus introduced, &quot;that I have
heard of the name of Sir Frederic
Beaumantle.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;I dare say not, I dare say not,&quot;
answered the gratified baronet.
&quot;Mine, I may venture to say, is an
historic name. Did you ever peruse,
Miss Danvers, a work entitled 'The
History of the County of Huntingdon?'
You would find in it many
curious particulars relating to the
Beaumantles, and one anecdote especially,
drawn, I may say, from the archives
of our family, which throws
a new light upon the reign and character
of Charles II. It is a very
able performance is this 'History of
the County of Huntingdon;' it is written
by a modest and ingenious person
of my acquaintance, and I felt great
pleasure in lending him my poor assistance
in the compilation of it. My
name is mentioned in the preface.
Perhaps,&quot; he added with a significant
smile, &quot;it might have claimed a still
more conspicuous place; but I hold
it more becoming in persons of rank
to be the patrons than the competitors
of men of letters.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;I should think,&quot; said Miss Danvers
very quietly, &quot;it were the more
prudent plan for them to adopt. But
what is this anecdote you allude
to?&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;An ancestor of mine&mdash;But I am
afraid,&quot; said the baronet, casting a deprecatory
look at Miss Sherwood,
&quot;that some here have read it, or
heard me repeat it before.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Oh, pray proceed,&quot; said the
young lady appealed to.</p>

<p>&quot;An ancestor of mine,&quot; resumed
the baronet, &quot;on being presented at
the Court of Charles II., soon after
the Restoration, attracted the attention
of that merry monarch and his
witty courtiers, by the antique fashion
of his cloak. 'Beaumantle! Beaumantle!'
said the king, 'who gave
thee that name?' My ancestor, who
was a grave man, and well brought up,
answered, 'Sire, my godfathers
and my godmothers at my baptism.'
'Well responded!' said the king with
a smile; 'and they gave thee thy
raiment also, as it seems.' These last
words were added in a lower voice,
and did not reach the ear of my ancestor,
but they were reported to him
immediately afterwards, and have been
treasured up in our family ever since.
I thought it my duty to make it known
to the world as an historical fact,
strikingly illustrative of a very important
period in our annals.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Why, your name,&quot; said Miss
Danvers, &quot;appears to be historical in
more senses than one.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;I hope soon&mdash;but I would not wish
this to go beyond the present company,&quot;
said Sir Frederic, and he looked
round the circle with a countenance
of the most imposing solemnity&mdash;&quot;I
hope soon that you will hear of it
being elevated to the peerage&mdash;that
is, when Sir Robert Peel comes into
power.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;You know Sir Robert, then?&quot;
said Griffith, with perfect simplicity.</p>

<p>&quot;Public men,&quot; said Sir Frederic,
&quot;are sufficiently introduced by public
report. Besides, Mr Griffith&mdash;we
baronets!--we constitute a sort of
brotherhood. I have employed all my
influence in the county, and I may
safely say it is not little, to raise the
character and estimation of Sir Robert,
and I have no doubt that he will
gladly testify his acknowledgment of
my services by this trifling return.
And as it is well known that my
estates&quot;&mdash;</p>

<p>But the baronet was interrupted in
mid career by the announcement of
dinner.</p>

<p>Miss Sherwood took the arm of
Captain Garland, and directed Sir
Frederic to lead down Miss Danvers.</p>

<p>&quot;You will excuse my father,&quot; she
said, as they descended, &quot;for not
meeting us in the drawing-room. His
gout makes him a lame pedestrian.
We shall find him already seated at
the table.&quot;</p>

<p>At the dinner-table the same
arrangement was preserved. Miss
Sherwood had placed Captain Garland
by her side, and conversed almost
exclusively with him; while the Baronet
was kept in play by the sedulous
flattery of Miss Danvers.</p>

<p>After a few days, it became evident
to all the household at Lipscombe
Park that a new claimant for the hand
of Miss Sherwood had appeared in
the person of Captain Garland. The
captain did not reside in the house,
but, on the pretence of a very strong
passion for trout-fishing, he had taken
up his quarters in apartments within
a most convenient distance of the
scene of operations. It was not forgotten
that, at the very time he made
his appearance, Miss Danvers also
arrived at the Park, and between these
parties there was suspected to be some
secret understanding. It seemed as
if our military suitor had resolved to
assail the fort from within as well
as from without, and therefore had
brought down with him this fair ally.
Nothing better than such a fair ally.
She could not only chant his praises
when absent, (and there is much in
that,) but she could so man&oelig;uvre as
to procure for the captain many a
<i>t&ecirc;te-&agrave;-t&ecirc;te</i>, which otherwise would not
fall to his share. Especially, (and
this task she appeared to accomplish
most adroitly,) she could engage to
herself the attentions of his professed
and redoubtable rival, Sir Frederic
Beaumantle. In fifty ways she could
assist in betraying the citadel from
within, whilst he stood storming at
the gates, in open and most magnanimous
warfare. Darcy was not slower
than others to suspect the stratagem,
and he thought he saw symptoms of
its success. His friend Griffith had
now left him; he had no dispassionate
observer to consult, and his own desponding
passion led him to conclude
whatever was most unfavourable to
himself. Certainly there was a confidential
manner between Miss Sherwood
and these close allies, which
seemed to justify the suspicion alluded
to. More than once, when he had
joined Miss Sherwood and the captain,
the unpleasant discovery had been
forced upon him, by the sudden pause
in their conversation, that he was the
<i>one too many</i>.</p>

<p>But jealousy? Oh, no! What had
<i>he</i> to do with jealousy? For his part,
he was quite delighted with this new
attachment&mdash;quite delighted; it would
set at rest for ever the painful controversy
so often agitated in his own
breast. Nevertheless, it must be confessed
that he felt the rivalry of Captain
Garland in a very different manner
from that of Sir Frederic Beaumantle.
The baronet, by virtue of
his wealth alone, would obtain success;
and he felt a sort of bitter satisfaction
in yielding Emily to her opulent suitor.
She might marry, but she could
not love him; she might be thinking
of another, perhaps of her cousin
Reginald, even while she gave her
hand to him at the altar. But if the
gallant captain, whose handsome person,
and frank and gentlemanly manners,
formed his chief recommendation,
were to be the happy man, then
must her affections have been won,
and Emily was lost to him utterly.
And then&mdash;with the usual logic of the
passions, and forgetting the part of
silence and disguise that he had played&mdash;he
taxed her with levity and unkindness
in so soon preferring the
captain to himself. That Emily should
so soon have linked herself with a
comparative stranger! It was not
what he should have expected. &quot;At
all events,&quot; he would thus conclude
his soliloquy, &quot;I am henceforward
free&mdash;free from her bondage and from
all internal struggle. Yes! I am
free!&quot; he exclaimed, as he paced his
room triumphantly. The light voice
of Emily was heard calling on him to
accompany her in a walk. He started,
he flew. His freedom, we suppose,
gave him wings, for he was at her side
in a moment.</p>

<p>Reginald had intended, on the first
opportunity, to rally his cousin upon
her sudden attachment to the captain,
but his tongue absolutely refused the
office. He could not utter a word of
banter on the subject. His heart was
too full.</p>

<p>On this occasion, as they returned
from their walk through the park, there
happened one of those incidents which
have so often, at least in novels and
story-books, brought about the happiness
of lovers, but which in the present
instance served only to bring into
play the most painful feelings of both
parties.</p>

<p>A prize-fight had taken place in the
neighbourhood, and one of the numerous
visitors of that truly noble exhibition,
who, in order to do honour to
the day, had deprived Smithfield market
of the light of his countenance,
was returning across the park from
the scene of combat, accompanied by
his bull-dog. The dog, who doubtless
knew that his master was a trespasser,
and considered it the better
policy to assume at once the offensive,
flew at the party whom he saw
approaching. Emily was a little in
advance. Darcy rushed forward to
plant himself between her and this
ferocious assailant. He had no weapon
of defence of any kind, and, to
say truth, he had at that moment no
idea of defending himself, or any distinct
notion whatever of combating
his antagonist. The only reflection
that occurred to his mind was, that if
the animal satiated its fury upon him,
his companion would be safe. A strong
leg and a stout boot might have done
something; Darcy, stooping down,
put the fleshy part of his own arm
fairly into the bulldog's jaws; assured
that, at all events, it could not
bite two persons at the same time, and
that, if its teeth were buried in his
own arm, they could not be engaged
in lacerating Emily Sherwood. It is
the well-known nature of the bull-dog
to fasten where it once bites, and
the brute pinned Darcy to the ground,
until its owner, arriving on the spot,
extricated him from his very painful
position.</p>

<p>In this encounter, our senior wrangler
probably showed himself very
unskilful and deficient in the combat
with wild beasts, but no conduct
could have displayed a more engrossing
anxiety for the safety of his fair
companion. Most men would have
been willing to reap advantage from
the grateful sentiment which such a
conduct must inspire; Darcy, on the
contrary, seemed to have no other
wish than to disclaim all title to such
a sentiment. He would not endure
that the incident should be spoken of
with the least gravity or seriousness.</p>

<p>&quot;I pray you,&quot; said he, &quot;do not
mention this silly business again.
What I did, every living man who
had found himself by your side would
have done, and most men in a far
more dexterous manner. And, indeed,
if instead of yourself, the merest
stranger&mdash;the poorest creature in the
parish, man, woman, or child, had
been in your predicament, I think I
should have done the same.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;I know you would, Reginald. I
believe,&quot; said Emily, &quot;that if the
merest idiot had been threatened with
the danger that threatened me, you
would have interposed, and received
the attack yourself. And it is because
I believe this of you, Reginald&quot;&mdash;&mdash;</p>

<p>Something apparently impeded her
utterance, for the sentence was left
unfinished.</p>

<p>&quot;For this wound,&quot; resumed Darcy,
after a pause, and observing that
Emily's eye was resting on his arm,
&quot;it is really nothing more than a just
penalty for my own want of address
in this notable combat. You should
have had the captain with you,&quot; he
added; &quot;he would have defended
you quite as zealously, and with ten
times the skill.&quot;</p>

<p>Emily made no answer; and they
walked on in silence till they entered
the Hall. Reginald felt that he had
been ungracious; but he knew not
how to retrieve his position. Just before
they parted, Emily resuming, in
some measure, her natural and cheerful
manner, turned to her companion,
and said&mdash;&quot;Years ago, when you were
cousin Reginald, and condescended to
be my playfellow, the greatest services
you rendered were to throw me
occasionally out of the swing, or
frighten me till I screamed by putting
my pony into a most unmerciful trot;
but you were always so kind in the
<i>making up</i>, that I liked you the better
afterwards. Now, when you preserve
me, at your own hazard, from a very
serious injury&mdash;you do it in so surly a
manner&mdash;I wish the dog had bitten
me!&quot; And with this she left him and
tripped up stairs.</p>

<p>If Darcy could have followed her
into her own room, he would have
seen her throw herself into an armchair,
and burst into a flood of tears.</p>



<hr style="width: 65%;">
<h3>CHAPTER III.</h3>
<br>

<p>Miss Danvers, it has been said,
(from whatever motive her conduct
proceeded, whether from any interest
of her own, or merely a desire to serve
the interest of her friend, Captain
Garland,) showed a disposition to engross
the attentions of Sir Frederic
Beaumantle as often as he made his
appearance at Lipscombe Park. Now,
as that lady was undoubtedly of good
family, and possessed of considerable
fortune, the baronet was not a little
flattered by the interest which a person
who had these excellent qualifications
for a judge, manifestly took in
his conversation. In an equal degree
was his dignity offended at the preference
shown by Miss Sherwood for
Captain Garland, a man, as he said, but
of yesterday, and not in any one point
of view to be put in comparison with
himself. He almost resolved to
punish her levity by withdrawing his
suit. The graver manner, and somewhat
more mature age of Miss Danvers
were also qualities which he was
obliged to confess were somewhat in
her favour.</p>

<p>The result of all this was, that one
fine morning Sir Frederic Beaumantle
might have been seen walking to
and fro in his own park, with a
troubled step, bearing in his hand a
letter&mdash;most elaborately penned&mdash;carefully
written out&mdash;sealed&mdash;but not directed.
It was an explicit declaration
of his love, a solemn offer of his hand;
it was only not quite determined to
whom it should be sent. As the letter
contained very little that referred
to the lady, and consisted almost entirely
of an account, not at all disparaging,
of himself and his own good
qualities, it was easy for him to proceed
thus far upon his delicate negotiation,
although the main question&mdash;to
whom the letter was to be addressed&mdash;was
not yet decided. This letter
had indeed been a <i>labour of love</i>. It
was as little written for Miss Sherwood
as for Miss Danvers. It was
composed for the occasion whenever
that might arise; and for these ten
years past it had been lying in his
desk, receiving from time to time
fresh touches and emendations. The
necessity of making use of this epistle,
which had now attained a state of
painful perfection, we venture to say
had some share in impelling him into
matrimony. To some one it must
be sent, or how could it appear to any
advantage in those &quot;Memoirs of Sir
Frederic Beaumantle,&quot; which, some
future day, were to console the world
for his decease, and the prospect of
which (for he saw them already in
beautiful hot-pressed quarto) almost
consoled himself for the necessity of
dying? The <i>intended</i> love-letter!--this
would have an air of ridicule,
while the real declaration of Sir Frederic
Beaumantle, which would not
only adorn the Memoirs above mentioned,
but would ultimately form a
part of the &quot;History of the County of
Huntingdon.&quot; We hope ourselves, by
the way, to have the honour of editing
those Memoirs, should we be so
unfortunate as to survive Sir Frederic.</p>

<p>But we must leave our baronet with
his letter in his hand, gazing profoundly
and anxiously on the blank
left for the superscription, and must
follow the perplexities of Reginald
Darcy.</p>

<p>That good understanding which
apparently existed between Emily
and Captain Garland seemed rather
to increase than to diminish after the
little adventure we recorded in the
last chapter. It appeared that Miss
Sherwood had taken Darcy at his
word, and resolved not to think any
the more kindly of him for his conduct
on that occasion. The captain was
plainly in the ascendant. It even
appeared, from certain arrangements
that were in stealthy preparation, that
the happiness of the gallant lover
would not long be delayed. Messages
of a very suspicious purport had passed
between the Park and the vicarage.
The clerk of the parish had been seen
several times at Lipscombe. There
was something in the wind, as the
sagacious housekeeper observed; surely
her young <i>missus</i> was not going to
be married on the sly to the captain!
The same thought, however, occurred
to Darcy. Was it to escape the suit
of Sir Frederic Beaumantle, which had
been in some measure countenanced
by her father, that she had recourse
to this stratagem?&mdash;hardly worthy of
her, and quite unnecessary, as she
possessed sufficient influence with her
father to obtain his consent to any
proposal she herself was likely to approve.
Had not the state of his own
feelings made him too interested a
party to act as counsellor or mediator,
he would at once have questioned
Emily on the subject. As it was, his
lips were closed. She herself, too,
seemed resolved to make no communication
to him. The captain, a man
of frank and open nature, was far
more disposed to reveal his secret: he
was once on the point of speaking to
Darcy about his &quot;approaching marriage;&quot;
but Emily, laying her finger
on her lip, suddenly imposed silence
on him.</p>

<p>One morning, as Darcy entered
the breakfast-room, it was evident
that something unusual was about to
take place. The carriage, at this
early hour, was drawn up to the door,
and the two young ladies, both dressed
in bridal white, were stepping into
it. Before it drove off Miss Sherwood
beckoned to Darcy.</p>

<p>&quot;I have not invited you,&quot; she said,
&quot;to the ceremony, because Captain
Garland has wished it to be as private
as possible. But we shall expect your
company at breakfast, for which you
must even have the patience to wait
till we return.&quot; Without giving any
opportunity for reply, she drew up
the glass, and the carriage rolled off.</p>

<p>However Darcy might have hitherto
borne himself up by a gloomy sense
of duty, by pride, and a bitter&mdash;oh,
what bitter resignation!--when the
blow came, it utterly prostrated him.
&quot;She is gone!--lost!--Fool that I
have been!--What was this man more
than I?&quot; Stung with such reflections
as these, which were uttered in such
broken sentences, he rapidly retreated
to the library, where he knew he should
be undisturbed. He threw himself
into a chair, and planting his elbows
on the table, pressed his doubled fists,
with convulsive agony, to his brows.
All his fortitude had forsaken him:
he wept outright.</p>

<p>From this posture he was at length
aroused by a gentle pressure on his
shoulder, and a voice calling him by
his name. He raised his head: it
was Emily Sherwood, enquiring of
him, quite calmly, why he was not at
the breakfast-table. There she stood,
radiant with beauty, and in all her
bridal attire, except that she had
thrown of her bonnet, and her beautiful
hair was allowed to be free and
unconfined. Her hand was still upon
his shoulder.</p>

<p>&quot;You are married, Emily,&quot; he said,
as well as that horrible stifling sensation
in the breast would let him speak;
&quot;you are married, and I must be for
evermore a banished man. I leave
you, Emily, and this roof, for ever.
I pronounce my own sentence of exile,
for I <i>love</i> you, Emily!--and ever
shall&mdash;passionately&mdash;tenderly&mdash;love
you. Surely I may say this now&mdash;now
that it is a mere cry of anguish,
and a misery exclusively my own.
Never, never&mdash;I feel that this is no
idle raving&mdash;shall I love another&mdash;never
will this affection leave me&mdash;I
shall never have a home&mdash;never care
for another&mdash;or myself&mdash;I am alone&mdash;a
wanderer&mdash;miserable. Farewell!
I go&mdash;I know not exactly where&mdash;but
I leave this place.&quot;</p>

<p>He was preparing to quit the
room, when Emily, placing herself
before him, prevented him. &quot;And
why,&quot; said she, &quot;if you honoured me
with this affection, why was I not to
know of it till now?&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Can the heiress of Lipscombe
Park ask that question?&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Ungenerous! unjust!&quot; said Emily.
&quot;Tell me, if one who can himself feel
and act nobly, denies to another the
capability of a like disinterested
conduct&mdash;denies it rashly, pertinaciously,
without cause given for such a
judgment&mdash;is he not ungenerous and unjust?&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;To whom have I acted thus? To
whom have I been ungenerous or unjust?&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;To me, Reginald&mdash;to me! I am
wealthy, and for this reason alone you
have denied to me, it seems, the possession
of every worthy sentiment.
She has gold, you have said, let her
gold content her, and you withheld
your love. She will make much boast,
and create a burdensome obligation,
if she bestows her superfluous wealth
upon another: you resolved not to
give her the opportunity, and you
withheld your love. She has gold&mdash;she
has no heart&mdash;no old affections
that have grown from childhood&mdash;no
estimate of character: she has wealth&mdash;let
her gratify its vanity and its
caprice; and so you withheld your
love. Yes, she has gold&mdash;let her
have more of it&mdash;let her wed with
gold&mdash;with any gilded fool&mdash;she has
no need of love! This is what you
have thought, what your conduct has
implied, and it was ungenerous and
unjust.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;No, by heaven! I never thought
unworthily of you,&quot; exclaimed Darcy.</p>

<p>&quot;Had you been the wealthy cousin,
Reginald, of wealth so ample, that an
addition to it could scarcely bring an
additional pleasure, would you have
left your old friend Emily to look out
for some opulent alliance?&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Oh, no! no!&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Then, why should I?&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;I may have erred,&quot; said Darcy.
&quot;I may have thought too meanly of
myself, or nourished a misplaced
pride, but I never had a disparaging
thought of you. It seemed that I was
right&mdash;that I was fulfilling a severe&mdash;oh,
how severe a duty! Even now I
know not that I was wrong&mdash;I know
only that I am miserable. But,&quot;
added he in a calmer voice, &quot;I, at all
events, am the only sufferer. You, at
least, are happy.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Not, I think, if marriage is to
make me so. I am not married, Reginald,&quot;
she said, amidst a confusion of
smiles and blushes. &quot;Captain Garland
was married this morning to
Miss Julia Danvers, to whom he has
been long engaged, but a silly selfish
stepmother&quot;&mdash;&mdash;</p>

<p>&quot;Not married!&quot; cried Darcy, interrupting
all further explanation.&mdash;&quot;Not
married! Then you are free&mdash;then
you are&quot;&mdash;&mdash; But the old
train of thought rushed back upon his
mind&mdash;the old objections were as
strong as ever&mdash;Miss Sherwood was
still the daughter of his guardian, and
the heiress of Lipscombe Park. Instead
of completing the sentence, he
paused, and muttered something about
&quot;her father.&quot;</p>

<p>Emily saw the cloud that had come
over him. Dropping playfully, and
most gracefully, upon one knee, she
took his hand, and looking up archly
in his face, said, &quot;You love me, coz&mdash;you
have said it. Coz, will you
marry me?&mdash;for I love you.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Generous, generous girl!&quot; and
he clasped her to his bosom.</p>

<p>&quot;Let us go in,&quot; said Emily, in a
quite altered and tremulous voice,
&quot;let us join them in the other room.&quot;
And as she put her arm in his, the
little pressure said distinctly and triumphantly&mdash;&quot;He
is mine!--he is mine!&quot;</p>

<hr style="width: 45%;">

<p>We must take a parting glance into
old Mr Sherwood's room. He is
seated in his gouty chair; his daughter
stands by his side. Apparently
Emily's reasonings have almost prevailed;
she has almost persuaded the
old gentleman that Darcy is the very
son-in-law whom, above all others,
he ought to desire. For how could
Emily leave her dear father, and how
could he domicile himself with any
other husband she could choose, half
so well as with his own ward, and his
old favourite, Reginald?</p>

<p>&quot;But Sir Frederic Beaumantle,&quot;
the old gentleman replied, &quot;what is
to be said to him? and what a fine
property he has!&quot;</p>

<p>As he was speaking, the door opened,
and the party from the breakfast
table, consisting of Captain Garland,
and his bride, and Reginald, entered
the room.</p>

<p>&quot;Oh, as for Sir Frederic Beaumantle,&quot;
said she who was formerly
Miss Danvers, and now Mrs Garland,
&quot;I claim him as mine.&quot;  And forthwith
she displayed the famous declaration
of the baronet&mdash;addressed to
herself!</p>

<p>Their mirth had scarcely subsided,
when the writer of the letter himself
made his appearance. He had called
early, for he had concluded, after
much deliberation, that it was not consistent
with the ardour and impetuosity
of love, to wait till the formal
hour of visiting, in order to receive
the answer of Miss Danvers.</p>

<p>That answer the lady at once gave
by presenting Captain Garland to him
in the character of her husband. At
the same time, she returned his epistle,
and, explaining that circumstances
had compelled the captain and herself
to marry in a private and secret
manner, apologized for the mistake into
which the concealment of their engagement
had led him.</p>

<p>&quot;A mistake indeed&mdash;a mistake altogether!&quot;
exclaimed the baronet,
catching at a straw as he fell&mdash;&quot;a
mistake into which this absurd fashion
of envelopes has led us. The letter
was never intended, madam, to be enclosed
to you. It was designed for the hands&quot;&mdash;&mdash;</p>

<p>And he turned to Miss Sherwood,
who, on her part, took the arm of Reginald
with a significance of manner
which proved to him that, for the present
at least, his declaration of love
might return into his own desk, there
to receive still further emendations.</p>

<p>&quot;No wonder, Sir Frederic,&quot; said
Mr Sherwood, compassionating the
baronet's situation&mdash;&quot;no wonder your
proposal is not wanted. These young
ladies have taken their affairs into
their own hands. It is <i>Leap-Year</i>.
One of them, at least, (looking to his
daughter,) has made good use of its
privilege. The initiative, Sir Frederic,
is taken from us.&quot;</p>

<p>The baronet had nothing left but
to make his politest bow and retire.</p>

<p>&quot;Reginald, my dear boy,&quot; continued
the old gentleman, &quot;give me
your hand. Emily is right. I don't
know how I should part with her. I
will only make this bargain with you,
Reginald&mdash;that you marry us both.
You must not turn me out of doors.&quot;</p>

<p>Reginald returned the pressure of
his hand, but he could say nothing.
Mr Sherwood, however, saw his answer
in eyes that were filling involuntarily
with tears.</p>

<hr class="full" />



<a name="bw329s5" id="bw329s5"></a><h2>THE BATTLE OF THE BLOCKS.</h2>

<h3>THE PAVING QUESTION.</h3>
<br>

<p>The subject of greatest metropolitan
interest which has occurred for
many years, is the introduction of
wood paving. As the main battle
has been fought in London, and nothing
but a confused report of the
great object in dispute may have penetrated
beyond the sound of Bow
bells, we think it will not be amiss to
put on record, in the imperishable
brass and marble of our pages, an
account of the mighty struggle&mdash;of
the doughty champions who couched
the lance and drew the sword in the
opposing ranks&mdash;and, finally, to what
side victory seems to incline on this
beautiful 1st of May in the year
1843.</p>

<p>Come, then, to our aid, oh ye heavenly
Muses! who enabled Homer to
sing in such persuasive words the fates
of Troy and of its wooden horse; for
surely a subject which is so deeply
connected both with wood and horses,
is not beneath your notice; but perhaps,
as poetry is gone out of fashion
at the present time, you will depute
one of your humbler sisters, rejoicing
in the name of Prose, to give us a few
hints in the composition of our great
history. The name of the first pavier,
we fear, is unknown, unless we
could identify him with Triptolemus,
who was a great improver of Rhodes;
but it is the fate of all the greatest
benefactors of their kind to be neglected,
and in time forgotten. The first
regularly defined paths were probably
footways&mdash;the first carriages broad-wheeled.
No record remains of what
materials were used for filling up the
ruts; so it is likely, in those simple
times when enclosure acts were unknown,
that the cart was seldom taken
in the same track. As houses were
built, and something in the shape of
streets began to be established, the
access to them must have been more
attended to. A mere smoothing of the
inequalities of the surface over which
the oxen had to be driven, that brought
the grain home on the enormous
<i>plaustra</i> of the husbandman, was the
first idea of a street, whose very name
is derived from <i>stratum</i>, levelled.
As experience advanced, steps would
be taken to prevent the softness of the
road from interrupting the draught.
A narrow rim of stone, just wide
enough to sustain the wheel, would,
in all probability, be the next improvement;
and only when the gentle operations
of the farm were exchanged
for war, and the charger had to be
hurried to the fight, with all the equipments
necessary for an army, great
roads were laid open, and covered
with hard materials to sustain the
wear and tear of men and animals.
Roads were found to be no less necessary
to retain a conquest than to
make it; and the first true proof of
the greatness of Rome was found in
the long lines of military ways, by
which she maintained her hold upon
the provinces. You may depend on
it, that no expense was spared in
keeping the glorious street that led
up her Triumphs to the Capitol in excellent
repair. All the nations of the
<i>Orbis Antiquus</i> ought to have trembled
when they saw the beginning of
the Appian road. It led to Britain
and Persia, to Carthage and the White
Sea. The Britons, however, in ancient
days, seem to have been about the
stupidest and least enterprising of all
the savages hitherto discovered. After
an intercourse of four hundred years
with the most polished people in the
world, they continued so miserably
benighted, that they had not even
acquired masonic knowledge enough
to repair a wall. The rampart raised
by their Roman protectors between
them and the Picts and Scots, became
in some places dilapidated. The unfortunate
natives had no idea how to
mend the breach, and had to send
once more for their auxiliaries. If
such their state in regard to masonry,
we cannot suppose that their skill in
road-making was very great; and yet
we are told that, even on C&aelig;sar's invasion,
the Britons careered about in
war-chariots, which implies both good
roads and some mechanical skill; but
we think it a little too much in historians
to ask us to believe BOTH these
views of the condition of our predecessors
in the tight little island; for it
is quite clear that a people who had
arrived at the art of coach-making,
could not be so very ignorant as not
to know how to build a wall. If it
were not for the letters of Cicero, we
should not believe a syllable about the
war-chariots that carried amazement
into the hearts of the Romans, even
in Kent or Surrey. But we here boldly
declare, that if twenty Ciceros were
to make their affidavits to the fact of
a set of outer barbarians, like Galgacus
and his troops, &quot;sweeping their
fiery lines on rattling wheels&quot; up and
down the Grampians&mdash;where, at a
later period, a celebrated shepherd fed
his flocks&mdash;we should not believe a
word of their declaration. Tacitus,
in the same manner, we should prosecute
for perjury.</p>

<p>The Saxons were a superior race,
and when the eightsome-reel of the
heptarchy became the <i>pas-seul</i> of
the kingdom of England, we doubt
not that Watling Street was kept in
passable condition, and that Alfred,
amidst his other noble institutions,
invented a highway rate. The fortresses
and vassal towns of the barons,
after the Conquest, must have covered
the country with tolerable cross-roads;
and even the petty wars of those steel-clad
marauders must have had a good
effect in opening new communications.
For how could Sir Reginald Front-de-B&oelig;uf,
or Sir Hildebrand Bras-de-Fer,
carry off the booty of their discomfited
rival to their own granaries without
loaded tumbrils, and roads fit to pass
over?</p>

<p>Nor would it have been wise in rich
abbots and fat monks to leave their
monasteries and abbeys inaccessible to
pious pilgrims, who came to admire
thigh-bones of martyred virgins and
skulls of beatified saints, and paid
very handsomely for the exhibition.
Finally, trade began, and paviers
flourished. The first persons of that
illustrious profession appear, from the
sound of the name, to have been
French, unless we take the derivation
of a cockney friend of ours, who maintains
that the origin of the word is not
the French <i>pav&eacute;</i>, but the indigenous
English pathway. However that may
be, we are pretty sure that paving was
known as one of the fine arts in the
reign of Queen Elizabeth; for, not to
mention the anecdote of Raleigh and
his cloak&mdash;which could only happen
where puddles formed the exception
and not the rule&mdash;we read of Essex's
horse stumbling on a paving-stone in
his mad ride to his house in the Strand.
We also prove, from Shakspeare's
line&mdash;</p>

<div class="blkquot"><p>&quot;The very stones would rise in mutiny&quot;&mdash;</p></div>

<p>the fact of stones forming the main
body of the streets in his time; for it
is absurd to suppose that he was so
rigid an observer of the unities as to
pay the slightest respect to the state
of paving in the time of Julius C&aelig;sar
at Rome.</p>

<p>Gradually London took the lead in
improving its ways. It was no longer
necessary for the fair and young to be
carried through the mud upon costly
pillions, on the backs of high-stepping
Flanders mares. Beauty rolled over
the stones in four-wheeled carriages,
and it did not need more than half-a-dozen
running footmen&mdash;the stoutest
that could be found&mdash;to put their
shoulders occasionally to the wheel,
and help the eight black horses to
drag the ponderous vehicle through
the heavier parts of the road. Science
came to the aid of beauty in these distressing
circumstances. Springs were
invented that yielded to every jolt;
and, with the aid of cushions, rendered
a visit to Highgate not much more
fatiguing than we now find the journey
to Edinburgh. Luxury went on&mdash;wealth
flowed in&mdash;paviers were
encouraged&mdash;coach-makers grew great
men&mdash;and London, which our ancestors
had left mud, was now stone.
Year after year the granite quarries
of Aberdeen poured themselves out
on the streets of the great city, and a
million and a half of people drove, and
rode, and bustled, and bargained, and
cheated, and throve, in the midst of a
din that would have silenced the artillery
of Trafalgar, and a mud which,
if turned into bricks, would have built
the tower of Babel. The citizens
were now in possession of the &quot;fumum
et opes strepitumque Rom&aelig;;&quot; but
some of the more quietly disposed,
though submitting patiently to the
&quot;fumum,&quot; and by no means displeased
with the &quot;opes,&quot; thought the &quot;strepitumque&quot;
could be dispensed with, and
plans of all kinds were proposed for
obviating the noise and other inconveniences
of granite blocks. Some
proposed straw, rushes, sawdust; ingenuity
was at a stand-still; and
London appeared to be condemned to
a perpetual atmosphere of smoke and
sound. It is pleasant to look back on
difficulties, when overcome&mdash;the best
illustration of which is Columbus's
egg; for, after convincing the sceptic,
there can be no manner of doubt that
he swallowed the yelk and white,
leaving the shell to the pugnacious
disputant. In the same way we look
with a pleasing kind of pity on the
quandaries of those whom we shall
call&mdash;with no belief whatever in the
pre-Adamite theory&mdash;the pre-Macadamites.</p>

<p>A man of talent and enterprise, Mr
Macadam, proposed a means of getting
quit of one of the objections to the
granite causeways. By breaking them
up into small pieces, and spreading
them in sufficient quantity, he proved
that a continuous hard surface would
be formed, by which the uneasy jerks
from stone to stone would be avoided,
and the expense, if not diminished, at
all events not materially increased.
When the proposition was fairly
brought before the public, it met the
fate of all innovations. Timid people&mdash;the
very persons, by the by, who
had been the loudest in their exclamations
against the ancient causeways&mdash;became
alarmed the moment
they saw a chance of getting quit of
them. As we never know the value
of a thing till we have lost it, their
attachment to stone and noise became
more intense in proportion as the certainty
of being deprived of them became
greater. It was proved to the
satisfaction of all rational men, if Mr
Macadam's experiment succeeded, and
a level surface were furnished to the
streets, that, besides noise, many other
disadvantages of the rougher mode of
paving would be avoided. Among
these the most prominent was slipperiness;
and it was impossible to be denied,
that at many seasons of the
year, not only in frost, when every
terrestrial pathway must be unsafe;
but in the dry months of summer, the
smooth surfaces of the blocks of granite,
polished and rounded by so many
wheels, were each like a convex mass
of ice, and caused unnumbered falls to
the less adroit of the equestrian portion
of the king's subjects. One of
the most zealous advocates of the
improvement was the present Sir
Peter Laurie, not then elevated to a
seat among the Equites, but imbued
probably with a foreknowledge of his
knighthood, and therefore anxious for
the safety of his horse. Sir Peter
was determined, in all senses of the
word, to <i>leave no stone unturned</i>; and
a very small mind, when directed to
one object with all its force, has more
effect than a large mind unactuated
by the same zeal&mdash;as a needle takes a
sharper point than a sword. Thanks,
therefore, are due, in a great measure,
to the activity and eloquence of the
worthy alderman for the introduction
of Macadam's system of road-making
into the city.</p>

<p>Many evils were certainly got rid
of by this alteration&mdash;the jolting motion
from stone to stone&mdash;the slipperiness
and unevenness of the road&mdash;and
the chance, in case of an accident, of
contesting the hardness of your skull
with a mass of stone, which seemed as
if it were made on purpose for knocking
out people's brains. For some
time contentment sat smiling over the
city. But, as &quot;man never is, but always
to be, blest,&quot; perfect happiness
appeared not to be secured even by
Macadam. Ruts began to be formed&mdash;rain
fell, and mud was generated at
a prodigious rate; repairs were needed,
and the road for a while was rough
and almost impassable. Then it was
found out that the change had only
led to a different <i>kind</i> of noise, instead
of destroying it altogether; and
the perpetual grinding of wheels, sawing
their way through the loose stones
at the top, or ploughing through the
wet foundation, was hardly an improvement
on the music arising from
the jolts and jerks along the causeway.
Men's minds got confused in
the immensity of the uproar, and
deafness became epidemic. In winter,
the surface of Macadam formed
a series of little lakes, resembling on
a small scale those of Canada; in
summer, it formed a Sahara of dust,
prodigiously like the great desert.
Acres of the finest alluvial clay
floated past the shops in autumn; in
spring, clouds of the finest sand were
wafted among the goods, and penetrated
to every drawer and wareroom.
And high over all, throughout all the
main highways of commerce&mdash;the
Strand&mdash;Fleet Street&mdash;Oxford Street&mdash;Holborn&mdash;raged
a storm of sound,
that made conversation a matter of extreme
difficulty without such stentorian
an effort as no ordinary lungs could
make. As the inhabitants of Abdera
went about sighing from morning to
night, &quot;Love! love!&quot; so the persecuted
dwellers in the great thoroughfares
wished incessantly for cleanliness!
smoothness! silence!</p>

<p>&quot;Abra was present when they
named her name,&quot; and, after a few
gropings after truth&mdash;a few experiments
that ended in nothing&mdash;a voice
was heard in the city, that streets
could be paved with wood. This was
by no means a discovery in itself; for
in many parts of the country ingenious
individuals had laid down wooden
floors upon their farm-yards; and, in
other lands, it was a very common
practice to use no other material for
their public streets. But, in London,
it was new; and all that was wanted,
was science to use the material (at
first sight so little calculated to bear
the wear and tear of an enormous
traffic) in the most eligible manner.
The first who commenced an actual
piece of paving was a Mr Skead&mdash;a
perfectly simple and inartificial system,
which it was soon seen was
doomed to be superseded. His blocks
were nothing but pieces of wood of a
hexagon shape&mdash;with no cohesion,
and no foundation&mdash;so that they trusted
each to its own resources to resist
the pressure of a wheel, or the blow
of a horse's hoof; and, as might have
been foreseen, they became very uneven
after a short use, and had no
recommendation except their cheapness
and their exemption from noise.
The fibre was vertical, and at first no
grooves were introduced; they, of
course, became rounded by wearing
away at the edge, and as slippery as
the ancient granite. The Metropolitan
Company took warning from the
defects of their predecessor, and
adopted the patent of a scientific
French gentleman of the name of
De Lisle. The combination of the
blocks is as elaborate as the structure
of a ship of war, and yet perfectly
easy, being founded on correct mechanical
principles, and attaining the
great objects required&mdash;viz. smoothness,
durability, and quiet. The
blocks, which are shaped at such an
angle that they give the most perfect
mutual support, are joined to each
other by oaken dowels, and laid on a
hard concrete foundation, presenting
a level surface, over which the impact
is so equally divided, that the
whole mass resists the pressure on
each particular block; and yet, from
being formed in panels of about a
yard square, they are laid down or
lifted up with far greater ease than
the causeway. Attention was immediately
attracted to this invention,
and all efforts have hitherto been vain
to improve on it. Various projectors
have appeared&mdash;some with concrete
foundations, some with the blocks attached
to each other, not by oak
dowels, but by being alternately concave
and convex at the side; but this
system has the incurable defect of
wearing off at the edges, where the
fibre of the wood, of course, is weakest,
and presents a succession of bald-pated
surfaces, extremely slippery,
and incapable of being permanently
grooved. A specimen of this will be
often referred to in the course of this
account, being that which has attained
such an unenviable degree of notoriety
in the Poultry. Other inventors
have shown ingenuity and
perseverance; but the great representative
of wooden paving we take
to be the Metropolitan Company, and
we proceed to a narrative of the attacks
it has sustained, and the struggles
it has gone through.</p>

<p>So long ago as July 1839, the inventor
explained to a large public
meeting of noblemen and men of
science, presided over by the Duke of
Sussex, the principle of his discovery.
It consisted in a division of the cube,
or, as he called it, the stereotomy of
the cube. After observing, that
&quot;although the cube was the most regular
of all solid bodies, and the most
learned men amongst the Greeks and
other nations had occupied themselves
to ascertain and measure its
proportions, he said it had never
hitherto been regarded as a body, to
be anatomized or explored in its internal
parts. Some years ago, it had
occurred to a French mathematician
that the cube was divisible into six
pyramidical forms; and it therefore
had struck him, the inventor, that the
natural formation of that figure was
by a combination of those forms.
Having detailed to his audience a
number of experiments, and shown
how the results thereby obtained accorded
with mathematical principles,
he proceeded to explain the various
purposes to which diagonal portions
of the cube might be applied. By
cutting the body in half, and then dividing
the half in a diagonal direction,
he obtained a figure&mdash;namely, a
quarter of the cube&mdash;in which, he observed,
the whole strength or power
of resistance of the entire body resided;
and he showed the application
of these sections of the cube to the
purposes of paving by wood.&quot; Such
is the first meagre report of the
broaching of a scientific system of
paving; and, with the patronage of
such men of rank and eminence as
took an interest in the subject, the
progress was sure and rapid.</p>

<p>In December 1839, about 1100
square yards were laid down in Whitehall,
and a triumph was never more
complete; for since that period it has
continued as smooth and level as when
first it displaced the Macadam; it has
never required repair, and has been a
small basis of peace and quietness,
amidst a desert of confusion and turmoil.
Since that time, about sixty
thousand yards in various parts of
London, being about three-fourths of
all the pavement hitherto introduced,
attest the public appreciation of the
Metropolitan Company's system. It
may be interesting to those who watch
the progress of great changes, to particularize
the operations (amounting
in the aggregate to forty thousand
yards) that were carried out upon this
system in 1842:&mdash;</p>

<div class="blkquot">
St Giles's, Holborn<br>
Foundling Estate<br>
Hammersmith Bridge<br>
St Andrew's, Holborn<br>
Jermyn Street<br>
Old Bailey<br>
Piccadilly<br>
Newgate Street, eastern end<br>
Southampton Street<br>
Lombard Street<br>
Oxford Street<br>
Regent Street;<br>
</div>

<p>besides several noblemen's court-yards,
such as the Dukes of Somerset and
Sutherland's, and a great number of
stables, for which it is found peculiarly
adapted.</p>

<p>The other projectors have specimens
principally in the Strand; that
near the Golden Cross, being by Mr
Skead; that near Coutts's Bank, Mr
Saunders; at St Giles's Church, in
Holborn, Mr Rankin; and in the
city, at Gracechurch Street, Cornhill,
and the Poultry, Mr Cary. The
Poultry is a short space lying between
Cheapside and the Mansion-house,
consisting altogether of only 378
square yards. It lies in a hollow, as
if on purpose to receive the river of
mud which rolls its majestic course
from the causeway on each side. The
traffic on it, though not fast, is perpetual,
and the system from the first
was faulty. In addition to these
drawbacks, its cleansing was totally
neglected; and on all these accounts,
it offered an excellent point of attack
to any person who determined to signalize
himself by preaching a crusade
against wood. Preachers, thank heaven!
are seldom wanted; and on this
occasion the part of Peter the Hermit
was undertaken by Peter the Knight;
for our old acquaintance, the opponent
of causeways, the sworn enemy to
granite, the favourer of Macadam,
had worn the chain of office; had had
his ears tickled for a whole year by
the magic word, my lord, was as
much of a knight as Sir Amadis de
Gaul, and much more of an alderman;
had been a great dispenser of
justice, and sometimes a dispenser
with law; had made himself a name,
before which that of the Curtises and
Waithmans grew pale; and, above all,
was at that very moment in want of a
grievance. Sir Peter Laurie gave
notice of a motion on the subject of
the Poultry. People began to think
something had gone wrong with the
chickens, or that Sir Robert had laid
a high duty on foreign eggs. The
alarm spread into Norfolk, and affected
the price of turkeys. Bantams fell
in value, and barn-door fowls were a
drug. In the midst of all these fears,
it began to be whispered about, that if
any chickens were concerned in the
motion, it was Cary's chickens; and
that the attack, though nominally on
the hen-roost, was in reality on the
wood. It was now the depth of
winter; snowy showers were succeeded
by biting frosts; the very smoothness
of the surface of the wooden
pavement was against it; for as no
steps were taken to prevent slipperiness,
by cleansing or sanding the
street&mdash;or better still, perhaps, by
roughing the horses' shoes, many
tumbles took place on this doomed
little portion of the road; and some of
the city police, having probably, in the
present high state of English morals,
little else to do, were employed to
count the falls. Armed with a list of
these accidents, which grew in exact
proportion to the number of people
who saw them&mdash;(for instance, if three
people separately reported, &quot;a grey
horse down in the Poultry,&quot; it did
duty for three grey horses)&mdash;Sir Peter
opened the business of the day, at a
meeting of the Commissioners of
Sewers for the City of London, on the
14th of February 1843. Mr Alderman
Gibbs was in the chair. Sir
Peter, on this occasion, transcended
his usual efforts; he was inspired with
the genius of his subject, and was as
great a specimen of slip-slop as the
streets themselves. He requested a
petition to be read, signed by a Mr
Gray, and a considerable number of
other jobmasters and livery stable-keepers,
against wood pavement; and,
as it formed the text on which he
spoke, we quote it entire:&mdash;</p>

<div class="blkquot"><p>&quot;To the Commissioners of Sewers&mdash;

<p>&quot;The humble memorial of your
memorialists, humbly showeth,&mdash;That
in consequence of the introduction of
wood pavements into the City of London,
in lieu of granite, a very great
number of accidents have occurred;
and in drawing a comparison between
the two from observations made, it is
found where one accident happened
on the granite pavement, that ten at
least took place upon the wood. Your
memorialists therefore pray, that, in
consequence of the wood pavement
being so extremely dangerous to travel
over, you would be pleased to
take the matter into your serious consideration,
and cause it to be removed;
by doing which you will, in the first
place, be removing a great and dangerous
nuisance; and, secondly, you
will be setting a beneficial and humane
example to other metropolitan
districts.&quot;</p></div>

<p>Mr Gray, in addition to the memorial,
begged fully to corroborate its
statements, and said that he had himself
twice been thrown out by the falling
of his horse on the wood, and had
broken his shafts both times. As he
did not allude to his legs and arms, we
conclude they escaped uninjured; and
the only effect created by his observation,
seemed to be a belief that his
horse was probably addicted to falling,
and preferred the wood to the rough
and hard angles of the granite. Immediately
after the reading of the
stablemen's memorial, a petition was
introduced in favour of wood pavement
from Cornhill, signed by all the
inhabitants of that wealthy and flourishing
district, and, on the principles
of fair play, we transcribe it as a pendant
to the other:&mdash;</p>

<p>&quot;Your petitioners, the undersigned
inhabitants of the ward of Cornhill
and Birchen Lane, beg again to bring
before you their earnest request, that
that part of Cornhill which is still
paved with granite, and also Birchen
Lane, may now be paved with wood.</p>

<p>&quot;Your petitioners are well aware
that many complaints have been received
of the wood paving in the
Poultry; but they beg to submit to
you that no reports which have been,
or which may be made, of the accidents
which have occurred on that
small spot, should be considered as
in any way illustrative of the merits
of the general question. From its
minuteness, and its slope at both extremities,
it is constantly covered with
slippery mud from the granite at each
end; and that, together with the sudden
transition from one sort of paving
to another, causes the horses continually
to stumble on that spot. Your
petitioners therefore submit that no
place could have been selected for
experiment so ill adapted to show a
fair result. Since your petitioners
laid their former petition before you,
they have ascertained, by careful examination
and enquiry, that in places
where wood paving has been laid
down continuously to a moderate
extent&mdash;viz. in Regent Street, Jermyn
Street, Holborn, Oxford Street, the
Strand, Coventry Street, and Lombard
Street&mdash;it has fully effected all
that was expected from it; it has freed
the streets from the distracting nuisance
of incessant noise, has diminished
mud, increased the value of property,
and given full satisfaction to the inhabitants.
Your petitioners, therefore,
beg to urge upon you most
strongly a compliance with their request,
which they feel assured would
be a further extension of a great public
good.&quot;</p>

<p>In addition to the petition, Mr
Fernie, who presented it, stated &quot;that
the inhabitants (whom he represented)
had satisfied themselves of the advantages
of wood paving before they
wished its adoption at their own doors.
That enquiries had been made of the
inhabitants of streets in the enjoyment
of wood paving, and they all
approved of it; and said, that nothing
would induce them to return to the
old system of stone; that they were
satisfied the number of accidents had
not been greater on the wood than
they had been on the granite; and
that they were of a much less serious
character and extent.&quot;</p>

<p>Sir Peter on this applied a red silk
handkerchief to his nose; wound
three blasts on that wild horn, as if to
inspire him for the charge; and rushed
into the middle of the fight. His
first blow was aimed at Mr Prosser,
the secretary of the Metropolitan
Company, who had stated that in
Russia, where wooden pavements were
common, a sprinkling of pitch and
strong sand had prevented the possibility
of slipping. Orlando Furioso
was a peaceful Quaker compared to
the infuriate Laurie. &quot;The admission
of Mr Prosser,&quot; he said, &quot;proves
that, without pitch and sand, wood
pavements are impassable;&quot; and fearful
was it to see the prodigious vigour
with which the Prosser with two <i>s</i>'s,
was pressed and assaulted by the Proser
with only one. Wonder took possession
of the assemblage, at the catalogue
of woes the impassioned orator
had collected as the results of this
most dangerous and murderous contrivance.
An old woman had been
run over by an omnibus&mdash;all owing
to wood; a boy had been killed by a
cab&mdash;all owing to wood; and it seemed
never to have occurred to the
speaker, in his anti-silvan fury, that
boy's legs are occasionally broken by
unruly cabs, and poles of omnibuses
run into the backs of unsuspecting
elderly gentlemen on the roads which
continue under the protecting influence
of granite or Macadam. He
had seen horses fall on the wooden
pavements in all directions; he had
seen a troop of dragoons, in the midst
of the frost, dismount and lead their
un-roughed horses across Regent
Street; the Recorder had gone round
by the squares to avoid the wooden
districts; one lady had ordered her
coachman to stick constantly to stone;
and another, when she required to go
to Regent Street, dismissed her carriage
and walked. The thanks he had
received for his defence of granite
were innumberable; an omnibus would
not hold the compliments that had
been paid him for his efforts against
wood; and, as Lord Shaftesbury had
expressed his obligations to him on
the subject, he did not doubt that if
the matter came before the House of
Lords, he would bestow the degree of
attention on it which his lordship bestowed
on all matters of importance.
Working himself us as he drew near
his peroration, he broke out into a
blaze of eloquence which put the Lord
Mayor into some fear on account of
the Thames, of which he is official
conservator. &quot;The thing cannot
last!&quot; he exclaimed; &quot;and if you don't,
in less than two years from this time,
say I am a true prophet, put me on
seven years' allowance.&quot; What the
meaning of this latter expression may
be, we cannot divine. It seems to us
no very severe punishment to be forced
to receive the allowance of seven
years instead of one, the only explanation
we can think of is, that it contains
some delicate allusion to the
dietary of gentlemen who are supposed
to be visiting one of the colonies in
New Holland, but in reality employ
themselves in aquatic amusements in
Portsmouth and Plymouth harbour
&quot;for the space of seven long years&quot;&mdash;and
are not supposed to fare in so
sumptuous a manner as the aldermen
of the city of London.</p>

<p>&quot;The poor horses,&quot; he proceeded,
&quot;that are continually tumbling down
on the wood pavement, cannot send
their representatives, but I will represent
them here whenever I have the
opportunity&quot;&mdash;(a horse laugh, as if
from the orator's constituents, was excited
by this sally.) &quot;But, gentlemen,
besides the danger of this atrocious
system, we ought to pay a little
attention to the expense. I maintain
you have no right to make the inhabitants
of those streets to which there
is no idea of extending the wood paving,
pay for the ease and comfort, as
it is called, of persons residing in the
larger thoroughfares, such as Newgate
Street and Cheapside. But the promoters
say, 'Oh I but we will have
the whole town paved with it'&mdash;(hear,
hear.) What would this cost? A
friend of mine has made some calculations
on this point, and he finds that,
to pave the whole town with wood, an
outlay of twenty-four millions of money
must be incurred!&quot;</p>

<p>It was generally supposed in the
meeting that the friend here alluded
to was either Mr Joseph Hume or the
ingenious gentleman who furnished
Lord Stanley with the statistics of the
wheat-growing districts of Tamboff.
It was afterwards discovered to be a
Mr Cocker Munchausen.</p>

<p>Twenty-four millions of money!
and all to be laid out on wood! The
thought was so immense that it nearly
choked the worthy orator, and he
could not proceed for some time.
When at last, by a great effort, he recovered
the thread of his discourse, he
became pathetic about the fate of one
of the penny-post boys, (a relation&mdash;&quot;we
guess&quot;&mdash;of the deceased H.
Walker, Esq. of the Twopenny Post,)&mdash;who
had broken his leg on the
wooden pavement. The authorities
had ordered the lads to avoid the wood
in future. For all these reasons, Sir
Peter concluded his speech with a
motion, &quot;That the wood pavement
in the Poultry is dangerous and inconvenient
to the public, and ought to
be taken up and replaced with granite
pavement.&quot;</p>

<div class="blkquot">
&quot;As in a theatre the eyes of men,<br>
After some well-graced actor leaves the stage,<br>
Are idly bent on him who enters next<br>
Thinking his prattle to be tedious,<br>
Even so, or with more scorn, men's eyes<br>
Were turned on&mdash;&mdash;Mr Deputy Godson!&quot;<br>
</div>

<p>The benevolent reader may have
observed that the second fiddle is generally
a little louder and more sharp
set than the first. On this occasion
that instrument was played upon by the
worthy deputy, to the amazement of
all the connoisseurs in that species of
music in which he and his leader are
known to excel. From his speech it
was gathered that he represented a
district which has been immortalized
by the genius of the author of Tom
Thumb; and in the present unfortunate
aspect of human affairs, when a
comet is brandishing its tail in the
heavens, and O'Connell seems to have
been deprived of his upon earth&mdash;when
poverty, distress, rebellion, and
wooden pavements, are threatening
the very existence of <i>Great</i> Britain,
it is consolotary to reflect that under
the guardianship of Deputy Godson
<i>Little</i> Britain is safe; for he is resolved
to form a cordon of granite round
it, and keep it free from the contamination
of Norway pines or Scottish
fir. &quot;I have been urged by my constituents,&quot;
he says, &quot;to ask for wood
pavement in Little Britain; but I am
adverse to it, as I think wood paving
is calculated to produce the greatest
injury to the public.</p>

<p>&quot;I have seen twenty horses down
on the wood pavement together&mdash;(laughter.)
I am here to state what
I have seen. I have seen horses down
on the wood pavement, twenty at a
time&mdash;(renewed laughter.) I say, and
with great deference, that we are in
the habit of conferring favours when
we ought to withhold them. I think
gentlemen ought to pause before they
burden the consolidated rate with those
matters, and make the poor inhabitants
of the City pay for the fancies of
the wealthy members of Cornhill and
the Poultry. We ought to deal even-handed
justice, and not introduce into
the City, and that at a great expense,
a pavement that is dirty, stinking, and
everything that is bad.&quot;&mdash;(laughter.)</p>

<p>In Pope's Homer's Iliad, it is very
distressing to the philanthropic mind
to reflect on the feelings that must agitate
the bosom of Mr Deputy Thersites
when Ajax passes by. In the
British Parliament it is a melancholy
sight to see the countenance of some
unfortunate orator when Sir Robert
Peel rises to reply, with a smile of awful
import on his lips, and a subdued
cannibal expression of satisfaction in
his eyes. Even so must it have been
a harrowing spectacle to observe the
effects of the answer of Mr R.L.
Jones, who rose for the purpose of
moving the previous question. He
said, &quot;I thought the worthy alderman
who introduced this question would
have attempted to support himself by
bringing some petitions from citizens
against wood paving&mdash;(hear.) He
has not done so, and I may observe,
that from not one of the wards where
wood pavement has been laid down
has there been a petition to take any
of the wood pavement up. What the
mover of these resolutions has done,
has been to travel from one end of the
town to the other, to prove to you that
wood paving is bad in principle. Has
that been established?&mdash;(Cries of 'no,
no.') I venture to say they have not
established any thing of the kind. All
that has been done is this&mdash;it has been
shown that wood pavement, which is
comparatively a recent introduction,
has not yet been brought to perfection&mdash;(hear,
hear.) Now, every one
knows that complaints have always
been made against every new principle,
till it has been brought to perfection.
Look, for instance, at the
steam-engine. How vastly different
it now is, with the improvements which
science has effected, from what it was
when it was first introduced to the
notice of the world! Wherever wood
pavement has been laid down, it has
been approved of. All who have enjoyed
the advantage of its extension,
acknowledge the comfort derived
from it. Sir Peter Laurie asserts
that he is continually receiving thanks
for his agitation about wood paving,
and that an omnibus would not hold
the compliments he receives at the
West End. Now, I can only say,
that I find the contrary to be the case;
and every body who meets me exclaims,
'Good God! what can Sir
Peter Laurie be thinking about, to try
and get the wood paving taken up,
and stone paving substituted?' So far
from thanking Sir Peter, every body
is astonished at him. The wood
pavement has not been laid down
nearly three years, and I say here, in
the face of the Commission, that there
have not been ten blocks taken up;
but had granite been put down, I will
venture to say that it would, during
the same period, have been taken up
six or seven times. Your books
will prove it, that the portion of
granite pavement in the Poultry was
taken up six or seven times during a
period of three years. When the wood
paving becomes a little slippery, go to
your granite heaps which belong to
this commission, or to your fine sifted
cinder heaps, and let that be strewed
over the surface; that contains no
earthy particles, and will, when it becomes
imbedded in the wood, form
such a surface that there cannot be
any possibility be any slipperiness&mdash;(hear,
hear!) Do we not pursue this
course in frosty weather even with
our own stone paving? There used
to be, before this plan was adopted,
not a day pass but you would in frosty
weather see two, three, four, and
even five or six horses down together
on the stone paving&mdash;('Oh! oh!' from
Mr Deputy Godson.) My friend may
cry 'oh! oh!' but I mean to say that
this assertion is not so incongruous as
the statement of my friend, that he
saw twenty horses down at once on
the wood pavement in Newgate Street,
(laughter.) I may exclaim with my
worthy friend the deputy on my left,
who lives in Newgate Street, 'When
the devil did it happen? I never heard
of it.' I stand forward in support of
wood paving as a great public principle,
because I believe it to be most
useful and advantageous to the public;
which is proved by the fact, that the
public at large are in favour of it. If
we had given notice that this court
would be open to hear the opinions of
the citizens of London on the subject
of wood paving, I am convinced that
the number of petitions in its favour
would have been so great, that the
doors would not have been sufficiently
wide to have received them.&quot;</p>

<p>Mr Jones next turned his attention
to the arithmetical statements of Sir
Peter; and a better specimen of what
in the Scotch language is called a
stramash, it has never been our good
fortune to meet with:&mdash;</p>

<p>&quot;We have been told by the worthy
knight who introduced this motion,
that to pave London with wood would
cost twenty-four millions of money.
Now, it so happens that, some time
since, I directed the city surveyor to
obtain for me a return of the number
of square yards of paving-stone there
are throughout all the streets in this
city. I hold that return in my hand;
and I find there are 400,000 yards,
which, at fifteen shillings per yard,
would not make the cost of wood paving
come to twenty-four millions of
money; no, gentlemen, nor to four
millions, nor to three, nor even to one
million&mdash;why, the cost, gentlemen,
dwindles down from Sir Peter's twenty-four
millions to &pound;300,000&mdash;(hear,
hear, and laughter.)</p>

<p>&quot;If I go into Fore Street I find every
body admiring the wood pavement.
If I go on Cornhill I find the same&mdash;and
all the great bankers in Lombard
Street say, 'What a delightful thing
this wood paving is! Sir Peter Laurie
must be mad to endeavour to deprive
us of it.' I told them not to be
alarmed, for they might depend on it
the good sense of this court would not
allow so great and useful an improvement
in street paving to retrograde in
the manner sought to be effected by
this revolution. I shall content myself
with moving the previous question&quot;&mdash;(cheers.)</p>

<p>It is probable that Mr Jones, in
moving the previous question, contented
himself a mighty deal more than
he did Sir Peter; and the triumph
of the woodites was increased when Mr
Pewtress seconded the amendment:&mdash;</p>

<p>&quot;If there is any time of the year
when the wood pavement is more dangerous
than another, probably the
most dangerous is when the weather
is of the damp, muggy, and foggy character
which has been prevailing;
and when all pavements are remarkably
slippery. The worthy knight
has shown great tact in choosing his
time for bringing this matter before
the public. We have had three or
four weeks weather of the most extraordinary
description I ever remember;
not frosty nor wet, but damp and slippery;
so that the granite has been
found so inconvenient to horses, that
they have not been driven at the common
and usual pace. And I am free
to confess that, under the peculiar
state of the atmosphere to which I
have alluded, the wood pavement is
more affected than the granite pavement.
But in ordinary weather there
is very little difference. I am satisfied
that, if the danger and inconvenience
were as great as the worthy knight
has represented, we should have had
applications against the pavement;
but all the applications we have had
on the subject have been in favour of
the extension of wood pavement.&quot;</p>

<p>The speaker then takes up the
ground, that as wood, as a material for
paving, is only recently introduced, it
is natural that vested interests should
be alarmed, and that great misapprehension
should exist as to its nature
and merits. On this subject he introduces
an admirable illustration:&mdash;&quot;In
the early part of my life I remember
attending a lecture&mdash;when gas was
first introduced&mdash;by Mr Winson. The
lecture was delivered in Pall-Mall, and
the lecturer proposed to demonstrate
that the introduction of gas would be
destructive of life and property. I
attended that lecture, and I never
came away from a public lecture more
fully convinced of any thing than I did
that he had proved his position. He
produced a quantity of gas, and placed
a receiver on the table. He had with
him some live birds, as well as some
live mice and rabbits; and, introducing
some gas into the receiver, he put one
of the animals in it. In a few minutes
life was extinct, and in this way he
deprived about half a dozen of these
animals of their life. 'Now, gentlemen,'
said the lecturer, 'I have
proved to you that gas is destructive
to life; I will now show you that it is
destructive to property.' He had a
little pasteboard house, and said, 'I will
suppose that it is lighted up with gas,
and from the carelessness of the servant
the stopcock of the burner has
been so turned off as to allow an escape
of gas, and that it has escaped
and filled the house.' Having let the
gas into the card house, he introduced
a light and blew it up. 'Now,' said
he, 'I think I have shown you that
it is not only destructive to life and
property; but that, if it is introduced
into the metropolis, it will be blown up
by it.'&quot;</p>

<p>We have now given a short analysis
of the speeches of the proposers
and seconders on each side in this
great debate; and after hearing Mr
Frodsham on the opposition, and the
Common Sergeant&mdash;whose objection,
however, to wood was confined to its unsuitableness
at some seasons for horsemanship&mdash;granting
that a strong feeling
in its favour existed among the
owners and inhabitants of houses
where it has been laid down; and on
the other side, Sir Chapman Marshall&mdash;a
strenuous woodite&mdash;who challenged
Sir Peter Laurie to find fault
with the pavement at Whitehall,
&quot;which he had no hesitation in saying
was the finest piece of paving of
any description in London;&quot; Mr
King, who gave a home thrust to Sir
Peter, which it was impossible to
parry&mdash;&quot;We have heard a great deal
about humanity and post-boys; does
the worthy gentleman know, that the
Postmaster has only within the last
few weeks sent a petition here, begging
that you would, with all possible
speed, put wood paving round the
Post-office?&quot; and various other gentlemen
<i>pro</i> and <i>con</i>&mdash;a division was
taken, when Sir Peter was beaten by
an immense majority.</p>

<p>Another meeting, of which no public
notice was given, was held shortly
after to further Sir Peter's object, by
sundry stable-keepers and jobmasters,
under the presidency of the same Mr
Gray, whose horse had acquired the
malicious habit of breaking its knees
on the Poultry. As there was no opposition,
there was no debate; and as
no names of the parties attending were
published, it fell dead-born, although
advertised two or three times in the
newspapers.</p>

<p>On Tuesday, the 4th of April, Sir
Peter buckled on his armour once
more, and led the embattled cherubim
to war, on the modified question, &quot;That
wood-paving operations be suspended
in the city for a year;&quot; but after a
repetition of the arguments on both
sides, he was again defeated by the
same overwhelming majority as before.</p>

<p>Such is the state of wood paving as
a party question among the city authorities
at the present date. The
squabbles and struggles among the
various projectors would form an
amusing chapter in the history of
street rows&mdash;for it is seen that it is a
noble prize to strive for. If the experiment
succeeds, all London will be
paved with wood, and fortunes will be
secured by the successful candidates
for employment. Every day some
fresh claimant starts up and professes
to have remedied every defect hitherto
discovered in the systems of his predecessors.
Still confidence seems unshaken
in the system which has hitherto
shown the best results; and since
the introduction of the very ingenious
invention of Mr Whitworth of Manchester,
of a cart, which by an adaptation
of wheels and pullies, and brooms
and buckets, performs the work of
thirty-six street-sweepers, the perfection
of the work in Regent Street has
been seen to such advantage, and the
objections of slipperiness so clearly
proved to arise, not from the nature
of wood, but from the want of cleansing,
that even the most timid are beginning
to believe that the opposition
to the further introduction of it is injudicious.
Among these even Sir
Peter promises to enrol himself, if the
public favour continues as strong towards
it for another year as he perceives
it to be at the present time.</p>

<p>And now, dismissing these efforts at
resisting a change which we may safely
take to be at some period or other
inevitable, let us cast a cursory glance
at some of the results of the general
introduction of wood pavement.</p>

<p>In the first place, the facility of
cleansing will be greatly increased. A
smooth surface, between which and the
subsoil is interposed a thick concrete&mdash;which
grows as hard and impermeable
as iron&mdash;will not generate mud
and filth to one-fiftieth of the extent
of either granite roads or Macadam.
It is probable that if there were no
importations of dirt from the wheels
of carriages coming off the stone
streets, little scavengering would be
needed. Certainly not more than
could be supplied by one of Whitworth's
machines. And it is equally
evident that if wood were kept unpolluted
by the liquid mud&mdash;into which
the surface of the other causeways is
converted in the driest weather by
water carts&mdash;the slipperiness would be
effectually cured.</p>

<p>In the second place, the saving of
expense in cleansing and repairing
would be prodigious. Let us take as
our text a document submitted to the
Marylebone Vestry in 1840, and acted
on by them in the case of Oxford
Street; and remember that the expenses
of cleansing were calculated at the
cost of the manual labour&mdash;a cost, we
believe, reduced two thirds by the invention
of Mr Whitworth. The Report
is dated 1837:&mdash;</p>

<table summary="" class="blkquot">
<tr><td>&quot;The cost of the last five years having been,</td><td align="right">&pound;16,881</td></tr>
<tr><td>The present expense for 1837, about</td><td align="right">2,000</td></tr>
<tr><td>The required outlay</td><td align="right">4,000</td></tr>
<tr><td>And the cleansing for 1837</td><td align="right">900</td></tr>
<tr><td>&nbsp;</td><td align="right">&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;</td></tr>
<tr><td>Gives a total for six years of</td><td align="right">&pound;23,781</td></tr>
</table>

<div class="blkquot"><p>&quot;Or an annual expenditure averaging
&pound;3963; so that the future expenses of
Oxford Street, maintained as a Macadamized
carriage-way, would be about
&pound;4000, or 2s. 4d per yard per annum.</p>

<p>&quot;In contrast with this extract from
the parochial documents, the results of
which must have been greatly increased
within the last three years, the Metropolitan
Wood-Paving Company, who
have already laid down above 4000 yards
in Oxford Street, between Wells Street
and Charles Street, are understood to
be willing to complete the entire street
in the best manner for 12s. per square
yard, or about &pound;14,000&mdash;for which they
propose to take bonds bearing interest
at the rate of four-and-a-half per cent
per annum, whereby the parish will obtain
ample time for ultimate payment; and
further, to keep the whole in repair, inclusive
of the cost of cleansing and
watering, for one year gratuitously, and
for twelve years following at &pound;1900 per
annum, being less than one-half the present
outlay for these purposes.&quot;</p></div>

<p>Whether these were the terms finally
agreed on we do not know; but
we perceive by public tenders that the
streets can be paved in the best possible
manner for 13s. or 12s. 6d. a yard;
and kept in repair for 6d. a yard
additional. This is certainly
much cheaper than Macadam, and we
should think more economical than
causeways. And, besides, it has the
advantage&mdash;which one of the speakers
suggested to Sir Peter Laurie&mdash;&quot;that
in case of an upset, it is far more satisfactory
to contest the relative hardness
of heads with a block of wood
than a mass of granite.&quot;</p>

<p>We can only add in conclusion,
that advertisements are published by
the Commissioners of Sewers for contracts
to pave with wood Cheapside,
and Bishopsgate Street, and Whitechapel.
Oh, Sir Peter!--how are the
mighty fallen!</p>

<hr class="full" />



<a name="bw329s6" id="bw329s6"></a><h2>POEMS AND BALLADS OF SCHILLER. NO. VIII.</h2>

<h3>FIRST PERIOD CONTINUED.</h3>
<br>

<h3>A FUNERAL FANTASIE.</h3>

<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<p>1.</p>
<p class="i2">Pale, at its ghastly noon,</p>
<p>Pauses above the death-still wood&mdash;the moon;</p>
<p>The night-sprite, sighing, through the dim air stirs;</p>
<p class="i2">The clouds descend in rain;</p>
<p class="i2">Mourning, the wan stars wane,</p>
<p>Flickering like dying lamps in sepulchres!</p>
<p>Haggard as spectres&mdash;vision-like and dumb,</p>
<p class="i2">Dark with the pomp of Death, and moving slow,</p>
<p>Towards that sad lair the pale Procession come</p>
<p class="i2">Where the Grave closes on the Night below.</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p>2.</p>
<p class="i2">With dim, deep sunken eye,</p>
<p>Crutch'd on his staff, who trembles tottering by?</p>
<p>As wrung from out the shatter'd heart, one groan</p>
<p class="i2">Breaks the deep hush alone!</p>
<p>Crush'd by the iron Fate, he seems to gather</p>
<p class="i2">All life's last strength to stagger to the bier,</p>
<p>And hearken&mdash;&mdash;Do those cold lips murmur &quot;Father?&quot;</p>
<p class="i2">The sharp rain, drizzling through that place of fear,</p>
<p>Pierces the bones gnaw'd fleshless by despair,</p>
<p>And the heart's horror stirs the silver hair.</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p>3.</p>
<p>Fresh bleed the fiery wounds</p>
<p class="i2">Through all that agonizing heart undone&mdash;</p>
<p>Still on the voiceless lips &quot;my Father&quot; sounds,</p>
<p class="i2">And still the childless Father murmurs &quot;Son!&quot;</p>
<p>Ice-cold&mdash;ice-cold, in that white shroud he lies&mdash;</p>
<p class="i2">Thy sweet and golden dreams all vanish'd there&mdash;</p>
<p>The sweet and golden name of &quot;Father&quot; dies</p>
<p class="i2">Into thy curse,&mdash;ice-cold&mdash;ice-cold&mdash;he lies</p>
<p class="i4">Dead, what thy life's delight and Eden were!</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p>4.</p>
<p>Mild, as when, fresh from the arms of Aurora,</p>
<p class="i2">When the air like Elysium is smiling above,</p>
<p>Steep'd in rose-breathing odours, the darling of Flora</p>
<p class="i2">Wantons over the blooms on his winglets of love.&mdash;</p>
<p>So gay, o'er the meads, went his footsteps in bliss,</p>
<p class="i2">The silver wave mirror'd the smile of his face;</p>
<p>Delight, like a flame, kindled up at his kiss,</p>
<p class="i2">And the heart of the maid was the prey of his chase.</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p>5.</p>
<p>Boldly he sprang to the strife of the world,</p>
<p class="i2">As a deer to the mountain-top carelessly springs;</p>
<p>As an eagle whose plumes to the sun are unfurl'd,</p>
<p class="i2">Swept his Hope round the Heaven on its limitless wings.</p>
<p>Proud as a war-horse that chafes at the rein,</p>
<p class="i2">That kingly exults in the storm of the brave;</p>
<p>That throws to the wind the wild stream of its mane,</p>
<p class="i2">Strode he forth by the prince and the slave!</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p>6.</p>
<p>Life, like a spring-day, serene and divine,</p>
<p class="i2">In the star of the morning went by as a trance;</p>
<p>His murmurs he drown'd in the gold of the wine,</p>
<p class="i2">And his sorrows were borne on the wave of the dance.</p>
<p>Worlds lay conceal'd in the hopes of his youth,</p>
<p class="i2">When once he shall ripen to manhood and fame!</p>
<p>Fond Father exult!--In the germs of his youth</p>
<p class="i2">What harvests are destined for Manhood and Fame!</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p>7.</p>
<p>Not to be was that Manhood!--The death-bell is knelling</p>
<p class="i2">The hinge of the death-vault creaks harsh on the ears&mdash;</p>
<p>How dismal, O Death, is the place of thy dwelling!</p>
<p class="i2">Not to be was that Manhood!--Flow on bitter tears!</p>
<p>Go, beloved, thy path to the sun,</p>
<p class="i2">Rise, world upon world, with the perfect to rest;</p>
<p>Go&mdash;quaff the delight which thy spirit has won,</p>
<p class="i2">And escape from our grief in the halls of the blest.</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p>8.</p>
<p>Again (in that thought what a healing is found!)</p>
<p class="i2">To meet in the Eden to which thou art fled!&mdash;</p>
<p>Hark, the coffin sinks down with a dull, sullen sound,</p>
<p class="i2">And the ropes rattle over the sleep of the dead.</p>
<p>And we cling to each other!--O Grave, he is thine!</p>
<p class="i2">The eye tells the woe that is mute to the ears&mdash;</p>
<p>And we dare to resent what we grudge to resign,</p>
<p class="i2">Till the heart's sinful murmur is choked in its tears.</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p class="i2">Pale at its ghastly noon,</p>
<p>Pauses above the death-still wood&mdash;the moon!</p>
<p>The night-sprite, sighing, through the dim air stirs;</p>
<p class="i2">The clouds descend in rain;</p>
<p class="i2">Mourning, the wan stars wane,</p>
<p>Flickering like dying lamps in sepulchres.</p>
<p>The dull clods swell into the sullen mound;</p>
<p class="i2">Earth, one look yet upon the prey we gave!</p>
<p>The Grave locks up the treasure it has found;</p>
<p>Higher and higher swells the sullen mound&mdash;</p>
<p class="i2">Never gives back the Grave!</p>
</div></div>

<hr style="width: 45%;">
<br>

<h3>A GROUP IN TARTARUS.</h3>

<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<p>Hark, as hoarse murmurs of a gathering sea&mdash;</p>
<p class="i2">As brooks that howling through black gorges go,</p>
<p>Groans sullen, hollow, and eternally,</p>
<p class="i2">One wailing Woe!</p>
<p>Sharp Anguish shrinks the shadows there;</p>
<p>And blasphemous Despair</p>
<p>Yells its wild curse from jaws that never close;</p>
<p class="i2">And ghastly eyes for ever</p>
<p class="i2">Stare on the bridge of the relentless River,</p>
<p>Or watch the mournful wave as year on year it flows,</p>
<p class="i2">And ask each other, with parch'd lips that writhe</p>
<p>Into a whisper, &quot;When the end shall be!&quot;</p>
<p class="i2">The <i>end</i>?&mdash;Lo, broken in Time's hand the scythe,</p>
<p>And round and round revolves Eternity!</p>
</div></div>

<hr style="width: 45%;">
<br>

<h3>ELYSIUM.</h3>

<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<p>Past the despairing wail&mdash;</p>
<p>And the bright banquets of the Elysian Vale</p>
<p class="i2">Melt every care away!</p>
<p>Delight, that breathes and moves for ever,</p>
<p>Glides through sweet fields like some sweet river!</p>
<p class="i2">Elysian life survey!</p>
<p>There, fresh with youth, o'er jocund meads,</p>
<p>His youngest west-winds blithely leads</p>
<p class="i2">The ever-blooming May.</p>
<p>Thorough gold-woven dreams goes the dance of the Hours,</p>
<p>In space without bounds swell the soul and its powers,</p>
<p>And Truth, with no veil, gives her face to the day,</p>
<p>And joy to-day and joy to-morrow,</p>
<p class="i2">But wafts the airy soul aloft;</p>
<p>The very name is lost to Sorrow,</p>
<p class="i2">And Pain is Rapture tuned more exquisitely soft.</p>
<p>Here the Pilgrim reposes the world-weary limb,</p>
<p>And forgets in the shadow, cool-breathing and dim,</p>
<p class="i2">The load he shall bear never more;</p>
<p>Here the Mower, his sickle at rest, by the streams,</p>
<p>Lull'd with harp-strings, reviews, in the calm of his dreams,</p>
<p class="i2">The fields, when the harvest is o'er.</p>
<p>Here, He, whose ears drank in the battle-roar,</p>
<p>Whose banners stream'd upon the startled wind</p>
<p class="i2">A thunder-storm,&mdash;before whose thunder tread</p>
<p>The mountains trembled,&mdash;in soft sleep reclined,</p>
<p class="i2">By the sweet brook that o'er its pebbly bed</p>
<p>In silver plays, and murmurs to the shore,</p>
<p>Hears the stern clangour of wild spears no more!</p>
<p>Here the true Spouse the lost-beloved regains,</p>
<p>And on the enamell'd couch of summer-plains</p>
<p class="i2">Mingles sweet kisses with the west-wind's breath.</p>
<p>Here, crown'd at last&mdash;Love never knows decay,</p>
<p>Living through ages its one BRIDAL DAY,</p>
<p>Safe from the stroke of Death!</p>
</div></div>

<hr style="width: 45%;">
<br>

<h3>COUNT EBERHARD, THE GRUMBLER, OF WURTEMBERG.</h3>

<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<p>Ha, ha I take heed&mdash;ha, ha! take heed,<a name="footnotetag10" id="footnotetag10"></a><a href="#footnote10"><sup>10</sup></a></p>
<p class="i2">Ye knaves both South and North!</p>
<p>For many a man both bold in deed</p>
<p>And wise in peace, the land to lead,</p>
<p class="i2">Old Swabia has brought forth.</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p>Proud boasts your Edward and your Charles,</p>
<p class="i2">Your Ludwig, Frederick&mdash;are!</p>
<p>Yet Eberhard's worth, ye bragging carles!</p>
<p>Your Ludwig, Frederick, Edward, Charles&mdash;</p>
<p class="i2">A thunder-storm in war.</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p>And Ulrick, too, his noble son,</p>
<p class="i2">Ha, ha! his might ye know;</p>
<p>Old Eberhard's boast, his noble son,</p>
<p>Not he the boy, ye rogues, to run,</p>
<p class="i2">How stout soe'er the foe!</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p>The Reutling lads with envy saw</p>
<p class="i2">Our glories, day by day;</p>
<p>The Reutling lads shall give the law&mdash;</p>
<p>The Reutling lads the sword shall draw&mdash;</p>
<p class="i2">O Lord&mdash;how hot were they!</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p>Out Ulrick went and beat them not&mdash;</p>
<p class="i2">To Eberhard back he came&mdash;</p>
<p>A lowering look young Ulrick got&mdash;</p>
<p>Poor lad, his eyes with tears were hot&mdash;</p>
<p class="i2">He hung his head for shame.</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p>&quot;Ho&mdash;ho&quot;&mdash;thought he&mdash;&quot;ye rogues beware,</p>
<p class="i2">Nor you nor I forget&mdash;</p>
<p>For by my father's beard I swear</p>
<p>Your blood shall wash the blot I bear,</p>
<p class="i2">And Ulrick pay you yet!&quot;</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p>Soon came the hour! with steeds and men</p>
<p class="i2">The battle-field was gay;</p>
<p>Steel closed in steel at Duffingen&mdash;</p>
<p>And joyous was our stripling then,</p>
<p class="i2">And joyous the hurra!</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p>&quot;The battle lost&quot; our battle-cry;</p>
<p class="i2">The foe once more advances:</p>
<p>As some fierce whirlwind cleaves the sky,</p>
<p>We skirr, through blood and slaughter, by,</p>
<p class="i2">Amidst a night of lances!</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p>On, lion-like, grim Ulrick sweeps&mdash;</p>
<p class="i2">Bright shines his hero-glaive&mdash;</p>
<p>Her chase before him Fury keeps,</p>
<p>Far-heard behind him, Anguish weeps,</p>
<p class="i2">And round him&mdash;is the Grave!</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p>Woe&mdash;woe! it gleams&mdash;the sabre-blow&mdash;</p>
<p class="i2">Swift-sheering down it sped&mdash;</p>
<p>Around, brave hearts the buckler throw&mdash;</p>
<p>Alas! our boast in dust is low!</p>
<p class="i2">Count Eberhard's boy is dead!</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p>Grief checks the rushing Victor-van&mdash;</p>
<p class="i2">Fierce eyes strange moisture know&mdash;</p>
<p>On rides old Eberhard, stern and wan,</p>
<p>&quot;My son is like another man&mdash;</p>
<p class="i2">March, children, on the Foe!&quot;</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p>And fiery lances whirr'd around,</p>
<p>Revenge, at least, undying&mdash;</p>
<p>Above the blood-red clay we bound&mdash;</p>
<p>Hurrah! the burghers break their ground,</p>
<p class="i2">Through vale and woodland flying!</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p>Back to the camp, behold us throng,</p>
<p class="i2">Flags stream, and bugles play&mdash;</p>
<p>Woman and child with choral song,</p>
<p>And men, with dance and wine, prolong</p>
<p class="i2">The warrior's holyday.</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p>And our old Count&mdash;and what doth he?</p>
<p class="i2">Before him lies his son,</p>
<p>Within his lone tent, lonelily,</p>
<p>The old man sits with eyes that see</p>
<p class="i2">Through one dim tear&mdash;his son!</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p>So heart and soul, a loyal band,</p>
<p class="i2">Count Eberhard's band, we are!</p>
<p>His front the tower that guards the land,</p>
<p>A thunderbolt his red right hand&mdash;</p>
<p class="i2">His eye a guiding star!</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p>Then take ye heed&mdash;Aha! take heed,</p>
<p class="i2">Ye knaves both South and North!</p>
<p>For many a man, both bold in deed</p>
<p>And wise in peace, the land to lead,</p>
<p class="i2">Old Swabia has brought forth!</p>
</div></div>

<hr style="width: 45%;">
<br>

<h3>TO A MORALIST.</h3>

<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<p>Are the sports of our youth so displeasing?</p>
<p class="i2">Is love but the folly you say?</p>
<p>Benumb'd with the Winter, and freezing,</p>
<p class="i2">You scold at the revels of May.</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p>For you once a nymph had her charms,</p>
<p class="i2">And oh! when the waltz you were wreathing,</p>
<p>All Olympus embraced in your arms&mdash;</p>
<p class="i2">All its nectar in Julia's breathing.</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p>If Jove at that moment had hurl'd</p>
<p class="i2">The earth in some other rotation,</p>
<p>Along with your Julia whirl'd,</p>
<p class="i2">You had felt not the shock of creation.</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p>Learn this&mdash;that Philosophy beats</p>
<p class="i2">Sure time with the pulse&mdash;quick or slow</p>
<p>As the blood from the heyday retreats,&mdash;</p>
<p class="i2">But it cannot make gods of us&mdash;No!</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p>It is well, icy Reason should thaw</p>
<p class="i2">In the warm blood of Mirth now and then,</p>
<p>The Gods for themselves have a law</p>
<p class="i2">Which they never intended for men.</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p>The spirit is bound by the ties</p>
<p class="i2">Of its jailer, the Flesh&mdash;if I can</p>
<p>Not reach, as an angel, the skies,</p>
<p class="i2">Let me feel, on the earth, as a Man.</p>
</div></div>

<hr style="width: 45%;">
<br>

<h3>ROUSSEAU.<a name="footnotetag11" id="footnotetag11"></a><a href="#footnote11"><sup>11</sup></a></h3>

<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<p>Oh, Monument of Shame to this our time,</p>
<p>Dishonouring record to thy Mother Clime!</p>
<p>Hail, Grave of Rousseau! Here thy sorrows cease.</p>
<p>Freedom and Peace from earth and earthly strife!</p>
<p>Vainly, sad seeker, didst thou search through life</p>
<p>To find&mdash;(found now)&mdash;the Freedom and the Peace.</p>
<p>When will the old wounds scar? In the dark age</p>
<p>Perish'd the wise. Light came; how fares the sage?</p>
<p>There's no abatement of the bigot's rage.</p>
<p>Still as the wise man bled, he bleeds again.</p>
<p>Sophists prepared for Socrates the bowl&mdash;</p>
<p>And Christians drove the steel through Rousseau's soul&mdash;</p>
<p>Rousseau who strove to render Christians&mdash;men.</p>
</div></div>

<hr style="width: 45%;">
<br>

<h3>FORTUNE AND WISDOM.</h3>

<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<p>In a quarrel with her lover</p>
<p class="i2">To Wisdom Fortune flew;</p>
<p>&quot;I'll all my hoards discover&mdash;</p>
<p class="i2">Be but my friend&mdash;to you.</p>
<p>Like a mother I presented</p>
<p class="i2">To one each fairest gift,</p>
<p>Who still is discontented,</p>
<p class="i2">And murmurs at my thrift.</p>
<p>Come, let's be friends. What say you?</p>
<p class="i2">Give up that weary plough,</p>
<p>My treasures shall repay you,</p>
<p class="i2">For both I have enow!&quot;</p>
<p>&quot;Nay, see thy Friend betake him</p>
<p class="i2">To death from grief for thee&mdash;</p>
<p><i>He</i> dies if thou forsake him&mdash;</p>
<p class="i2">Thy gifts are nought to <i>me</i>!&quot;</p>
</div></div>

<hr style="width: 45%;">
<br>

<h3>THE INFANTICIDE.</h3>

<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<p>1.</p>
<p>Hark where the bells toll, chiming, dull and steady,</p>
<p class="i2">The clock's slow hand hath reach'd the appointed time.</p>
<p>Well, be it so&mdash;prepare! my soul is ready,</p>
<p class="i2">Companions of the grave&mdash;the rest for crime!</p>
<p>Now take, O world! my last farewell&mdash;receiving</p>
<p class="i2">My parting kisses&mdash;in these tears they dwell!</p>
<p>Sweet are thy poisons while we taste believing,</p>
<p class="i2">Now we are quits&mdash;heart-poisoner, fare-thee-well!</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p>2.</p>
<p>Farewell, ye suns that once to joy invited,</p>
<p class="i2">Changed for the mould beneath the funeral shade</p>
<p>Farewell, farewell, thou rosy Time delighted,</p>
<p class="i2">Luring to soft desire the careless maid.</p>
<p>Pale gossamers of gold, farewell, sweet-dreaming</p>
<p class="i2">Fancies&mdash;the children that an Eden bore!</p>
<p>Blossoms that died while dawn itself was gleaming,</p>
<p class="i2">Opening in happy sunlight never more.</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p>3.</p>
<p>Swanlike the robe which Innocence bestowing,</p>
<p class="i2">Deck'd with the virgin favours, rosy fair,</p>
<p>In the gay time when many a young rose glowing,</p>
<p class="i2">Blush'd through the loose train of the amber hair.</p>
<p>Woe, woe! as white the robe that decks me now&mdash;</p>
<p class="i2">The shroud-like robe Hell's destined victim wears;</p>
<p>Still shall the fillet bind this burning brow&mdash;</p>
<p class="i2"><i>That</i> sable braid the Doomsman's hand prepares!</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p>4.</p>
<p>Weep, ye <i>who never fell</i>&mdash;for whom, unerring,</p>
<p class="i2">The soul's white lilies keep their virgin hue,</p>
<p>Ye who when thoughts so danger-sweet are stirring,</p>
<p class="i2">Take the stern strength that Nature gives the few</p>
<p>Woe, for too human was this fond heart's feeling&mdash;</p>
<p class="i2">Feeling!--my sin's avenger<a name="footnotetag12" id="footnotetag12"></a><a href="#footnote12"><sup>12</sup></a> doom'd to be;</p>
<p>Woe&mdash;for the false man's arm around me stealing,</p>
<p class="i2">Stole the lull'd Virtue, charm'd to sleep, from me.</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p>5.</p>
<p>Ah, he perhaps shall, round another sighing,</p>
<p class="i2">(Forgot the serpents stinging at my breast,)</p>
<p>Gaily, when I in the dumb grave am lying,</p>
<p class="i2">Pour the warm wish, or speed the wanton jest,</p>
<p>Or play, perchance, with his new maiden's tresses,</p>
<p class="i2">Answer the kiss her lip enamour'd brings,</p>
<p>When the dread block the head he cradled presses,</p>
<p class="i2">And high the blood his kiss once fever'd springs.</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p>6.</p>
<p>Thee, Francis, Francis,<a name="footnotetag13" id="footnotetag13"></a><a href="#footnote13"><sup>13</sup></a> league on league, shall follow</p>
<p class="i2">The death-dirge of the Lucy once so dear;</p>
<p>From yonder steeple, dismal, dull, and hollow,</p>
<p class="i2">Shall knell the warning horror on thy ear.</p>
<p>On thy fresh leman's lips when Love is dawning,</p>
<p class="i2">And the lisp'd music glides from that sweet well&mdash;</p>
<p>Lo, in that breast a red wound shall be yawning,</p>
<p class="i2">And, in the midst of rapture, warn of hell!</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p>7.</p>
<p>Betrayer, what! thy soul relentless closing</p>
<p class="i2">To grief&mdash;the woman-shame no art can heal&mdash;</p>
<p>To that small life beneath my heart reposing!</p>
<p class="i2">Man, man, the wild beast for its young can feel!</p>
<p>Proud flew the sails&mdash;receding from the land,</p>
<p class="i2">I watch'd them waning from the wistful eye,</p>
<p>Round the gay maids on Seine's voluptuous strand,</p>
<p class="i2">Breathes the false incense of his fatal sigh.</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p>8.</p>
<p>And there the Babe! there, on the mother's bosom,</p>
<p class="i2">Lull'd in its sweet and golden rest it lay,</p>
<p>Fresh in life's morning as a rosy blossom,</p>
<p class="i2">It smiled, poor harmless one, my tears away.</p>
<p>Deathlike yet lovely, every feature speaking</p>
<p class="i2">In such dear calm and beauty to my sadness,</p>
<p>And cradled still the mother's heart, in breaking,</p>
<p class="i2">The soft'ning love and the despairing madness.</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p>9.</p>
<p>&quot;Woman, where is my father?&quot;&mdash;freezing through me,</p>
<p class="i2">Lisp'd the mute Innocence with thunder-sound;</p>
<p>&quot;Woman, where is thy husband?&quot;&mdash;called unto me,</p>
<p class="i2">In every look, word, whisper, busying round!</p>
<p>For thee, poor child, there is no father's kiss.</p>
<p class="i2">He fondleth <i>other</i> children on his knee.</p>
<p>How thou wilt curse our momentary bliss,</p>
<p class="i2">When Bastard on thy name shall branded be!</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p>10.</p>
<p>Thy mother&mdash;oh, a hell her heart concealeth,</p>
<p class="i2">Lone-sitting, lone in social Nature's All!</p>
<p>Thirsting for that glad fount thy love revealeth,</p>
<p class="i2">While still thy look the glad fount turns to gall.</p>
<p>In every infant cry my soul is heark'ning,</p>
<p class="i2">The haunting happiness for ever o'er,</p>
<p>And all the bitterness of death is dark'ning</p>
<p class="i2">The heavenly looks that smiled mine eyes before.</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p>11.</p>
<p>Hell, if my sight those looks a moment misses&mdash;</p>
<p class="i2">Hell, when my sight upon those looks is turn'd&mdash;</p>
<p>The avenging furies madden in <i>thy</i> kisses,</p>
<p class="i2">That slept in <i>his</i> what time my lips they burn'd.</p>
<p>Out from their graves his oaths spoke back in thunder!</p>
<p class="i2">The perjury stalk'd like murder in the sun&mdash;</p>
<p>For ever&mdash;God!--sense, reason, soul, sunk under&mdash;</p>
<p class="i2">The deed was done!</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p>12.</p>
<p>Francis, O Francis! league on league, shall chase thee</p>
<p class="i2">The shadows hurrying grimly on thy flight&mdash;</p>
<p>Still with their icy arms they shall embrace thee,</p>
<p class="i2">And mutter thunder in thy dream's delight!</p>
<p>Down from the soft stars, in their tranquil glory,</p>
<p class="i2">Shall look thy dead child with a ghastly stare;</p>
<p>That shape shall haunt thee in its cerements gory,</p>
<p class="i2">And scourge thee back from heaven&mdash;its home is there!</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p>13.</p>
<p>Lifeless&mdash;how lifeless!--see, oh see, before me</p>
<p class="i2">It lies cold&mdash;stiff!--O God!--and with that blood</p>
<p>I feel, as swoops the dizzy darkness o'er me,</p>
<p class="i2">Mine own life mingled&mdash;ebbing in the flood&mdash;</p>
<p>Hark, at the door they knock&mdash;more loud within me&mdash;</p>
<p class="i2">More awful still&mdash;its sound the dread heart gave!</p>
<p>Gladly I welcome the cold arms that win me&mdash;</p>
<p class="i2">Fire, quench thy tortures in the icy grave!</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p>14.</p>
<p>Francis&mdash;a God that pardons dwells in heaven&mdash;</p>
<p class="i2">Francis, the sinner&mdash;yes&mdash;she pardons thee&mdash;</p>
<p>So let my wrongs unto the earth be given:</p>
<p class="i2">Flame seize the wood!--it burns&mdash;it kindles&mdash;see!</p>
<p>There&mdash;there his letters cast&mdash;behold are ashes&mdash;</p>
<p class="i2">His vows&mdash;the conquering fire consumes them here:</p>
<p>His kisses&mdash;see&mdash;see all&mdash;all are only ashes&mdash;</p>
<p class="i2">All, all&mdash;the all that once on earth were dear!</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p>15.</p>
<p>Trust not the roses which your youth enjoyeth,</p>
<p class="i2">Sisters, to man's faith, changeful as the moon!</p>
<p>Beauty to me brought guilt&mdash;its bloom destroyeth:</p>
<p class="i2">Lo, in the judgment court I curse the boon:</p>
<p>Tears in the headsman's gaze&mdash;what tears?&mdash;tis spoken!</p>
<p class="i2">Quick, bind mine eyes&mdash;all soon shall be forgot&mdash;</p>
<p>Doomsman&mdash;the lily hast thou never broken?</p>
<p class="i2">Pale doomsman&mdash;tremble not!</p>
</div></div>

<blockquote class="note">
<p>[The poem we have just concluded was greatly admired at the time of its
first publication, and it so far excels in art most of the earlier efforts by the
author, that it attains one of the highest secrets in true pathos. It produces
interest for the <i>criminal</i> while creating terror for the <i>crime</i>. This, indeed, is
a triumph in art never achieved but by the highest genius. The inferior
writer, when venturing upon the grandest stage of passion, (which unquestionably
exists in the delineation of great guilt as of heroic virtue,) falls into
the error either of gilding the crime in order to produce sympathy for the
criminal, or, in the spirit of a spurious morality, of involving both crime and
criminal in a common odium. It is to discrimination between the doer and
the deed, that we owe the sublimest revelations of the human heart: in this
discrimination lies the key to the emotions produced by the &OElig;dipus and
Macbeth. In the brief poem before us a whole drama is comprehended.
Marvellous is the completeness of the pictures it presents&mdash;its mastery over
emotions the most opposite&mdash;its fidelity to nature in its exposition of the disordered
and despairing mind in which tenderness becomes cruelty, and
remorse for error tortures itself into scarce conscious crime.</p>

<p>But the art employed, though admirable of its kind, still falls short of the
perfection which, in his later works, Schiller aspired to achieve, viz. the point
at which <i>Pain</i> ceases. The tears which Tragic Pathos, when purest and
most elevated, calls forth, ought not to be tears of pain. In the ideal world,
as Schiller has inculcated, even sorrow should have its charm&mdash;all that
harrows, all that revolts, belongs but to that inferior school in which Schiller's
fiery youth formed itself for nobler grades&mdash;the school &quot;of Storm and Pressure&quot;&mdash;(St&uuml;rm
und Dr&auml;ng&mdash;as the Germans have expressively described it.)
If the reader will compare Schiller's poem of the 'Infanticide,' with the passages
which represent a similar crime in the Medea, (and the author of 'Wallenstein'
deserves comparison even with Euripides,) he will see the distinction
between the art that seeks an <i>elevated</i> emotion, and the art which is
satisfied with creating an <i>intense</i> one. In Euripides, the detail&mdash;the reality&mdash;all
that can degrade terror into pain&mdash;are loftily dismissed. The Titan
grandeur of the Sorceress removes us from too close an approach to the
crime of the unnatural Mother&mdash;the emotion of pity changes into awe&mdash;just
at the pitch before the coarse sympathy of actual pain can be
effected. And it is the avoidance of reality&mdash;it is the all-purifying Presence
of the Ideal, which make the vast distinction in our emotions between
following, with shocked and displeasing pity, the crushed, broken-hearted,
mortal criminal to the scaffold, and gazing&mdash;with an awe which has pleasure
of its own&mdash;upon the Mighty Murderess&mdash;soaring out of the reach of Humanity,
upon her Dragon Car!]</p>
</blockquote>

<hr style="width: 45%;">
<br>

<h3>THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE.</h3>

<h3>A HYMN.</h3>

<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<p>Blessed through love are the Gods above&mdash;</p>
<p class="i2">Through love like the Gods may man be;</p>
<p>Heavenlier through love is the heaven above,</p>
<p class="i2">Through love like a heaven earth can be!</p>
<p>Once, as the poet sung,</p>
<p class="i2">In Pyrrha's time, 'tis known,</p>
<p>From rocks Creation sprung,</p>
<p class="i2">And Men leapt up from stone;</p>
<p>Rock and stone, in night</p>
<p class="i2">The souls of men were seal'd,</p>
<p>Heaven's diviner light</p>
<p class="i2">Not as yet reveal'd;</p>
<p>As yet the Loves around them</p>
<p class="i2">Had never shone&mdash;nor bound them</p>
<p>With their rosy rings;</p>
<p class="i2">As yet their bosoms knew not</p>
<p>Soft song&mdash;and music grew not</p>
<p class="i2">Out of the silver strings.</p>
<p>No gladsome garlands cheerily</p>
<p class="i2">Were love-y-woven then;</p>
<p>And o'er Elysium drearily</p>
<p class="i2">The May-time flew for men;<a name="footnotetag14" id="footnotetag14"></a><a href="#footnote14"><sup>14</sup></a></p>
<p>The morning rose ungreeted</p>
<p class="i2">From ocean's joyless breast;</p>
<p>Unhail'd the evening fleeted</p>
<p class="i2">To ocean's joyless breast&mdash;</p>
<p>Wild through the tangled shade,</p>
<p>By clouded moons they stray'd,</p>
<p class="i2">The iron race of Men!</p>
<p>Sources of mystic tears,</p>
<p>Yearnings for starry spheres,</p>
<p class="i2">No God awaken'd then!</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p>Lo, mildly from the dark-blue water,</p>
<p>Comes forth the Heaven's divinest Daughter,</p>
<p class="i2">Borne by the Nymphs fair-floating o'er</p>
<p class="i2">To the intoxicated shore!</p>
<p>Like the light-scattering wings of morning</p>
<p>Soars universal May, adorning</p>
<p>As from the glory of that birth</p>
<p>Air and the ocean, heaven and earth!</p>
<p>Day's eye looks laughing, where the grim</p>
<p>Midnight lay coil'd in forests dim;</p>
<p>And gay narcissuses are sweet</p>
<p>Wherever glide those holy feet&mdash;</p>
<p class="i2">Now, pours the bird that haunts the eve</p>
<p>The earliest song of love,</p>
<p class="i2">Now in the heart&mdash;their fountain&mdash;heave</p>
<p>The waves that murmur love.</p>
<p>O blest Pygmalion&mdash;blest art thou&mdash;</p>
<p>It melts, it glows, thy marble now!</p>
<p>O Love, the God, thy world is won!</p>
<p>Embrace thy children, Mighty One.</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p>Blessed through love are the Gods above&mdash;</p>
<p class="i2">Through love like the Gods may man be;</p>
<p>Heavenlier through love is the heaven above,</p>
<p class="i2">Through love like a heaven earth can be.</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p>Where the nectar-bright streams,</p>
<p>Like the dawn's happy dreams,</p>
<p>Eternally one holiday,</p>
<p>The life of the Gods glides away.</p>
<p>Throned on his seat sublime,</p>
<p>Looks He whose years know not time;</p>
<p>At his nod, if his anger awaken,</p>
<p>At the wave of his hair all Olympus is shaken.</p>
<p>Yet He from the throne of his birth,</p>
<p>Bow'd down to the sons of the earth,</p>
<p>Through dim Arcadian glades to wander sighing,</p>
<p class="i2">Lull'd into dreams of bliss&mdash;</p>
<p class="i2">Lull'd by his Leda's kiss</p>
<p>Lo, at his feet the harmless thunders lying!</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p>The Sun's majestic coursers go</p>
<p class="i2">Along the Light's transparent plain,</p>
<p class="i2">Curb'd by the Day-god's golden rein;</p>
<p>The nations perish at his bended bow;</p>
<p class="i2">Steeds that majestic go,</p>
<p class="i2">Death from the bended bow,</p>
<p class="i2">Gladly he leaves above&mdash;</p>
<p class="i2">For Melody and Love!</p>
<p>Low bend the dwellers of the sky,</p>
<p>When sweeps the stately Juno by;</p>
<p>Proud in her car, the Uncontroll'd</p>
<p class="i2">Curbs the bright birds that breast the air,</p>
<p>As flames the sovereign crown of gold</p>
<p class="i2">Amidst the ambrosial waves of hair&mdash;</p>
<p>Ev'n thou, fair Queen of Heaven's high throne,</p>
<p>Hast Love's subduing sweetness known;</p>
<p>From all her state, the Great One bends</p>
<p class="i2">To charm the Olympian's bright embraces,</p>
<p>The Heart-Enthraller only lends</p>
<p class="i2">The rapture-cestus of the Graces!</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p>Blessed through love are the Gods above&mdash;</p>
<p class="i2">Through love like a God may man be;</p>
<p>Heavenlier through love is the heaven above,</p>
<p class="i2">Through love like a heaven earth can be!</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p>Love can sun the Realms of Night&mdash;</p>
<p>Orcus owns the magic might&mdash;</p>
<p>Peaceful where She sits beside,</p>
<p>Smiles the swart King on his Bride;</p>
<p>Hell feels the smile in sudden light&mdash;</p>
<p>Love can sun the Realms of Night.</p>
<p>Heavenly o'er the startled Hell,</p>
<p>Holy, where the Accursed dwell,</p>
<p class="i2">O Thracian, went thy silver song!</p>
<p>Grim Minos, with unconscious tears,</p>
<p>Melts into mercy as he hears&mdash;</p>
<p>The serpents in Megara's hair,</p>
<p>Kiss, as they wreathe enamour'd there;</p>
<p class="i2">All harmless rests the madding thong;&mdash;</p>
<p>From the torn breast the Vulture mute</p>
<p>Flies, scared before the charm&egrave;d lute&mdash;</p>
<p>Lull'd into sighing from their roar</p>
<p>The dark waves woo the listening shore&mdash;</p>
<p>Listening the Thracian's silver song!&mdash;</p>
<p>Love was the Thracian's silver song!</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p>Blessed through love are the Gods above&mdash;</p>
<p class="i2">Through love like a God may man be;</p>
<p>Heavenlier through love is the heaven above&mdash;</p>
<p class="i2">Through love like a heaven earth can be!</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p>Through Nature blossom-strewing,</p>
<p><i>One</i> footstep we are viewing,</p>
<p class="i2">One flash from golden pinions!&mdash;</p>
<p>If from Heaven's starry sea,</p>
<p class="i2">If from the moonlit sky;</p>
<p>If from the Sun's dominions,</p>
<p class="i2">Look'd not Love's laughing eye;</p>
<p>Then Sun and Moon and Stars would be</p>
<p>Alike, without one smile for me!</p>
<p class="i2">But, oh, wherever Nature lives</p>
<p class="i4">Below, around, above&mdash;</p>
<p class="i2">Her happy eye the mirror gives</p>
<p class="i4">To thy glad beauty, Love!</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p>Love sighs through brooklets silver-clear,</p>
<p class="i2">Love bids their murmur woo the vale;</p>
<p>Listen, O list! Love's soul ye hear</p>
<p class="i2">In his own earnest nightingale.</p>
<p>No sound from Nature ever stirs,</p>
<p>But Love's sweet voice is heard with hers!</p>
<p>Bold Wisdom, with her sunlit eye,</p>
<p>Retreats when love comes whispering by&mdash;</p>
<p class="i2">For Wisdom's weak to love!</p>
<p>To victor stern or monarch proud,</p>
<p>Imperial Wisdom never bow'd</p>
<p class="i2">The knee she bows to Love!</p>
<p>Who through the steep and starry sky,</p>
<p>Goes onward to the gods on high,</p>
<p class="i2">Before thee, hero-brave?</p>
<p>Who halves for thee the land of Heaven;</p>
<p>Who shows thy heart, Elysium, given</p>
<p class="i2">Through the flame-rended Grave?</p>
<p>Below, if we were blind to Love,</p>
<p>Say, should we soar o'er Death, above?</p>
<p>Would the weak soul, did Love forsake her,</p>
<p>E'er gain the wing to seek the Maker?</p>
<p>Love, only Love, can guide the creature</p>
<p>Up to the Father-fount of Nature;</p>
<p>What were the soul did Love forsake her?</p>
<p>Love guides the Mortal to the Maker!</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p>Blessed through love are the Gods above&mdash;</p>
<p class="i2">Through love like a God may man be:</p>
<p>Heavenlier through love is the heaven above,</p>
<p class="i2">Through love like a heaven earth can be!</p>
</div></div>

<hr style="width: 45%;">
<br>

<h3>FANTASIE TO LAURA.</h3>

<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<p>What, Laura, say, the vortex that can draw</p>
<p class="i2">Body to body in its strong control;</p>
<p>Beloved Laura, what the charm&egrave;d law</p>
<p class="i2">That to the soul attracting plucks the soul?</p>
<p>It is the charm that rolls the stars on high,</p>
<p class="i2">For ever round the sun's majestic blaze&mdash;</p>
<p>When, gay as children round their parent, fly</p>
<p class="i2">Their circling dances in delighted maze.</p>
<p>Still, every star that glides its gladsome course,</p>
<p class="i2">Thirstily drinks the luminous golden rain;</p>
<p>Drinks the fresh vigour from the fiery source,</p>
<p class="i2">As limbs imbibe life's motion from the brain;</p>
<p>With sunny motes, the sunny motes united</p>
<p class="i2">Harmonious lustre both receive and give,</p>
<p>Love spheres with spheres still interchange delighted,</p>
<p class="i2">Only through love the starry systems live.</p>
<p>Take love from Nature's universe of wonder,</p>
<p class="i2">Each jarring each, rushes the mighty All.</p>
<p>See, back to Chaos shock'd, Creation thunder;</p>
<p class="i2">Weep, starry Newton&mdash;weep the giant fall!</p>
<p>Take from the spiritual scheme that Power away,</p>
<p class="i2">And the still'd body shrinks to Death's abode.</p>
<p>Never&mdash;love <i>not</i>&mdash;would blooms revive for May,</p>
<p class="i2">And, love extinct, all life were dead to God.</p>
<p>And what the charm that at my Laura's kiss,</p>
<p class="i2">Pours the diviner brightness to the cheek;</p>
<p>Makes the heart bound more swiftly to its bliss,</p>
<p class="i2">And bids the rushing blood the magnet seek&mdash;</p>
<p>Out from their bounds swell nerve, and pulse, and sense,</p>
<p class="i2">The veins in tumult would their shores o'erflow;</p>
<p>Body to body rapt&mdash;and charm&egrave;d thence,</p>
<p class="i2">Soul drawn to soul with intermingled glow.</p>
<p>Mighty alike to sway the flow and ebb</p>
<p class="i2">Of the inanimate Matter, or to move</p>
<p>The nerves that weave the Arachn&egrave;an web</p>
<p class="i2">Of Sentient Life&mdash;rules all-pervading Love!</p>
<p>Ev'n in the Moral World, embrace and meet</p>
<p class="i2">Emotions&mdash;Gladness clasps the extreme of Care;</p>
<p>And Sorrow, at the worst, upon the sweet</p>
<p class="i2">Breast of young Hope, is thaw'd from its despair.</p>
<p>Of sister-kin to melancholy Woe,</p>
<p class="i2">Voluptuous Pleasure comes, and with the birth</p>
<p>Of her gay children, (golden Wishes,) lo,</p>
<p class="i2">Night flies, and sunshine settles on the earth!<a name="footnotetag15" id="footnotetag15"></a><a href="#footnote15"><sup>15</sup></a></p>
<p>The same great Law of Sympathy is given</p>
<p class="i2">To Evil as to Good, and if we swell</p>
<p>The dark account that life incurs with Heaven,</p>
<p class="i2">'Tis that our Vices are thy Wooers, Hell!</p>
<p>In turn those Vices are embraced by Shame</p>
<p class="i2">And fell Remorse, the twin Eumenides.</p>
<p>Danger still clings in fond embrace to Fame,</p>
<p class="i2">Mounts on her wing, and flies where'er she flees.</p>
<p>Destruction marries its dark self to Pride,</p>
<p class="i2">Envy to Fortune: when Desire most charms,</p>
<p>'Tis that her brother Death is by her side,</p>
<p class="i2">For him she opens those voluptuous arms.</p>
<p>The very Future to the Past but flies</p>
<p class="i2">Upon the wings of Love&mdash;as I to thee;</p>
<p>O, long swift Saturn, with unceasing sighs,</p>
<p class="i2">Hath sought his distant bride, Eternity!</p>
<p>When&mdash;so I heard the oracle declare&mdash;</p>
<p class="i2">When Saturn once shall clasp that bride sublime,</p>
<p>Wide-blazing worlds shall light his nuptials there&mdash;</p>
<p class="i2">'Tis thus Eternity shall wed with Time.</p>
<p>In <i>those</i> shall be <i>our</i> nuptials! ours to share</p>
<p class="i2"><i>That</i> bridenight, waken'd by no jealous sun;</p>
<p>Since Time, Creation, Nature, but declare</p>
<p class="i2">Love&mdash;in our love rejoice, Beloved One!</p>
</div></div>

<hr style="width: 45%;">
<br>

<h3>TO THE SPRING.</h3>

<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<p>Welcome, gentle Stripling,</p>
<p class="i2">Nature's darling, thou&mdash;</p>
<p>With thy basket full of blossoms,</p>
<p class="i2">A happy welcome now!</p>
<p>Aha!--and thou returnest,</p>
<p class="i2">Heartily we greet thee&mdash;</p>
<p>The loving and the fair one,</p>
<p class="i2">Merrily we meet thee!</p>
<p>Think'st thou of my Maiden</p>
<p class="i2">In thy heart of glee?</p>
<p>I love her yet the Maiden&mdash;</p>
<p class="i2">And the Maiden yet loves me!</p>
<p>For the Maiden, many a blossom</p>
<p class="i2">I begg'd&mdash;and not in vain;</p>
<p>I came again, a-begging,</p>
<p class="i2">And thou&mdash;thou giv'st again:</p>
<p>Welcome, gentle stripling,</p>
<p class="i2">Nature's darling thou&mdash;</p>
<p>With thy basket full of blossoms,</p>
<p class="i2">A happy welcome, now!</p>
</div></div>

<hr class="full" />



<a name="bw329s7" id="bw329s7"></a><h2>NATURAL HISTORY OF SALMON AND SEA-TROUT.</h2>

<blockquote class="note">
<p>[<i>On the Growth of Grilse and Salmon</i>. By Mr Andrew Young, Invershin,
Sutherlandshire. (Transactions of the Royal Society of Edinburgh. Vol. XV.
Part III.) Edinburgh, 1843.]</p>

<p>[<i>On the Growth and Migrations of the Sea-Trout of the Solway</i>. By Mr John
Shaw, Drumlanrig. (Ibid.) Edinburgh, 1843.]</p>
<br>
</blockquote>

<p>The salmon is undoubtedly the finest
and most magnificent of our fresh-water
fishes, or rather of those <i>anadromous</i>
kinds which, in accordance with the
succession of the seasons, seek alternately
the briny sea and the &quot;rivers
of water.&quot; It is also the most important,
both in a commercial and
culinary point of view as well as the
most highly prized by the angler as
an object of exciting recreation. Notwithstanding
these and other long-continued
claims upon our consideration,
a knowledge of its natural history and
habits has developed itself so slowly,
that little or nothing was precisely
ascertained till very recently regarding
either its early state or its eventual
changes. The salmon-trout, in certain
districts of almost equal value with the
true salmon, was also but obscurely
known to naturalists, most of whom,
in truth, are too apt to satisfy themselves
rather by the extension than the
increase of knowledge. They hand
down to posterity, in their barren
technicalities, a great deal of what is
neither new nor true, even in relation
to subjects which lie within the sphere
of ordinary observation,&mdash;to birds and
beasts, which almost dwell among us,
and give utterance, by articulate or
intelligible sounds, to a vast variety of
instinctive, and as it were explanatory
emotions:&mdash;what marvel, then, that
they should so often fail to inform us
of what we desire to know regarding
the silent, because voiceless, inhabitants
of the world of waters?</p>

<p>But that which naturalists have
been unable to accomplish, has, so
far as concerns the two invaluable
species just alluded to, been achieved
by others with no pretension to the
name; and we now propose to present
our readers with a brief sketch of
what we conceive to be the completed
biography of salmon and sea-trout.
In stating that our information has
been almost entirely derived from
the researches of practical men, we
wish it to be understood, and shall
afterwards endeavour to demonstrate,
that these researches have, nevertheless,
been conducted upon those inductive
principles which are so often
characteristic of natural acuteness of
perception, when combined with candour
of mind and honesty of purpose.
We believe it to be the opinion of
many, that statements by comparatively
uneducated persons are less to be relied
upon than those of men of science. It
may, perhaps, be somewhat difficult
to define in all cases what really constitutes
a man of science. Many
sensible people suppose, that if a person
pursues an original truth, and
obtains it&mdash;that is, if he ascertains a
previously unknown or obscure fact of
importance, and states his observations
with intelligence&mdash;he is entitled to that
character, whatever his station may be.
For ourselves, we would even say that
if his researches are truly valuable, he
is himself all the more a man of science
in proportion to the difficulties or disadvantages
by which his position in
life may be surrounded.</p>

<p>The development and early growth
of salmon, from the ovum to the smolt,
were first successfully investigated by
Mr John Shaw of Drumlanrig, one of
the Duke of Buccleuch's gamekeepers
in the south of Scotland. Its subsequent
progress from the smolt to the
adult condition, through the transitionary
state of grilse, has been
more recently traced, with corresponding
care, by Mr Andrew Young of Invershin,
the manager of the Duke of
Sutherland's fisheries in the north.
Although the fact of the parr being
the young of the salmon had been
vaguely surmised by many, and it was
generally admitted that the smaller
fish were never found to occur except
in streams or tributaries to which the
grown salmon had, in some way, the
power of access, yet all who have
any acquaintance with the works of
naturalists, will acknowledge that the
parr was universally described as a
distinct species. It is equally certain
that all who have written upon the
subject of smolts or salmon-fry, maintained
that these grew rapidly in fresh
water, and made their way to the sea
in the course of a few weeks after they
were hatched.</p>

<p>Now, Mr Shaw's discovery in relation
to these matters is in a manner
twofold; first&mdash;he ascertained by a
lengthened series of rigorous and frequently-repeated
experimental observations,
that parr are the early state of
salmon, being afterwards converted
into smolts; secondly,&mdash;he proved that
such conversion does not, under ordinary
circumstances take place until the
second spring ensuing that in which
the hatching has occurred, by which
time the young are <i>two years old</i>. The
fact is, that during early spring there
are three distinct broods of parr or
young salmon in our rivers.</p>

<p>1st, We have those which, recently
excluded from the ova, are still invisible
to common eyes; or, at least, are
inconspicuous or unobservable. Being
weak, in consequence of their recent
emergence from the egg, and of extremely
small dimensions, they are
unable to withstand the rapid flow of
water, and so betake themselves to the
gentler eddies, and frequently enter
&quot;into the small hollows produced in
the shingle by the hoofs of horses
which have passed the fords.&quot; In
these and similar resting-places, our
little natural philosophers, instinctively
aware that the current of a stream
is less below than above, and along
the sides than in the centre, remain
for several months during spring, and
the earlier portion of the summer, till
they gain such an increase of size and
strength as enables them to spread
themselves abroad over other portions
of the river, especially those shallow
places where the bottom is composed
of fine gravel. But at this time their
shy and shingle-seeking habits in a
great measure screen them from the
observance of the uninitiated.</p>

<p>2dly, We have likewise, during the
spring season, parr which have just
completed their first year. As these
have gained little or no accession of
size during the winter months, owing
to the low temperature both of the air
and water, and the consequent deficiency
of insect food, their dimensions
are scarcely greater than at the end of
the preceding October: that is, they
measure in length little more than
three inches.&mdash;(N.B. The old belief
was that they grew nine inches in
about three weeks, and as suddenly
sought the turmoil of the sea.) They
increase, however in size as the summer
advances, and are then the declared
and admitted parr of anglers and other
men.</p>

<p>3dly, Simultaneously with the two
preceding broods, our rivers are inhabited
during March and April by parr
which have completed their second
year. These measure six or seven
inches in length, and in the months of
April and May they assume the fine
silvery aspect which characterizes their
migratory condition,&mdash;in other words,
they are converted into smolts, (the
admitted fry of salmon,) and immediately
make their way towards the sea.</p>

<p>Now, the fundamental error which
pervaded the views of previous observers
of the subject, consisted in the
sudden sequence which they chose to
establish between the hatching of the
ova in early spring, and the speedy
appearance of the acknowledged salmon-fry
in their lustrous dress of
blue and silver. Observing, in the
first place, the hatching of the ova,
and, erelong, the seaward migration
of the smolts, they imagined these two
facts to take place in the relation of
immediate or connected succession;
whereas they had no more to do with
each other than an infant in the nursery
has to do with his elder, though
not very ancient, brother, who may be
going to school. The rapidity with
which the two-year-old parr are converted
into smolts, and the timid habits
of the new-hatched fry, which
render them almost entirely invisible
during the first few months of their
existence,&mdash;these two circumstances
combined, have no doubt induced the
erroneous belief that the silvery
smolts were the actual produce of
the very season in which they are
first observed in their migratory dress:
that is, that they were only a few
weeks old, instead of being upwards
of two years. It is certainly singular,
however, that no enquirer of the old
school should have ever bethought
himself of the mysterious fate of the
two-year-old parr, (supposing them
not to be young salmon,) none of
which, of course, are visible after the
smolts have taken their departure to
the sea. If the two fish, it may be
asked, are not identical, how does it
happen that the one so constantly disappears
along with the other? Yet
no one alleges that he has ever seen
parr <i>as such</i>, making a journey towards
the sea &quot;They cannot do
so&quot; says Mr Shaw, &quot;because they
have been previously converted into
smolts.&quot;</p>

<p>Mr Shaw's investigations were carried
on for a series of years, both on
the fry as it existed naturally in the
river, and on captive broods produced
from ova deposited by adult salmon,
and conveyed to ingeniously-constructed
experimental ponds, in which
the excluded young were afterwards
nourished till they threw off the livery
of the parr, and underwent their final
conversion into smolts. When this
latter change took place, the migratory
instinct became so strong that
many of them, after searching in vain
to escape from their prison&mdash;the little
streamlet of the pond being barred by
fine wire gratings&mdash;threw themselves
by a kind of parabolic somerset upon
the bank and perished. But, previous
to this, he had repeatedly observed and
recorded the slowly progressive growth
to which we have alluded. The value
of the parr, then, and the propriety of
a judicious application of our statutory
regulations to the preservation of
that small, and, as hitherto supposed,
insignificant fish, will be obvious without
further comment.<a name="footnotetag16" id="footnotetag16"></a><a href="#footnote16"><sup>16</sup></a></p>

<p>Having now exhibited the progress
of the salmon fry from the ovum to
the smolt, our next step shall be to
show the connexion of the latter with
the grilse. As no experimental observations
regarding the future dimensions
of the <i>d&eacute;tenus</i> of the ponds could
be regarded as legitimate in relation
to the usual increase of the species,
(any more than we could judge of the
growth of a young English guardsman
in the prisons of Verdun,) after the
period of their natural migration to
the sea, and as Mr Shaw's distance
from the salt water&mdash;twenty-five miles,
we believe, windings included&mdash;debarred
his carrying on his investigations
much further with advantage, he
wisely turned his attention to a different,
though cognate subject, to which
we shall afterwards refer. We are,
however, fortunately enabled to proceed
with our history of the adolescent
salmon by means of another ingenious
observer already named, Mr
Andrew Young of Invershin.</p>

<p>It had always been the prevailing
belief that smolts grew rapidly into
grilse, and the latter into salmon.
But as soon as we became assured of
the gross errors of naturalists, and
all other observers, regarding the progress
of the fry in fresh water, and
how a few weeks had been substituted
for a period of a couple of years, it
was natural that considerate people
should suspect that equal errors might
pervade the subsequent history of this
important species. It appears, however,
that <i>marine</i> influence (in whatever
way it works) does indeed exercise
a most extraordinary effect upon
those migrants from our upland
streams, and that the extremely rapid
transit of a smolt to a grilse, and of
the latter to an adult salmon, is strictly
true. Although Mr Young's labours
in this department differ from Mr
Shaw's, in being rather confirmatory
than original, we consider them of
great value, as reducing the subject to
a systematic form, and impressing it
with the force and clearness of the
most successful demonstration.</p>

<p>Mr Young's first experiments were
commenced as far back as 1836, and
were originally undertaken with a
view to show whether the salmon of
each particular river, after descending
to the sea, returned again to their original
spawning-beds, or whether,
as some supposed, the main body, returning
coastwards from their feeding
grounds in more distant parts of the
ocean, and advancing along our island
shores, were merely thrown into, or
induced to enter, estuaries and rivers
by accidental circumstances; and that
the numbers obtained in these latter
localities thus depended mainly on
wind and weather, or other physical
conditions, being suitable to their upward
progress at the time of their
nearing the mouths of the fresher
waters. To settle this point, he caught
and marked all the spawned fish which
he could obtain in the course of the
winter months during their sojourn in
the rivers. As soon as he had hauled
the fish ashore, he made peculiar
marks in their caudal fins by means
of a pair of nipping-irons, and immediately
threw then back into the
water. In the course of the following
fishing season great numbers were
recaptured on their return from the
sea, each in its own river bearing its
peculiar mark. &quot;We have also,&quot;
Mr Young informs us, &quot;another
proof of the fact, that the different
breeds or races of salmon continue to
revisit their native streams. You are
aware that the river Shin falls into the
Oykel at Invershin, and that the conjoined
waters of these rivers, with the
Carron and other streams, form the
estuary of the Oykel, which flows
into the more open sea beyond, or
eastwards of the bar, below the Gizzen
Brigs. Now, were the salmon
which enter the mouth of the estuary
at the bar thrown in merely by accident
or chance, we should expect to
find the fish of all the various rivers
which form the estuary of the same
average weight; for, if it were a mere
matter of chance, then a mixture of
small and great would occur indifferently
in each of the interior streams.
But the reverse of this is the case.
The salmon in the Shin will average
from seventeen pounds to eighteen
pounds in weight, while those of the
Oykel scarcely attain an average of
half that weight. I am, therefore,
quite satisfied, as well by having
marked spawned fish descending to
the sea, and caught them ascending
the same river, and bearing that river's
mark, as by a long-continued general
observation of the weight, size, and
even something of the form, that
every river has its own breed, and
that breed continues, till captured and
killed, to return from year to year
into its native stream.&quot;</p>

<p>We have heard of a partial exception
to this instinctive habit, which,
however, essentially confirms the rule.
We are informed that a Shin salmon
(recognized as such by its shape and
size) was, on a certain occasion, captured
in the river Conon, a fine stream which
flows into the upper portion of the neighbouring
Frith of Cromarty. It was marked
and returned to the river, and was
taken <i>next day</i> in its native stream
the Shin, having, on discovering its mistake,
descended the Cromarty Frith,
skirted the intermediate portion of
the outer coast by Tarbet Ness, and ascended
the estuary of the Oykel. The
distance may be about sixty miles. On
the other hand, we are informed by a
Sutherland correspondent of a fact of
another nature, which bears strongly
upon the pertinacity with which these
fine fish endeavour to regain their
spawning ground. By the side of the
river Helmsdale there was once a portion
of an old channel forming an angular
bend with the actual river. In
summer, it was only partially filled
by a detached or landlocked pool,
but in winter, a more lively communication
was renewed by the superabounding
waters. This old channel
was, however, not only resorted to by
salmon as a piece of spawning ground
during the colder season of the year,
but was sought for again instinctively
in summer during their upward migration,
when there was no water running
through it. The fish being, of
course, unable to attain their object,
have been seen, after various aerial
boundings, to fall, in the course of
their exertions, upon the dry gravel
bank between the river and the pool
of water, where they were picked up
by the considerate natives.</p>

<p>No sooner had Mr Young satisfied
himself that the produce of a river invariably
returned to that river after
descending to the sea, than he commenced
his operations upon the smolts&mdash;taking
up the subject where it was
unavoidably left off by Mr Shaw<a name="footnotetag17" id="footnotetag17"></a><a href="#footnote17"><sup>17</sup></a>.
His long-continued superintendence
of the Duke of Sutherland's fisheries in
the north of Scotland, and his peculiar
position as residing almost within
a few yards of the noted river Shin,
afforded advantages of which he was
not slow to make assiduous use. He
has now performed numerous and
varied experiments, and finds that,
notwithstanding the slow growth of
parr in fresh water, &quot;such is the
influence of the sea as a more
enlarged and salubrious sphere of life,
that the very smolts which descend
into it from the rivers in spring,
ascend into the fresh waters in the
course of the immediate summer as
grilse, varying in size in proportion
to the length of their stay in
salt water.&quot;</p>

<p>For example, in the spring of 1837,
Mr Young marked a great quantity of
descending smolts, by making a perforation
in their caudal fins with a
small pair of nipping-irons constructed
for the purpose, and in the ensuing
months of June and July he recaptured
a considerable number on their
return to the rivers, all in the condition
of grilse, and varying from 3lbs.
to 8lbs., &quot;according to the time which
had elapsed since their first departure
from the fresh water, or, in other
words, the length of their sojourn in
the sea.&quot; In the spring of 1842, he
likewise marked a number of descending
smolts, by clipping off what is
called the adipose fin upon the back.
In the course of the ensuing June and
July, he caught them returning up
the river, bearing his peculiar mark,
and agreeing with those of 1837 both
in respect to size, and the relation
which that size bore to the lapse
of time.</p>

<p>The following list from Mr Young's
note-book, affords a few examples of
the rate of growth:&mdash;</p>

<p><i>List of Smolts marked in the River, and recaptured as Grilse on their first ascent
from the Sea.</i></p>

<table summary="" border class="blkquot">
  <tr>
    <td>&nbsp;Period of marking.&nbsp;</td>
    <td>&nbsp;Period of recapture.&nbsp;</td>
    <td>&nbsp;Weight when retaken.&nbsp;</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>&nbsp;1842. April and May.&nbsp;</td>
    <td align="right">1842. June 28.&nbsp;</td>
    <td align="center">4 lb.</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
    <td align="right">July 15.&nbsp;</td>
    <td align="center">5 lb</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
    <td align="right">15.&nbsp;</td>
    <td align="center">5 lb.</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
    <td align="right">25.&nbsp;</td>
    <td align="center">7 lb.<a name="footnotetag18" id="footnotetag18"></a><a href="#footnote18"><sup>18</sup></a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
    <td align="right">25.&nbsp;</td>
    <td align="center">5 lb.</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
    <td align="right">30.&nbsp;</td>
    <td align="center">3&frac12; lb.<a href="#footnote18"><sup>18</sup></a></td>
  </tr>
</table>

<p>We may now proceed to consider
the final change,&mdash;that of the grilse
into the adult salmon. We have just
seen that smolts return to the rivers
as grilse, (of the weights above noted,)
during the summer and autumn of the
same season in which they had descended
for the first time to the sea.
Such as seek the rivers in the earlier part
of summer are of small size, because
they have sojourned for but a short
time in the sea:&mdash;such as abide in the
sea till autumn, attain of course a larger
size. But it appears to be an established,
though till now an unknown
fact, that with the exception of the
early state of parr, in which the growth
has been shown to be extremely slow,
salmon actually never do grow in fresh
water at all, either as grilse or in the
adult state. All their growth in these
two most important later stages, takes
place during their sojourn in the sea.
&quot;Not only,&quot; says Mr Young, &quot;is this
the case, but I have also ascertained
that they actually decrease in dimensions
after entering the river, and that
the higher they ascend the more they
deteriorate both in weight and quality.
In corroboration of this I may refer to
the extensive fisheries of the Duke of
Sutherland, where the fish of each
station of the same river are kept distinct
from those of another station, and
where we have had ample proof that
salmon habitually decrease in weight
in proportion to their time and distance
from the sea.&quot;<a name="footnotetag19" id="footnotetag19"></a><a href="#footnote19"><sup>19</sup></a></p>

<p>Mr Young commenced marking grilses,
with a view to ascertain that they
became salmon, as far back as 1837,
and has continued to do so ever since,
though never two seasons with the
same mark. We shall here record only
the results of the two preceding years.
In the spring of 1841, he marked a
number of spawned grilse soon after
the conclusion of the spawning period.
Taking his &quot;net and coble,&quot; he fished
the river for the special purpose, and
all the spawned grilse of 4 lb. weight
were marked by putting a peculiarly
twisted piece of wire through the dorsal
fin. They were immediately thrown
into the river, and of course disappeared,
making their way downwards with
other spawned fish towards the sea.
&quot;In the course of the next summer we
again caught several of those fish which
we had thus marked with wire as 4 lb.
grilse, grown in the short period of
four or five months into beautiful full-formed
salmon, ranging from 9 lb. to
14 lb. in weight, the difference still
depending on the length of their sojourn
in the sea.&quot;</p>

<p>In January 1842, he repeated the
same process of marking 4 lb. grilse
which had spawned, and were therefore
about to seek the sea; but, instead of
placing the wire in the back fin, he
this year fixed it in the upper lobe of
the tail, or caudal fin. On their return
from the sea, he caught many of these
quondam grilse converted into salmon
as before. The following lists will
serve to illustrate the rate of growth:&mdash;</p>
<br>

<p><i>List of Grilse marked after having spawned, and re-captured as Salmon, on their
second ascent from the Sea.</i></p>

<table summary="" border align="center">
  <tr>
    <td>&nbsp;Period of marking.&nbsp;</td>
    <td>&nbsp;Period of recapture.&nbsp;</td>
    <td>&nbsp;Weight when marked.&nbsp;</td>
    <td>&nbsp;Weight when retaken.&nbsp;</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td align="right">1841. Feb. 18.&nbsp;</td>
    <td align="right">1841. June 23.&nbsp;</td>
    <td align="center">4 lbs.</td>
    <td align="center">9 lbs.</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td align="right">18.&nbsp;</td>
    <td align="right">23.&nbsp;</td>
    <td align="center">4 lbs.</td>
    <td align="center">11 lbs.</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td align="right">18.&nbsp;</td>
    <td align="right">25.&nbsp;</td>
    <td align="center">4 lbs.</td>
    <td align="center">9 lbs.</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td align="right">18.&nbsp;</td>
    <td align="right">25.&nbsp;</td>
    <td align="center">4 lbs.</td>
    <td align="center">10 lbs.</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td align="right">18.&nbsp;</td>
    <td align="right">July 27.&nbsp;</td>
    <td align="center">4 lbs.</td>
    <td align="center">13 lbs.</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td align="right">18.&nbsp;</td>
    <td align="right">28.&nbsp;</td>
    <td align="center">4 lbs.</td>
    <td align="center">10 lbs.</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td align="right">March 4.&nbsp;</td>
    <td align="right">July 1.&nbsp;</td>
    <td align="center">4 lbs.</td>
    <td align="center">12 lbs.</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td align="right">4.&nbsp;</td>
    <td align="right">1.&nbsp;</td>
    <td align="center">4 lbs.</td>
    <td align="center">14 lbs.</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td align="right">4.&nbsp;</td>
    <td align="right">27.&nbsp;</td>
    <td align="center">4 lbs.</td>
    <td align="center">12 lbs.</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td align="right">1842. Jan. 29.&nbsp;</td>
    <td align="right">1842. July 4.&nbsp;</td>
    <td align="center">4 lbs.</td>
    <td align="center">8 lbs.<a name="footnotetag20" id="footnotetag20"></a><a href="#footnote20"><sup>20</sup></a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td align="right">29.&nbsp;</td>
    <td align="right">14.&nbsp;</td>
    <td align="center">4 lbs.</td>
    <td align="center">9 lbs.<a href="#footnote20"><sup>20</sup></a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td align="right">29.&nbsp;</td>
    <td align="right">14.&nbsp;</td>
    <td align="center">4 lbs.</td>
    <td align="center">8 lbs.</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td align="right">March 8.&nbsp;</td>
    <td align="right">23.&nbsp;</td>
    <td align="center">4 lbs.</td>
    <td align="center">9 lbs.</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td align="right">Jan. 29.&nbsp;</td>
    <td align="right">29.&nbsp;</td>
    <td align="center">4 lbs.</td>
    <td align="center">11 lbs.</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td align="right">March 8.&nbsp;</td>
    <td align="right">Aug. 4.&nbsp;</td>
    <td align="center">4 lbs.</td>
    <td align="center">10 lbs.</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td align="right">Jan. 29.&nbsp;</td>
    <td align="right">11.&nbsp;</td>
    <td align="center">4 lbs.</td>
    <td align="center">12 lbs.</td>
  </tr>
</table>

<p>During both these seasons, Mr
Young informs us, he caught far more
marked grilse returning with the form
and attributes of perfect salmon, than
are recorded in the preceding lists.
&quot;In many specimens the wires had
been torn from the fins, either by the
action of the nets or other casualties;
and, although I could myself recognise
distinctly that they were the fish I had
marked, I kept no note of them. All
those recorded in my lists returned and
were captured with the twisted wires
complete, the same as the specimens
transmitted for your examination.&quot;</p>

<p>We agree with Mr Young in thinking
that the preceding facts, viewed in
connexion with Mr Shaw's prior observations,
entitle us to say, that we
are now well acquainted with the history
and habits of the salmon, and its
usual rate of growth from the ovum to
the adult state. The young are hatched
after a period which admits of considerable
range, according to the temperature
of the season, or the modifying
character of special localities.<a name="footnotetag21" id="footnotetag21"></a><a href="#footnote21"><sup>21</sup></a> They
usually burst the capsule of the egg in
90 to 100 days after deposition, but
they still continue for a considerable
time beneath the gravel, with the yelk
or vitelline portion of the egg adhering
to the body; and from this appendage,
which Mr Shaw likens to a red currant,
they probably derive their sole
nourishment for several weeks. But
though the lapse of 140 or even 150
days from the period of deposition is
frequently required to perfect the form
of these little fishes, which even then
measure scarcely more than an inch in
length, their subsequent growth is still
extremely slow; and the silvery aspect
of the smolt is seldom assumed till
after the expiry of a couple of years.
The great mass of these smolts descend
to the sea during the months of April
and May,&mdash;the varying range of the
spawning and hatching season carrying
with it a somewhat corresponding
range in the assumption of the first
signal change, and the consequent
movement to the sea. They return
under the greatly enlarged form of
grilse, as already stated, and these
grilse spawn that same season in common
with the salmon, and then both
the one and the other re-descend into
the sea in the course of the winter or
ensuing spring. They all return again
to the rivers sooner or later, in accordance,
as we believe, with the
time they had previously left it after
spawning, early or late. The grilse
have now become salmon by the time
of their second ascent from the sea;
and no further change takes place in
their character or attributes, except
that such as survive the snares of the
fishermen, the wily chambers of the
cruives, the angler's gaudy hook, or
the poacher's spear, continue to increase
in size from year to year. Such,
however, is now the perfection of our
fisheries, and the facilities for conveying
this princely species even from our
northern rivers, and the &quot;distant islands
of the sea,&quot; to the luxurious cities
of more populous districts, that we
greatly doubt if any salmon ever attains
a good old age, or is allowed to
die a natural death. We are not possessed
of sufficient data from which to
judge either of their natural term of
life, or of their ultimate increase of
size. They are occasionally, though
rarely, killed in Britain of the weight
of forty and even fifty pounds. In the
comparatively unfished rivers of
Scandinavia large salmon are much more
frequent, although the largest we ever
heard of was an English fish which
came into the possession of Mr Groves,
of Bond Street. It was a female, and
weighed eighty-three pounds. In the
year 1841, Mr Young marked a few
spawned salmon along with his grilse,
employing as a distinctive mark copper
wire instead of brass. One of
these, weighing twelve pounds, was
marked on the 4th of March, and was
recaptured on returning from the sea
on the 10th of July, weighing eighteen
pounds. But as we know not whether
it made its way to the sea immediately
after being marked, we cannot accurately
infer the rate of increase. It
probably becomes slower every year,
after the assumption of the adult state.
Why the salmon of one river should
greatly exceed the average weight of
those of another into which it flows, is
a problem which we cannot solve.
The fact, for example, of the river
Shin flowing from a large lake, with a
course of only a few miles, into the
Oykel, although it accounts for its
being an <i>early</i> river, owing to the receptive
depth, and consequently higher
temperature of its great nursing mother,
Loch Shin, in no way, so far at
least as we can see, explains the great
size of the Shin fish, which are taken
in scores of twenty pounds' weight.
They have little or nothing to do with
the loch itself, haunting habitually the
brawling stream, and spawning in the
shallower fords, at some distance up,
but still below the great basin;<a name="footnotetag22" id="footnotetag22"></a><a href="#footnote22"><sup>22</sup></a> and
there are no physical peculiarities
which in any way distinguish the Shin
from many other lake born northern
rivers, where salmon do not average
half the size.</p>

<p>Leaving the country of the <i>Morer
Chatt</i> (the Celtic title of the Earls of
Sutherland) we shall now return to
the retainer of the &quot;bold Buccleuch.&quot;
We have already mentioned that Mr
Shaw, having so successfully illustrated
the early history of salmon, next turned
his attention to a cognate subject,
that of the sea-trout (<i>Salmo-trutta</i>?)
Although no positive observations of
any value, anterior to those now before
us, had been made upon this species,
it is obvious that as soon as his discoveries
regarding salmon fry had afforded,
as it were, the key to this portion
of nature's secrets, it was easy for any
one to infer that the old notions regarding
the former fish were equally
erroneous. Various modifications of
these views took place accordingly; but
no one ascertained the truth by observation.
Mr Shaw was, therefore, entitled
to proceed as if the matter were
solely in his own hands; and he makes
no mention either of the &quot;vain imaginations&quot;
of Dr Knox, the more careful
compilation of Mr Yarrell, or the still
closer, but by no means approximate
calculations of Richard Parnell, M.D.
In this he has acted wisely, seeing that
his own essay professes to be simply
a statement of facts, and not an
historical exposition of the progress of
error.</p>

<p>It would, indeed, have been singular
if two species, in many respects so
closely allied in their general structure
any economy, had been found to differ
very materially in any essential point.
It now appears, however, that Mr
Shaw's original discovery of the slow
growth of salmon fry in fresh water,
applies equally to sea trout; and, indeed,
his observations on the latter are valuable
not only in themselves, but as confirmatory
of his remarks upon the former
species. The same principle has
been found to regulate the growth and
migrations of both, and Mr Shaw's two
contributions thus mutually strengthen
and support each other.</p>

<p>The sea trout is well known to
anglers as one of the liveliest of all the
fishes subject to his lure. Two species
are supposed by naturalists to haunt
our rivers&mdash;<i>Salmo eriox</i>, the bull
trout of the Tweed, comparatively
rare on the western and northern
coasts of Scotland, and <i>Salmo trutta</i>,
commonly called the sea or white trout,
but, like the other species, also known
under a variety of provincial names,
somewhat vaguely applied. In its various
and progressive stages, it passes
under the names of fry, smolt, orange-fin,
phinock, herling, whitling, sea-trout,
and salmon-trout. It is likewise
the &quot;Fordwich trout&quot; of Izaak Walton,
described by that poetical old piscator
as &quot;rare good meat.&quot; As an
article of diet it indeed ranks next
to the salmon, and is much superior
in that respect to its near relation,
<i>S. eriox</i>. It is taken in the more
seaward pools of our northern rivers,
sometimes in several hundreds at
a single haul; and vast quantities,
after being boiled, and hermetically
sealed in tin cases, are extensively
consumed both in our home
and foreign markets. But, notwithstanding
its great commercial value,
naturalists have failed to present us
with any accurate account of its consecutive
history from the ovum to the
adult state. This desideratum we are
now enabled to supply through Mr
Shaw.</p>

<p>On the 1st of November 1839, this
ingenious observer perceived a pair of
sea-trouts engaged together in depositing
their spawn among the gravel of
one of the tributaries of the river
Nith, and being unprovided at the
moment with any apparatus for their
capture, he had recourse to his fowling-piece.
Watching the moment
when they lay parallel to each other,
he fired across the heads of the devoted
pair, and immediately secured
them both, although, as it afterwards
appeared, rather by the influence of
concussion than the more immediate
action of the shot. They were about
six inches under water. Having obtained
a sufficient supply of the impregnated
spawn, he removed it in a
bag of wire gauze to his experimental
ponds. At this period the temperature
of the water was about 47&deg;, but
in the course of the winter it ranged
a few degrees lower. By the fortieth
day the embryo fish were visible to the
naked eye, and, on the 14th January,
(seventy-five days after deposition,)
the fry were excluded from the egg.
At this early period, the brood exhibit
no perceptible difference from that of
the salmon, except that they are somewhat
smaller, and of paler hue. In
two months they were an inch long,
and had then assumed those lateral
markings so characteristic of the young
of all the known <i>Salmonid&aelig;</i>. They
increased in size slowly, measuring
only three inches in length by the
month of October, at which time they
were nine months old. In January
1841, they had increased to three and
a half inches, exhibiting a somewhat
defective condition during the winter
months, in one or more of which, Mr
Shaw seems to think, they scarcely
grow at all. We need not here go
through the entire detail of these experiments.<a name="footnotetag23" id="footnotetag23"></a><a href="#footnote23"><sup>23</sup></a>
In October (twenty-one
months) they measured six inches in
length, and had lost those lateral bars,
or transverse markings, which characterise
the general family in their early
state. At this period they greatly
resembled certain varieties of the
common river-trout, and the males
had now attained the age of sexual
completion, although none of the females
had matured the roe. This physiological
fact is also observable in the
true salmon. In the month of May,
three-fourths of the brood (being now
upwards of two years old, and seven
inches long) assumed the fine clear
silvery lustre which characterises the
migratory condition, being thus converted
into smolts, closely resembling
those of salmon in their general aspect,
although easily to be distinguished by
the orange tips of the pectoral fins,
and other characters with which we
shall not here afflict our readers.</p>

<p>The natural economy of the sea-trout
thus far approximates that of the
genuine salmon, but with the following
exception. Mr Shaw is of opinion
that about one-fourth of each brood
never assume the silvery lustre; and,
as they are never seen to migrate in a
dusky state towards the sea, he infers
that a certain portion of the species
may be permanent residents in fresh
water.<a name="footnotetag24" id="footnotetag24"></a><a href="#footnote24"><sup>24</sup></a> In this respect, then, they
resemble the river-trout, and afford an
example of those numerous gradations,
both of form and instinct, which compose
the harmonious chain of nature's
perfect kingdom. In support of this
power of adaptation to fresh water
possessed by sea-trout, Mr Shaw refers
to a statement by the late Dr McCulloch,
that these fish had become permanent
inhabitants of a loch in the
island of Lismore, Argyllshire. Similar
facts have been recorded by other naturalists,
though, upon the whole, in a
somewhat vague and inconclusive
manner. We have it in our power
to mention a very marked example.
When certain springs were conducted,
about twenty years ago, from the
slopes of the Pentland Hills, near
Edinburgh, into that city, which Dr
Johnson regarded as by no means
abundantly supplied with the &quot;pure
element of water,&quot; it was necessary to
compensate the mill-owners by another
supply. Accordingly a valley,
(the supposed scene of Allan Ramsay's
&quot;Gentle Shepherd,&quot;) through which
there flowed a small stream, had a
great embankment thrown across it.
After this operation, of course the
waters of the upper portion of the
stream speedily rose to a level with
the sluices, thus forming a small lake,
commonly called the &quot;Compensation
Pond.&quot; The flow of water now escapes
by throwing itself over the outer
side of the embankment, which is lofty
and precipitous, in the form of a cataract,
up which no fish can possibly
ascend. Yet in the pond itself we
have recently ascertained the existence
of sea-trout in a healthy state, although
such as we have examined,
being young, were of small size.
These attributes, however, were all
the more important as proving the
breeding condition of the parents in
a state of prolonged captivity. It is
obvious that sea-trout must have made
their way (in fulfilment of their natural
migratory instinct) into the higher
portions of the stream prior to the
completion of the obstructing dam;
and as none could have ascended since,
it follows that the individuals in question
(themselves and their descendants)
must have lived and bred in fresh
water, without access to the sea, for a
continuous period of nearly twenty
years. This is not only a curious
fact in the natural history of the species,
but it is one of some importance
in an economical point of view. Sea-trout,
as an article of diet, are much
more valuable than river-trout; and
if it can be ascertained that they breed
freely, and live healthily, without the
necessity of access to the sea, it would
then become the duty, as it would
doubtless be the desire, of those
engaged in the construction of artificial
ponds, to stock those receptacles rather
with the former than the latter.<a name="footnotetag25" id="footnotetag25"></a><a href="#footnote25"><sup>25</sup></a></p>

<p>Having narrated the result of Mr
Shaw's experiment up to the migratory
state of his brood, we shall now
refer to the further progress of the
species. This, of course, we can only
do by turning our attention to the
corresponding condition of the fry in
their natural places in the river. So
far back as the 9th of May 1836, our
observer noticed salmon fry descending
seawards, and he took occasion to
capture a considerable number by
admitting them into the salmon cruive.
On examination, he found about
one-fifth of each shoal to be what he
considered sea-trout. Wisely regarding
this as a favourable opportunity of
ascertaining to what extent they would
afterwards &quot;suffer a sea change,&quot; he
marked all the smolts of that species
(about ninety in number) by cutting
off the whole of the adipose fin, and
three-quarters of the dorsal. At a
distance, by the course of the river,
of twenty-five miles from the sea, he
was not sanguine of recapturing many
of these individuals, and in this expectation
he was not agreeably surprised
by any better success than he expected.
However, on the 16th of July,
exactly eighty days afterwards, he recaptured
as a <i>herling</i> (the next progressive
stage) an individual bearing
the marks he had inflicted on the
young sea-trout in the previous May.
It measured twelve inches in length,
and weighed ten ounces. As the average
weight of the migrating fry is
about three and a half ounces, it had
thus gained an increase of six and a
half ounces in about eighty days' residence
in salt water, supposing it to
have descended to the sea immediately
after its markings were imposed. In
this condition of herlings or phinocks,
young sea-trout enter many of our
rivers in great abundance in the
months of July and August.</p>

<p>On the 1st of August 1837&mdash;fifteen
months after being marked as fry, on
its way to the sea&mdash;another individual
was caught, and recognised by the absence
of one fin, and the curtailment
of another. This specimen, as well as
others, had no doubt returned, and escaped
detection as a herling, in 1836;
but it was born for greater things,
and when captured, as above stated,
weighed two pounds and a half. &quot;He
may be supposed,&quot; says Mr Shaw, &quot;to
represent pretty correctly the average
size of sea-trout on their second migration
from the sea.&quot; In this state they
usually make their appearance in our
rivers, (we refer at present particularly
to those of Scotland,) in greatest abundance
in the months of May and June.
This view of the progress of the species
clearly accounts for a fact well
known to anglers, that in spring and
the commencement of summer, larger
sea-trout are caught than in July and
August, which would not be the case
if they were all fish of the same season.
But the former are herlings
which have descended, after spawning
early, to the sea, and returned with the
increase just mentioned; the latter were
nothing more than smolts in May, and
have only once enjoyed the benefit of
sea bathing. They are a year younger
than the others.</p>

<p>As herlings (sea-trout in their third
year) abounded in the river Nith during
the summer of 1834, Mr Shaw
marked a great number (524) by cutting
off the adipose fin. &quot;During the
following summer (1835) I recaptured
sixty-eight of the above number
as sea-trout, weighing on an average
about two and a half pounds. On these
I put a second distinct mark, and again
returned them to the river, and on the
next ensuing summer (1836) I recaptured
a portion of them, about one
in twenty, averaging a weight of four
pounds. I now marked them distinctively
for the third time, and once
more returned them to the river, also
for the third time. On the following
season (23d day of August 1837) I
recaptured the individual now exhibited,
for the fourth time.<a name="footnotetag26" id="footnotetag26"></a><a href="#footnote26"><sup>26</sup></a> It then
weighed six pounds.&quot; This is indeed
an eventful history, and we question if
any <i>Salmo trutta</i> ever before felt himself
so often out of his element. However,
the individual referred to must
undoubtedly be regarded as extremely
interesting to the naturalist. It exhibits,
at a single glance, the various
marks put upon itself and its companions,
as they were successively recaptured,
from year to year, on their
return to the river&mdash;viz. 1st, The absence
of the adipose fin, (herling of ten
or twelve ounces in 1834;) 2dly, One-third
part of the dorsal fin removed,
(sea-trout of two and a half pounds in
1835;) 3dly, A portion of the anal fin
clipt off (large sea-trout of four pounds
in 1836). In the 4th and last place, it
shows, in its own proper person, as
leader of the forlorn hope of 1837, the
state in which it was finally captured
and killed, of the weight of six pounds.
It was then in its sixth year, and, representing
the adult condition of this
migratory species, we think it renders
further investigation unnecessary.</p>

<p>From these and other experiments
of a similar nature, which Mr Shaw
has been conducting for many years,
he has come to the conclusion, that
the small fry called &quot;Orange-fins,&quot;
which are found journeying to the sea
with smolts of the true salmon, are the
young of sea-trout of the age of two
years;&mdash;that the same individuals, after
nine or ten weeks' sojourn in salt
water, ascend the rivers as herlings,
weighing ten or twelve ounces and on
the approach of autumn pass into our
smaller tributaries with a view to the
continuance of their kind;&mdash;that, having
spawned, they re-descend into the
sea, where their increase of size (about
one and a half pound per annum) is
almost totally obtained;&mdash;and that they
return annually, with an accession of
size, for several seasons, to the rivers
in which their parents gave them birth.
In proof of this last point, Mr Shaw
informs us, that of the many hundred
sea-trout of different ages which he
has marked in various modes, he is not
aware that even a single individual
has ever found its way into any tributary
of the Solway, saving that of the
river Nith.</p>

<hr class="full" />



<a name="bw329s8" id="bw329s8"></a><h2>CALEB STUKELY.</h2>

<h3>PART THE LAST.</h3>

<h3>TRANQUILITY.</h3>
<br>

<p>The sudden and unlooked-for appearance
of James Temple threw light
upon a mystery. Further explanation
awaited me in the house from which
the unfortunate man had rushed to
meet instant death and all its consequences.
It will be remembered that,
in the narrative of his victim, mention
is made of one Mrs Wybrow, with
whom the poor girl, upon the loss of
her father and of all means of support,
obtained a temporary home. It
appeared that Fredrick Harrington,
a few months after his flight, returned
secretly to the village, and, at the
house of that benevolent woman, made
earnest application for his sister. He
was then excited and half insane,
speaking extravagantly of his views
and his intentions in respect of her he
came to take away. &quot;She should be
a duchess,&quot; he said, &quot;and must take
precedence of every lady in the land.
He was a king himself and could command
it so. He could perform wonders,
if he chose to use the power
with which he was invested; but he
would wait until his sister might reap
the benefit of his acquired wealth.&quot; In
this strain he continued, alarming the
placid Mrs Wybrow, who knew not
what to do to moderate the wildness
and the vehemence of his demeanour.
Hoping, however, to appease him, she
told him of the good fortune of his sister&mdash;how
she had obtained a happy
home, and how grateful he ought to
be to Providence for its kind care of
her. Much more she said, only to
increase the anger of the man, whose
insane pride was roused to fury the
moment that he heard his sister was
doomed to eat the bread of a dependent.
He disdained the assistance of
Mrs Temple&mdash;swore it was an artifice,
a cheat, and that he would drag her
from the net into which they had enticed
her. When afterwards he learned
that it was through the mediation
of James Temple that his sister had
been provided for, the truth burst instantly
upon him, and he foresaw at
once all that actually took place. He
vowed that he would become himself
the avenger of his sister, and that he
would not let her betrayer sleep until he
had wrung from him deep atonement
for his crime. It was in vain that Mrs
Wybrow sought to convince him of
his delusion. He would not be advised&mdash;he
would not listen&mdash;he would
not linger another moment in the
house, but quitted it, wrought to the
highest pitch of rage, and speaking
only of vengeance on the seducer. He
set out for London. Mrs Wybrow,
agitated more than she had been at
any time since her birth, and herself
almost deprived of reason by her fears
for the safety of Miss Harrington,
James Temple, and the furious lunatic
himself, wrote immediately to Emma,
then resident in Cambridge, explaining
the sad condition of her brother,
and warning her of his approach&mdash;Emma
having already (without acquainting
Mrs Wybrow with her fallen
state) forwarded her address, with a
strict injunction to her humble friend
to convey to her all information of her
absent brother which she could possibly
obtain. The threatened danger
was communicated to the lover&mdash;darkened
his days for a time with
anxiety and dread, but ceased as time
wore on, and as no visitant appeared
to affect the easy tenor of his immoral
life. The reader will not have forgotten,
perhaps, that when for the
first time I beheld James Temple, he
was accompanied by an elder brother.
It was from the latter, his friend and
confidant, that the above particulars,
and those which follow in respect of
the deceased, were gathered. The
house in which, for a second time, I
encountered my ancient college friends,
was their uncle's. Parents they had
none. Of father and of mother both
they had been deprived in infancy;
and, from that period, their home had
been with their relative and guardian.
The conduct of one charge, at least,
had been from boyhood such as to
cause the greatest pain to him who
had assumed a parent's cares. Hypocrisy,
sensuality, and&mdash;for his years
and social station&mdash;unparalleled dishonesty,
had characterised James
Temple's short career. By some inexplicable
tortuosity of mind, with
every natural endowment, with every
acquired advantage, graced with the
borrowed as well as native ornaments
of humanity, he found no joy in his
inheritance, but sacrificed it all, and
crawled through life a gross and
earthy man. The seduction of Emma,
young as he was when he committed
that offence, was, by many, not the
first crime for which&mdash;not, thank Heaven!
without some preparation for his
trial&mdash;he was called suddenly to answer.
As a boy, he had grown aged
is vice. It has been stated that he
quitted the university the very instant
he disencumbered himself of the girl
whom he had sacrificed. He crept to
the metropolis, and for a time there
hid himself. But it was there that he
was discovered by Frederick Harrington,
who had pursued the destroyer
with a perseverance that was indomitable,
and scoffed at disappointment.
How the lunatic existed no one knew;
how he steered clear of transgression
and restraint was equally difficult to
explain. It was evident enough that
he made himself acquainted with the
haunts of his former schoolfellow;
and, in one of them, he rushed furiously
and unexpectedly upon him,
affrighting his intended victim, but
failing in his purpose of vengeance by
the very impetuosity of his assault.
Temple escaped. Then it was that
the latter, shaken by fear, revealed to
his brother the rise of progress of
his intimacy with the discarded girl,
and, in his extremity, called upon him
for advice and help. He could afford
him none; and the seducer found himself
in the world without an hour's
happiness or quiet. What quails so
readily as the heartiest soul of the
sensualist? Who so cowardly as the
man only courageous in his oppression
of the weak? The spirit of Temple
was laid prostrate. He walked, and
eat, and slept, in base and dastard fear.
Locks and bolts could not secure him
from dismal apprehensions. A sound
shook him, as the unseen wind makes
the tall poplar shudder&mdash;a voice struck
terror in his ear, and sickness to
recreant heart. He could not be
alone&mdash;for alarm was heightened by
the speaking conscience that pronounced
it just. He journeyed from
place to place, his brother ever at his
side, and the shadow of the avenger
ever stalking in the rear, and impelling
the weary wanderer still onward.
The health of the sufferer gave way.
To preserve his life, he was ordered
to the south-western coast. His faithful
brother was his companion still.
He had not received a week's benefit
from the mild and grateful climate&mdash;he
was scarcely settled in the tranquil
village in which they had fixed their
residence, before the old terror was
made manifest, and hunted the unhappy
man away. Whilst sitting at
his window, and gazing with something
of delight upon the broad and
smooth blue sea&mdash;for who can look,
criminal though he be, upon that glorious
sheet in summer time, when the
sky is bright with beauty, and the golden
sun is high, and not lose somewhat of
the heavy sense of guilt&mdash;not glow, it
may be, with returning gush of
childhood's innocence, long absent,
and coming now only to reproach and
then depart?&mdash;whilst sitting there and
thus, the sick man's notice was invited
to a crowd of yelling boys, who
had amongst them one, the tallest of
their number, whom they dragged
along for punishment or sport. He
was an idiot. Who he was none
knew so well as the pale man that
looked upon him, who could not drag
his eye away, so lost was it in wonder,
so transfixed with horror. The
invalid remained no longer there.
Fast as horses could convey him, he
journeyed homeward; and, in the bosom
of his natural protectors, he
sought for peace he could not gain
elsewhere. Here he remained, the
slave of fear, the conscience-stricken,
diseased in body&mdash;almost spent; and
here he would have died, had not
Providence directed the impotent
mind of the imbecile to the spot, and
willed it otherwise. I have narrated,
as shortly as I might, the history of
my earliest college friend, as I received
it from his brother's lips. There remain
but a few words to say&mdash;the
pleasantest that I have had to speak of
him James Temple did not die a
hardened man. If there be truth in
tears, in prayers of penitence that fall
from him who stand upon the borders
of eternity&mdash;who can gain nothing
by hypocrisy, and may lose by
it the priceless treasure of an immortal
soul&mdash;if serenity and joy are signs
of a repentance spoken, a forgiveness
felt, then Heaven had assuredly been
merciful with the culprit, and had remitted
his offences, as Heaven can,
and will, remit the vilest.</p>

<p>I remained in the village of Belton
until I saw all that remained of the
schoolfellows deposited in the earth.
Their bodies had been easily obtained&mdash;that
of the idiot, indeed, before
life had quitted it. The evening that
followed their burial, I passed with
William Temple. Many a sad reminiscence
occurred to him which he
communicated to me without reserve,
many a wanton act of coarse licentiousness,
many a warning unheeded,
laughed at, spurned. It is a mournful
pleasure for the mind, as it dwells
upon the doings of the departed, to
build up its own theories, and to work
out a history of what might have been
in happier circumstances&mdash;a useless
history of <i>ifs</i>. &quot;If my brother had
been looked to when he was young,&quot;
said William Temple more than once,
&quot;he would have turned out differently.
My uncle spoiled him. As a
child, he was never corrected. If he
wished for a toy, he had but to scream
for it. If, at school, he had been fortunate
enough to contract his friendships
with young men of worth and
character, their example would have
won him to rectitude, for he was always
a lad easily led.&quot; And again,
&quot;If he had but listened to the advice
which, when it would have served
him, I did not fail daily and hourly
to offer him, he might have lived for
years, and been respected&mdash;for many
know, I lost no opportunity to draw
him from his course of error.&quot; Alas!
how vain, how idle was this talk&mdash;how
little it could help the clod that was
already crumbling in the earth&mdash;the
soul already at the judgment-seat; yet
with untiring earnestness the brother
persisted in this strain, and with every
new hypothesis found fresh satisfaction.
There was more reason for
gratification when, at the close of the
evening, the surviving relative turned
from his barren discourse and referred
to the last days of the deceased.
There was comfort and consolation to
the living in the evidences which he
produced of his most blessed change.
It was a joy to me to hear of his repentance,
and to listen to the terms in
which he made it known. I did not
easily forget them. I journeyed homeward.
When I arrived at the house
of Doctor Mayhew, I was surprised to
find how little I could remember of
the country over which I had travelled.
The scenes through which I had
passed were forgotten&mdash;had not been
noticed. Absorbed by the thoughts
which possessed my brain, I had suffered
myself to be carried forward,
conscious of nothing but the waking
dreams. I was prepared, however, to
see my friend. Still influenced by the
latent hope of meeting once more with
Miss Fairman, still believing in the
happy issue of my love, I had resolved
to keep my own connexion with
the idiot as secret as the grave. There
was no reason why I should betray
myself. His fate was independent of
my act&mdash;my conduct formed no link
in the chain which must be presented
to make the history clear: and shame
would have withheld the gratuitous
confession, had not the ever present,
never-dying promise forbade the disclosure
of one convicting syllable. As
may be supposed, the surprise of Doctor
Mayhew, upon hearing the narrative,
was no less than the regret which
he experienced at the violent death of
the poor creature in whom he had
taken so kind and deep an interest.
But a few days sufficed to sustain his
concern for one who had come to him
a stranger, and whom he had known
so short a time. The pursuits and
cares of life gradually withdrew the
incident from his mind, and all
thoughts of the idiot. He ceased to
speak of him. To me, the last scene
of his life was present for many a
year. I could not remove it. By
day and night it came before my eyes,
without one effort on my part to invoke
it. It has started up, suddenly
and mysteriously, in the midst of enjoyment
and serene delight, to mingle
bitterness in the cup of earthly bliss.
It has come in the season of sorrow to
heighten the distress. Amongst men,
and in the din of business, the vision
has intruded, and in solitude it has
followed me to throw its shadows
across the bright green fields, beautiful
in their freshness. Night after
night&mdash;I cannot count their number&mdash;it
has been the form and substance
of my dreams, and I have gone to rest&mdash;yes,
for months&mdash;with the sure and
natural expectation of beholding the
melancholy repetition of an act which
I would have given any thing, and all
I had, to forget and drive away for
ever.</p>

<p>A week passed pleasantly with my
host. I spoke of departure at the end
of it. He smiled when I did so, bade
me hold my tongue and be patient. I
suffered another week to glide away,
and then hinted once more that I had
trespassed long enough upon his hospitality.
The doctor placed his hand
upon my arm, and answered quickly,
&quot;all in good time&mdash;do not hurry.&quot;
His tone and manner confirmed, I
know not why, the strong hope within
me, and his words passed with
meaning to my heart. I already built
upon the aerial foundation, and looked
forward with joyous confidence
and expectation. The arguments and
shows of truth are few that love requires.
The poorest logic is the
soundest reasoning&mdash;if it conclude for
him. The visits to the parsonage
were, meanwhile, continued. Upon
my return, I gained no news. I asked
if all were well there, and the simple,
monosyllable, &quot;Yes,&quot; answered
with unusual quickness and decision,
was all that escaped the doctor's lips.
He did not wish to be interrogated
further, and was displeased. I perceived
this and was silent. For some
days, no mention was made of his
dear friend the minister. He was
accustomed to speak often of that
man, and most affectionately. What
was the inference? A breach had
taken place. If I entertained the idea
for a day, it was dissipated on the
next; for the doctor, a week having
elapsed since his last visit, rode over
to the parsonage as usual, remained
there some hours, and returned in
his best and gayest spirits. He spoke
of the Fairmans during the evening
with the same kind feeling and good-humour
that had always accompanied
his allusions to them and their proceedings,
and grew at length eloquent
in the praises of them both. The increasing
beauty of the young mistress,
he said, was marvellous. &quot;Ah,&quot; he
added slyly, and with more truth,
perhaps, than he suspected, &quot;it would
have done your eyes good to-day, only
to have got one peep at her.&quot; I sighed,
and he tantalized me further. He
pretended to pity me for the inconsiderate
haste with which I had thrown
up my employment, and to condole
with me for all I had lost in consequence.
&quot;As for himself,&quot; he said,
&quot;he had, upon further consideration,
given up all thought of marriage for
the present. He should live a little
longer and grow wiser; but it was not
a pleasant thing, by any means, to see
so sweet a girl taken coolly off by a
young fellow, who, if all he heard was
true, was very likely to have an early
opportunity.&quot; I sighed again, and asked
permission to retire to rest; but
my tormentor did not grant it, until
he had spoken for half an hour longer,
when he dismissed me in a state of
misery incompatible with rest, in bed,
or out of it. My heart was bursting
when I left him. He could not fail
to mark it. To my surprise, he made
another excursion to the parsonage on
the following day; and, as before, he
joined me in the evening with nothing
on his lips but commendation of the
young lady whom he had seen, and
complaint at the cruel act which was
about to rob them of their treasure;
for he said, regardless of my presence
or the desperate state of my feelings,
&quot;that the matter was now all but
settled. Fairman had made up his
mind, and was ready to give his consent
the very moment the young fellow
was bold enough to ask it. And
lucky dog he is too,&quot; added the kind
physician, by way of a conclusion,
&quot;for little puss herself is over head
and ears in love with him, or else I
never made a right prognosis.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;I am much obliged to you, sir,&quot;
I answered, when Doctor Mayhew
paused; &quot;very grateful for your
hospitality. If you please, I will depart
to-morrow. I trust you will ask
me to remain no longer. I cannot do
so. My business in London&quot;&mdash;&mdash;</p>

<p>&quot;Oh, very well! but that can wait,
you know,&quot; replied the doctor, interrupting
me. &quot;I can't spare you to-morrow.
I have asked a friend to
dinner, and you must meet him.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Do not think me ungrateful,
doctor,&quot; I answered; &quot;but positively
I must and will depart to-morrow. I
cannot stay.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Nonsense, man, you shall. Come,
say you will, and I engage, if your intention
holds, to release you as early
as you like the next day. I have promised
my friend that you will give
him the meeting, and you must not
refuse me. Let me have my way to-morrow,
and you shall be your own
master afterwards.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Upon such terms, sir,&quot; I answered
immediately, &quot;it would he unpardonable
if I persisted. You shall
command me; on the following day,
I will seek my fortunes in the world
again.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Just so,&quot; replied the doctor, and
so we separated.</p>

<p>The character of Dr Mayhew was
little known to me. His goodness of
heart I had reason to be acquainted
with, but his long established love of
jesting, his intense appreciation of a
joke, practical or otherwise, I had yet
to learn. In few men are united, as
happily as they were in him, a steady
application to the business of the
world, and an almost unrestrained indulgence
in its harmless pleasantries.
The grave doctor was a boy at his
fireside. I spent my last day in preparing
for my removal, and in rambling
for some hours amongst the hills, with
which I had become too familiar to
separate without a pang. Long was
our leave-taking. I lingered and hovered
from nook to nook, until I had
expended the latest moment which it
was mine to give. With a burdened
spirit I returned to the house, as my
thoughts shifted to the less pleasing
prospect afforded by my new position.
I shuddered to think of London, and
the fresh vicissitudes that awaited me.</p>

<p>It wanted but a few minutes to dinner
when I stepped into the drawing-room.
The doctor had just reached
home, after being absent on professional
duty since the morning. The
visitor had already arrived; I had
heard his knock whilst I was dressing.
Having lost all interest in the doings
of the place, I had not even cared to
enquire his name. What was it to
me? What difference could the chance
visitor of a night make to me, who
was on the eve of exile? None. I
walked despondingly into the room,
and advanced with distant civility towards
the stranger. His face was
from me, but he turned instantly upon
hearing my step, and I beheld&mdash;&mdash;Mr
Fairman. I could scarcely trust my
eyes. I started, and retreated. My
reverend friend, however, betrayed
neither surprise nor discomposure.
He smiled kindly, held out his hand,
and spoke as he was wont in the days
of cordiality and confidence. What
did it mean?</p>

<p>&quot;It is a lovely afternoon, Stukely,&quot;
began the minister, &quot;worthy of the
ripe summer in which it is born.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;It is, sir,&quot; I replied;  &quot;but I shall
see no more of them,&quot; I added <i>instantly</i>,
anxious to assure him that I
was not lurking with sinister design
so near the parsonage&mdash;that I was on
the eve of flight. &quot;I quit our friend
to-morrow, and must travel many
miles away.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;You will come to us, Caleb,&quot; answered
Mr Fairman mildly.</p>

<p>&quot;Sir!&quot; said I, doubting if I heard
aright.</p>

<p>&quot;Has Dr Mayhew said nothing
then?&quot; he asked.</p>

<p>I trembled in every limb.</p>

<p>&quot;Nothing, sir,&quot; I answered. &quot;Oh,
yes! I recollect&mdash;he did&mdash;he has&mdash;but
what have I&mdash;I have no wish&mdash;no business&quot;&mdash;&mdash;</p>

<p>The door opened, and Dr Mayhew
himself joined us, rubbing his hands,
and smiling, in the best of good tempers.
In his rear followed the faithful
Williams. Before a word of explanation
could be offered, the latter
functionary announced &quot;<i>dinner</i>,&quot; and
summoned us away. The presence
of the servants during the meal interfered
with the gratification of my
unutterable curiosity. Mr Fairman
spoke most affably on different matters,
but did not once revert to the
previous subject of discourse. I was
on thorns. I could not eat. I could
not look at the minister without anxiety
and shame, and whenever my
eye caught that of the doctor, I was
abashed by a look of meaning and
good-humoured cunning, that was half
intelligible and half obscure. Rays of
hope penetrated to my heart's core,
and illuminated my existence. The
presence of Mr Fairman could not be
without a purpose. What was it,
then? Oh, I dared not trust myself
to ask the question! The answer bred
intoxication and delight, too sweet for
earth. What meant that wicked
smile upon the doctor's cheek? He
was too generous and good to laugh
at my calamity. He could not do it.
Yet the undisturbed demeanour of the
minister confounded me. If there had
been connected with this visit so important
an object as that which I
longed to believe was linked with it,
there surely would have been some
evidence in his speech and manner,
and he continued as cheerful and undisturbed
as if his mind were free
from every care and weighty thought.
&quot;What can it mean?&quot; I asked myself,
again and again. &quot;How can
he coolly bid me to his house, after
what has passed, after his fearful anxiety
to get me out of it? Will he
hazard another meeting with his beloved
daughter?&mdash;Ah, I see it!&quot; I suddenly
and mentally exclaimed; &quot;it is
clear enough&mdash;she is absent&mdash;she is
away. He wishes to evince his friendly
disposition at parting, and now he
can do it without risk or cost.&quot; It
was a plain elucidation of the mystery&mdash;it
was enough, and all my airy
castles tumbled to the earth, and left
me there in wretchedness. Glad was
I when the dinner was concluded, and
eager to withdraw. I had resolved to
decline, at the first opportunity, the
invitation of the incumbent. I did
not wish to grieve my heart in feasting
my eyes upon a scene crowded
with fond associations, to revoke feelings
in which it would be folly to indulge
again, and which it were well
to annihilate and forget. I was about
to beg permission to leave the table,
when Dr Mayhew rose; he looked
archly at me when I followed his example,
and requested me not to be in
haste; &quot;he had business to transact,
and would rejoin us shortly.&quot; Saying
these words, he smiled and vanished.
I remained silent. To be left alone
with Mr Fairman, was the most annoying
circumstance that could happen
in my present mood. There were
a hundred things which I burned to
know, whilst I lacked the courage to
enquire concerning one. But I had
waited for an opportunity to decline
his invitation. Here it was, and I had
not power to lift my head and look at
him. Mr Fairman himself did not
speak for some minutes. He sat
thoughtfully, resting his forehead in
the palm of his hand&mdash;his elbow on
the table. At length he raised his
eyes, and whilst my own were still
bent downward, I could feel that his
were fixed upon me.</p>

<p>&quot;Caleb,&quot; said the minister.</p>

<p>It was the first time that the
incumbent had called me by my Christian
name. How strangely it sounded from
his lips! How exquisitely grateful it
dropt upon my ear!</p>

<p>&quot;Tell me, Caleb,&quot; continued Mr
Fairman, &quot;did I understand you right?
Is it true that Mayhew has told you
nothing?&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Nothing distinctly, sir,&quot; I answered&mdash;&quot;I
have gathered something
from his hints, but I know not what
he says in jest and what in earnest.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;I have only her happiness at heart,
Stukely&mdash;from the moment that you
spoke to me on the subject, I have
acted solely with regard to that. I
hoped to have smothered this passion
in the bud. In attempting it, I believed
I was acting as a father should, and
doing my duty by her.&quot;</p>

<p>The room began to swim round me,
and my head grew dizzy.</p>

<p>&quot;I am to blame, perhaps, as Mayhew
says, for having brought you together,
and for surrounding her with
danger. I should have known that to
trifle with a heart so guileless and so
pure was cruel and unjust, and fraught
with perilous consequences. I was
blind, and I am punished for my act.&quot;</p>

<p>I looked at him at length.</p>

<p>&quot;I use the word deliberately&mdash;<i>punished</i>,
Stukely. It <i>is</i> a punishment
to behold the affection of which I have
ever been too jealous, departing from
me, and ripening for another. Why
have I cared to live since Heaven took
her mother to itself&mdash;but for her sake,
for her welfare, and her love? But
sorrow and regret are useless now.
You do not know, young man, a
thousandth part of your attainment
when I tell you, you have gained her
young and virgin heart. I oppose
you no longer&mdash;I thwart not&mdash;render
yourself worthy of the precious gift.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;I cannot speak, sir!&quot; I exclaimed,
seizing the hand of the incumbent in
the wildness of my joy. &quot;I am stupified
by this intelligence! Trust me,
sir&mdash;believe me, you shall find me
not undeserving of your generosity
and&quot;&mdash;&mdash;</p>

<p>&quot;No, Stukely. Call it not by such
a name. It is any thing but that;
there is no liberality, no nobility of
soul, in giving you what I may not
now withhold. I cannot see her droop
and die, and live myself to know that
a word from me had saved her. I
have given my consent to the prosecution
of your attachment at the latest
moment&mdash;not because I wished it, but
to prevent a greater evil. I have told
you the truth! It was due to us both
that you should hear it; for the future
look upon me as your father, and I
will endeavour to do you justice.&quot;</p>

<p>There was a stop. I was so oppressed
with a sense of happiness,
that I could find no voice to speak
my joy or tell my thanks. Mr Fairman
paused, and then continued.</p>

<p>&quot;You will come to the parsonage
to-morrow, and take part again in the
instruction of the lads after their return.
You will be received as my
daughter's suitor. Arrangements will
be made for a provision for you.
Mayhew and I have it in consideration
now. When our plan is matured,
it shall be communicated to you.
There need be no haste. You are
both young&mdash;too young for marriage&mdash;and
we shall not yet fix the period
of your espousal.&quot;</p>

<p>My mind was overpowered with a
host of dazzling visions, which rose
spontaneously as the minister proceeded
in his delightful talk. I soon lost
all power of listening to details.
The beloved Ellen, the faithful and
confiding maiden, who had not deserted
the wanderer although driven from
her father's doors&mdash;she, the beautiful
and priceless jewel of my heart, was
present in every thought, and was the
ornament and chief of every group
that passed before my warm imagination.
Whilst the incumbent continued
to speak of the future, of his own sacrifice,
and my great gain&mdash;whilst his
words, without penetrating, touched
my ears, and died away&mdash;my soul
grew busy in the contemplation of the
prize, which, now that it was mine, I
scarce knew how to estimate. Where
was she <i>then</i>? How had she been?
To how many days of suffering and
of trial may she have been doomed?
How many pangs may have wrung
that noble heart before its sad complaints
were listened to, and mercifully
answered? I craved to be at her side.
The words which her father had
spoken had loosened the heavy chain
that tied me down&mdash;my limbs were
conscious of their freedom&mdash;my spirit
felt its liberty&mdash;what hindered instant
flight? In the midst of my reverie Dr
Mayhew entered the room&mdash;and I remember
distinctly that my immediate
impulse was to leave the two friends
together, and to run as fast as love
could urge and feet could carry me&mdash;to
the favoured spot which held all
that I cared for now on earth. The
plans, however, of Doctor Mayhew
interfered with this desire. He had
done much for me, more than I knew,
and he was not the man to go without
his payment. A long evening was
yet before us, time enough for a hundred
jokes, which I must hear, and
witness, and applaud or I was most
unworthy of the kindness he had
shown me. The business over for
which Mr Fairman had come expressly,
the promise given of an early
visit to the parsonage on the following
day, an affectionate parting at
the garden gate, and the incumbent
proceeded on his homeward road.
The doctor and I returned together
to the house in silence and one of us
in partial fear; for I could see the
coming sarcasm in the questionable
smile that played about his lips. Not
a word was spoken when we resumed
our seats. At last he rang the bell,
and Williams answered it&mdash;&mdash;</p>

<p>&quot;Book Mr Stukely by the London
coach to-morrow, Williams,&quot;
said the master; &quot;he <i>positively must
and will depart to-morrow</i>.&quot;</p>

<p>The criminal reprieved&mdash;the child,
hopeless and despairing at the suffering
parent's bed, and blessed at length
with a firm promise of amendment
and recovery, can tell the feelings
that sustained my fluttering heart,
beating more anxiously the nearer it
approached its <i>home</i>. I woke that
morning with the lark&mdash;yes, ere that
joyous bird had spread its wing, and
broke upon the day with its mad note&mdash;and
I left the doctor's house whilst
all within were sleeping. There was
no rest for me away from that abode,
whose gates of adamant, with all their
bars and fastenings, one magic word
had opened&mdash;whose sentinels were
withdrawn&mdash;whose terrors had departed.
The hours were all too long
until I claimed my newfound privilege.
Morn of the mellow summer,
how beautiful is thy birth! How
soft&mdash;how calm&mdash;how breathlessly
and blushingly thou stealest upon
a slumbering world! fearful, as it
seems, of startling it. How deeply
quiet, and how soothing, are thy earliest
sounds&mdash;scarce audible&mdash;by no
peculiar quality distinguishable, yet
thrilling and intense! How doubly
potent falls thy witching influence on
him whose spirit passion has attuned
to all the harmonies of earth, and
made but too susceptible! Disturbed
as I was by the anticipation of my
joy, and by the consequent unrest,
with the first sight of day, and all its
charms, came <i>peace</i>&mdash;actual and profound.
The agitation of my soul was
overwhelmed by the prevailing stillness,
and I grew tranquil and subdued.
Love existed yet&mdash;what could
extinguish that?&mdash;but heightened and
sublimed. It was as though, in contemplating
the palpable and lovely
work of heaven, all selfishness had
at once departed from my breast&mdash;all
dross had separated from my best
affections, and left them pure and free.
And so I walked on, happiest of the
happy, from field to field, from hill to
hill, with no companion on the way,
no traveller within my view&mdash;alone
with nature and my heart's delight.
&quot;And men pent up in cities,&quot; thought
I, as I went along, &quot;would call this&mdash;<i>solitude</i>.&quot;
I remembered how
lonely I had felt in the busy crowds
of London&mdash;how chill, how desolate
and forlorn, and marvelled at the reasoning
of man. And came no other
thoughts of London and the weary
hours passed there, as I proceeded on
my delightful walk? Yes, many, as
Heaven knows, who heard the involuntary
matin prayer, offered in gratefulness
of heart, upon my knees, and
in the open fields, where no eye but
one could look upon the worshipper,
and call the fitness of the time and
place in question. The early mowers
were soon a-foot; they saluted me
and passed. Then, from the humblest
cottages issued the straight thin column
of white smoke&mdash;white as the snowy
cloud&mdash;telling of industry within, and
the return of toil. Now labourers
were busy in their garden plots, labouring
for pleasure and delight, ere
they strove abroad for hire, their children
at their side, giving the utmost
of their small help&mdash;young, ruddy,
wild, and earnest workmen all! The
country day is up some hours before
the day in town. Life sleeps in cities,
whilst it moves in active usefulness
away from them. The hills were
dotted with the forms of men before
I reached the parsonage, and when I
reached it, a golden lustre from the
mounting sun lit up the lovely house
with fire&mdash;streaming through the casements
already opened to the sweet and
balmy air.</p>

<p>If I had found it difficult to rest on
this eventful morning, so also had another&mdash;even
here&mdash;in this most peaceful
mansion. The parsonage gate was
at this early hour unclosed. I entered.
Upon the borders of the velvet lawn,
bathed in the dews of night, I beheld
the gentle lady of the place; she was
alone, and walking pensively&mdash;now
stooping, not to pluck, but to admire,
and then to leave amongst its mates,
some crimson beauty of the earth&mdash;now
looking to the mountains of rich
gold piled in the heavens, one upon
another, changing in form and colour,
blending and separating, as is their
wondrous power and custom, filling
the maiden's soul with joy. Her back
was toward me: should I advance,
or now retire? Vain question, when,
ere an answer could be given, I was
already at the lady's side. Shall I tell
of her virgin bashfulness, her blushes,
her trembling consciousness of pure
affection? Shall I say how little her
tongue could speak her love, and how
eloquently the dropping tear told all!
Shall I describe our morning's walk,
her downward gaze&mdash;my pride?&mdash;her
deep, deep silence, my impassioned
tones, the insensibilty to all external
things&mdash;the rushing on of envious
Time, jealous of the perfect happiness
of man? The heart is wanting for the
task&mdash;the pen is shaking in the
tremulous hand.&mdash;Beautiful vision!
long associate of my rest, sweetener of
the daily cares of life, shade of the
heavenly one&mdash;beloved Ellen! hover
still around me, and sustain my aching
soul&mdash;carry me back to the earliest
days of our young love, quicken
every moment with enthusiasm&mdash;be
my fond companion once again, and
light up the old man's latest hour
with the fire that ceased to burn when
thou fleed'st heavenward! Thou hast
been near me often since we parted
here! Whose smile but thine has
cheered the labouring pilgrim through
the lagging day? In tribulation,
whose voice has whispered <i>peace</i>&mdash;whose
eye hath shone upon him, like
a star, tranquil and steady in the
gloomy night? Linger yet, and
strengthen and hallow the feeble
words, that chronicle our love!</p>

<p>It would be impossible to conceive
a woman more eminently fitted to fulfil
the duties of her station, than the
gentle creature whose heart it had
been my happiness and fortune to
make my own. Who could speak so
well of the <i>daughter's</i> obedience as he
who was the object of her hourly solicitude?
Who could behold her tenderness,
her watchfulness and care
and not revere the filial piety that
sanctified the maid? The poor, most
difficult of mankind to please, the easily
offended, the jealous and the peevish,
were unanimous in their loud praise
of her, whose presence filled
the foulest hut with light, and was the
harbinger of good. It is well to
doubt the indigent when they speak
<i>evil</i> of their fellows; but trust them
when, with one voice, <i>they pray for
blessings</i>, as they did for her, who came
amongst them as a sister and a child.
If a spotless mind be a treasure in the
<i>wife</i>, if simplicity and truth, virtue
and steadfast love, are to be prized in
her who plights her troth to man,
what had I more to ask&mdash;what had
kind nature more to grant?</p>

<p>Had all my previous sufferings been
multiplied a hundred times, I should
have been indemnified for all in the
month that followed my restoration to
the parsonage. Evening after evening,
when the business of the day
was closed, did we together wander
amongst the scenes that were so dear
to us&mdash;too happy in the enjoyment of
the present, dwelling with pleasure on
the past, dreaming wildly&mdash;as the
young must dream&mdash;of the uncreated
future. I spoke of earthly happiness,
and believed it not a fable. What
could be brighter than our promises?
What looked more real&mdash;less likely to
be broken? How sweet was our existence!
My tongue would never cease
to paint in dazzling colours the days
that yet awaited us. I numbered over
the joys of a domestic life, told her of
the divine favour that accompanies
contentment, and how angels of heaven
hover over the house in which it
dwells united to true love. Nor was
there wanting extravagant and fanciful
discourse, such as may be spoken
by the prodigal heart to its co-mate,
when none are by to smile and wonder
at blind feeling.</p>

<p>&quot;Dear Ellen,&quot; have I said, in all
the fulness of my passion&mdash;&quot;what a
life is this we lead! what heavenly
joy! To be for ever only as we are,
were to have more of God's kindness
and beloved care than most of earthly
creatures may. Indissolubly joined,
and in each other's light to live, and
in each other's sight alone to seek
those blessings wedded feelings may
bestow&mdash;to perceive and know ourselves
as one&mdash;to breathe as one the
ripe delicious air&mdash;to fix on every object
of our mutual love the stamp and
essence of one living heart&mdash;to walk
abroad, and find glad sympathy in all
created things&mdash;this, this is to be conscious
of more lasting joy&mdash;to have
more comfort in the sight of God,
than they did know, the happy parent
pair, when heaven smiled on earth, and
earth was heaven, connected both by
tenderest links of love.&quot;</p>

<p>She did not answer, when my soul
ran riot in its bliss. She listened, and
she sighed, as though experience cut
off the promises of hope, or as if intimations
of evil began already to cast
their shadows, and to press upon her
soul!</p>

<p>Time flew as in a dream. The
sunny days passed on, finding and
leaving me without a trouble or a fear&mdash;happy
and entranced. Each hour
discovered new charms in my betrothed,
and every day unveiled a latent
grace. How had I merited my
great good fortune? How could I
render myself worthy of her love? It
was not long before the object of my
thoughts, sleeping and waking, became
a living idol, and I, a reckless
worshipper.</p>

<p>Doctor Mayhew had been a faithful
friend, and such he continued, looking
to the interests of the friendless, which
might have suffered in the absence of
so good an advocate. It was he, as I
learnt, who had drawn from the incumbent
his reluctant consent to my
return. My departure following my
thoughtless declaration so quickly,
was not without visible effect on her
who had such deep concern in it.
Her trouble was not lost upon the experienced
doctor; he mentioned his
suspicion to her father, and recommended
my recall. The latter would
not listen to his counsel, and pronounced
his <i>diagnosis</i> hasty and incorrect.
The physician bade him wait. The
patient did not rally, and her melancholy
increased. The doctor once
more interceded, but not successfully.
Mr Fairman received his counsel with
a hasty word, and Dr Mayhew left
the parsonage in anger, telling the minister
he would himself be answerable
no longer for her safety. A week
elapsed, and Doctor Mayhew found it
impossible to keep away. The old
friends met, more attached than ever
for the parting which both had found
it difficult to bear. The lady was no
better. They held a conference&mdash;it
ended in my favour. I had been
exactly a month reinstated, when Doctor
Mayhew, who could not rest thoroughly
easy until our marriage was
concluded, and, as he said, &quot;the affair
was off his hands,&quot; took a convenient
opportunity to intimate to Mr Fairman
the many advantages of an early
union. The minister was anxious to
postpone the ceremony to a distant
period, which he had not courage himself
to name. This Mayhew saw, and
was well satisfied that, if my happiness
depended on the word of the incumbent,
I should wait long before I
heard it voluntarily given. He told
me so, and undertook &quot;to bring the
matter to a head&quot; with all convenient
speed. He met with a hundred objections,
for all of which he was prepared.
He heard his friend attentively,
and with great deference, and then
he answered. What his answers
were, I cannot tell&mdash;powerful his reasoning
must have been, since it argued
the jealous parent into the necessity
of arranging for an early marriage,
and communicating with me
that same day upon the views which
he had for our future maintenance and
comfort.</p>

<p>Nothing could exceed the gratification
of Doctor Mayhew, that best
and most successful of ambassadors,
when he ran to me&mdash;straight from the
incumbent's study&mdash;to announce the
perfect success of his diplomacy. Had
he been negotiating for himself, he
could not have been in higher spirits.
Ellen was with me when he acquainted
me, that in three months the treasure
would be my own, and mine
would be the privilege and right to
cherish it. He insisted that he should
be rewarded on the instant with a
kiss; and, in the exuberance of his
feelings, was immodest enough to
add, that &quot;if he wasn't godfather to
the first, and if we did not call him
Jacob after him, he'd give us over to
our ingratitude, and not have another
syllable to say to us.&quot;</p>

<p>It was a curious occupation to contemplate
the parent during the weeks
that followed&mdash;to observe all-powerful
nature working in him, the chastened
and the upright minister of heaven,
as she operates upon the weakest and
the humblest of mankind. He lived
for the happiness and prosperity of
his child. For that he was prepared
to make every sacrifice a father might&mdash;even
the greatest&mdash;that of parting
with her. Was it to be expected that
he should be insensible to the heavy
cost? Could it be supposed that he
would all at once resign the dear one
without a quiver or a pang? There is
a tremor of the soul as well as of the
body, when the knife is falling on the
limb to sever it, and this he suffered,
struggling for composure as a martyr,
and yet with all the weakness of a
man. I have watched him closely,
and I have known his heart wringing
with pain, as the eye of his child
sparkled with joy at my approach,
whilst the visible features of his face
strove fiercely to suppress the rising
selfishness. He has gazed upon her,
as we have sat together in the cheerful
night, wondering, as it seemed, by
what fascination the natural and deep-rooted
love of years could be surpassed
and superseded by the immature affection
of a day&mdash;forgetful of her mother's
love, that once preferred him
to her sire. In our evening walks I
have seen him in our track, following
from afar, eager to overtake and join
us, and yet resisting the strong impulse,
and forbearing. He could not
hide from me the glaring fact, that he
was envious of my fortune, manifest
as it was in every trifling act; nor
was it, in truth, easier for him to conceal
the strong determination which
he had formed to act with honour and
with justice. No angry or reproachful
word escaped his lips; every favour
that he could show me he gladly
proffered; nay, many uncalled-for
and unexpected, he insisted upon my
receiving, apparently, or, as I guessed,
because he wished to mortify his own
poor heart, and to remove from me
the smallest cause for murmuring or
complaint. I endeavoured not to be
unworthy of his liberality and confidence;
and the daughter, who perceived
the conflict in his breast, redoubled
her attention, and made more
evident her unimpaired and childlike
love.</p>

<p>It wanted but a month to the time
fixed for our union, when Ellen reached
her twentieth year. On that occasion,
Doctor Mayhew dined with
us, and passed the evening at the parsonage.
He was in high spirits; and
the minister himself more gay than I
had known him since our engagement.
Ellen reflected her father's cheerfulness,
and was busy in sustaining it.
All went merry as a marriage-bell.
Ellen sang her father's favourite airs&mdash;played
the tunes that pleased him
best, and acquired new energy and
power as she proceeded. The parent
looked upon her with just pride, and
took occasion, when the music was at
its loudest, to turn to Mayhew, and to
speak of her.</p>

<p>&quot;How well she looks!&quot; said he;
&quot;how beautiful she grows!&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Yes,&quot; answered the physician;
&quot;I don't wonder that she made young
Stukely's heart ache. What a figure
the puss has got!&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;And her health seems quite restored!&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Well, you are not surprised at
that, I reckon. Rest assured, my
friend, if we could only let young
ladies have their way, our patients
would diminish rapidly. Why, how
she sings to-night! I never knew her
voice so good&mdash;did you?&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Oh, she is happy, Mayhew; all
her thoughts are joyful! Her heart
is revelling. It was very sinful to be
so anxious on her account.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;So I always told you; but you
wouldn't mind me. She'll make old
bones.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;You think so, do you?&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Why, look at her yourself, and
say whether we should be justified in
thinking otherwise. Is she not the
picture of health and animation?&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Yes, Mayhew, but her mother&quot;&mdash;&mdash;</p>

<p>&quot;There, be quiet will you? The
song is over.&quot;</p>

<p>Ellen returned to her father's side,
sat upon a stool before him, and placed
her arms upon his knee. The incumbent
drew her head there, and touched
her cheek in playfulness.</p>

<p>&quot;Come, my friend,&quot; exclaimed the
physician, &quot;that isn't allowable by
any means. Recollect two young
gentlemen are present, and we can't
be tantalized.&quot;</p>

<p>The minister smiled, and Ellen
looked at me.</p>

<p>&quot;Do you remember, doctor,&quot; enquired
the latter, &quot;this very day
eleven years, when you came over on
the grey pony, that walked into this
room after you, and frightened us all
so?&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Yes, puss, I do very well; and
don't I recollect your tying my wig
to the chair, and then calling me to
the window, to see how I should look
when I had left it behind me, you
naughty little girl!&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;That was very wrong, sir; but
you know you forgave me for it.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;No, I didn't. Come here, though,
and I will now.&quot;</p>

<p>She left her stool, and ran laughing
to him. The doctor professed to
whisper in her ear, but kissed her
cheek. He coughed and hemmed,
and, with a serious air, asked me what
I meant by grinning at him.</p>

<p>&quot;Do you know, doctor,&quot; continued
Ellen, &quot;that this is my first birth-day,
since that one, which we have kept
without an interruption. Either papa
or you have been always called away
before half the evening was over.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Well, and very sorry you would
be, I imagine, if both of us were called
away <i>now</i>. It would be very distressing
to you; wouldn't it?&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;It would hardly render her happy,
Mayhew,&quot; said Mr Fairman, &quot;to be
deprived of her father's society
on such an occasion.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;No, indeed, papa,&quot; said Ellen,
earnestly; &quot;and the good doctor
does not think so either.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Doesn't he, though, you wicked
pussy? You would be very wretched,
then, if we were obliged to go? No
doubt of it, especially if we happened
to leave that youngster there behind
us.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Ellen shall read to us, Mayhew,&quot;
said the incumbent, turning
from the subject. &quot;You will find Milton
on my table, Caleb.&quot;</p>

<p>As he spoke, Ellen imparted to her
friend a look of tenderest remonstrance,
and the doctor said no more.</p>

<p>The incumbent, himself a fine reader,
had taken great pains to teach his
child the necessary and simple, but
much neglected art of reading well.
There was much grace and sweetness
in her utterance, correct emphasis,
and no effort. An hour passed delightfully
with the minister's favourite
and beloved author; now the
maiden read, now he. He listened
with greater pleasure to her voice than
to his own or any other, but he watched
the smallest diminution of its power&mdash;the
faintest evidence of failing
strength&mdash;and released her instantly,
most anxious for her health and safety,
then and always.</p>

<p>Then arose, as will arise from the
contented bosom of domestic piety,
grateful rejoicings&mdash;the incense of an
altar glowing with love's own offerings!
Past time was summoned up,
weighed with the present, and, with all
the mercies which accompanied it,
was still found wanting in the perfect
and unsullied happiness that existed
now. &quot;The love of heaven,&quot; said
the minister, &quot;had never been so
manifest and clear. His labours in
the service of his people, his prayers
on their behalf, were not unanswered.
Improvement was taking place around him;
even those who had given him
cause for deepest sorrow, were already
turning from the path of error into
that of rectitude and truth. The
worst characters in the village had
been checked by the example of their
fellows, and by the voice of their own
conscience, (he might have added, by
the working of their minister's most
affectionate zeal) and his heart was
joyful&mdash;how joyful he could not say&mdash;on
their account. His family was
blessed&mdash;(and he looked at Ellen with a
moistened eye)&mdash;with health, and with
the promise of its continuance. His
best and oldest friend was at his side;
and he, who was dear to them all on
her account whose life would soon be
linked with his, was about to add to
every other blessing, the advantages
which must follow the possession of so
good a son. What more could he
require? How much more was this
than the most he could deserve!&quot;</p>

<p>Doctor Mayhew, touched with the
solemn feeling of the moment, became
a serious man. He took the incumbent
by the hand, and spoke.</p>

<p>&quot;Yes, Fairman, we have cause for
gratitude. You and I have roughed
it many years, and gently enough do
we go down the hill. To behold the
suffering of other men, and to congratulate
ourselves upon our exemption,
is not the rational mode of receiving
goodness from Almighty God&mdash;yet
it is impossible for a human
being to look about him, and to see
family after family worn down by
calamity, whilst he himself is free from
any, and not have his heart yearning
with thankfulness, knowing, as he
must, how little he merits his condition.
You and I are happy fellows,
both of us; and all we have to do, is
to think so, and to prepare quietly to
leave our places, whilst the young
folks grow up to take them. As
for the boy there, if he doesn't smooth
your pillow, and lighten for you the
weight of old age as it comes on, then
am I much mistaken, and ready to
regret the steps which I have taken
to bring you all together.&quot;</p>

<p>There was little spoken after this.
The hearts were full to the brink&mdash;to
speak was to interfere with their consummate
joy. The doctor was the
only one who made the attempt, and
he, after a very ineffectual endeavour
to be jocose, held his peace. The
Bible was produced. The servants
of the house appeared. A chapter
was read from it by the incumbent&mdash;a
prayer was offered up, then we
separated.</p>

<p>I stole to Ellen as she was about to
quit us for the night. &quot;And you,
dear Ellen,&quot; I whispered in her ear,
&quot;are you, too, happy?&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Yes, <i>dearest</i>,&quot; she murmured
with a gentle pressure, that passed
like wildfire to my heart. &quot;I fear
<i>too</i> happy. Earth will not suffer it&quot;</p>

<p>We parted, and in twelve hours
those words were not without their
meaning.</p>

<p>We met on the following morning
at the usual breakfast hour. The moment
that I entered the apartment, I
perceived that Ellen was indisposed&mdash;that
something had occurred, since the
preceding night, to give her anxiety
or pain. Her hand trembled slightly,
and a degree of perturbation was apparent
in her movements. My first
impression was, that she had received
ill news, for there was nothing in her
appearance to indicate the existence
of bodily suffering. It soon occurred
to me, however, that the unwonted
recent excitement might account for
all her symptoms&mdash;that they were, in
fact, the natural consequence of that
sudden abundance of joyous spirits
which I had remarked in her during
the early part of the evening. I satisfied
myself with this belief, or strove
to do so&mdash;the more easily, perhaps, because
I saw her father indifferent to
her state, if not altogether ignorant of
it. He who was ever lying in wait&mdash;ever
watching&mdash;ever ready to apprehend
the smallest evidence of ill health,
was, on this morning, as insensible to
the alteration which had taken place
in the darling object of his solicitude,
as though he had no eyes to see, or
object to behold; so easy is it for a
too anxious diligence in a pursuit to
overshoot and miss the point at which
it aims. Could he, as we sat, have
guessed the cause of all her grief&mdash;could
some dark spirit, gloating on
man's misery, have breathed one fearful
word into his ear, bringing to life
and light the melancholy tale of distant
years&mdash;how would his nature
have supported the announcement&mdash;how
bore the?&mdash;&mdash;but let me not anticipate.
I say that I dismissed all
thought of serious mischief, by attributing
at once all signs of it to the
undue excitement of the festive night.
As the breakfast proceeded, I believed
that her anxiety diminished, and with
that passed away my fears.</p>

<p>At the end of the pleasure garden
of the parsonage was a paddock, and,
immediately beyond this, another field,
leading to a small valley of great
beauty. On one side of &quot;<i>the Dell</i>,&quot;
as it was called, was a summer-house,
which the incumbent had erected for
the sake of the noble prospect which
the elevation commanded. To this retreat
Ellen and I had frequently wandered
with our books during the progress
of our love. Here I had read to her of
affection and constancy, consecrated
by the immortal poet's song. Here
we had passed delightful hours, bestowing
on the future the same golden
lustre that made so bright the present.
In joy, I had called this summer-house
&quot;<i>the Lover's Bower</i>,&quot; and it was pleasing
to us both to think that we should
visit in our after days, for many a year,
and with increasing love, a spot endeared
to us by the fondest recollections.
Thither I bent my steps at the
close of our repast. It wanted but
two days to the time fixed for the resumption
of our studies. The boys
had returned, and the note of preparation
was already sounded. I carried
my task to the retreat, and there commenced
my labours. An hour fled
quickly whilst I was occupied somewhat
in Greek, but more in contemplation
of the gorgeous scene before
me, and in lingering thoughts of her
whose form was never absent, but
hovered still about the pleasure or the
business of the day. The shadow of
that form was yet present, when the
substance became visible to the bodily
eye. Ellen followed me to the
&quot;<i>Lover's Bower</i>,&quot; and there surprised
me. She was even paler than before&mdash;and
the burden of some disquietude
was written on her gentle brow; but a
smile was on her lips&mdash;one of a languid
cast&mdash;and also of encouragement and
hope. I drew her to my side. Lovers
are egotists; their words point ever
to themselves. She spoke of the birth-day
that had just gone by; the tranquil
and blissful celebration of it. My
expectant soul was already dreaming
of the next that was to come, and
speaking of the increased happiness
that must accompany it.</p>

<p>Ellen sighed.</p>

<p>&quot;It is a lover's sigh!&quot; thought I,
not heeding it.</p>

<p>&quot;Whatever may be the future, Caleb,&quot;
said Ellen seriously, but very
calmly, &quot;we ought to be prepared
for it. Earth is not our <i>resting-place</i>.
We should never forget that. Should
we, dearest?&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;No, love; but earth has happiness
of her kind, of which her children are
most sensible. Whilst we are here,
we live upon her promises.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;But oh, not to the exclusion of
the brighter promises that come from
heaven! You do not say that, dear
Caleb?&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;No, Ellen. You could not give
your heart to him who thought so;
howbeit, you have bestowed it upon
one unworthy of your piety and excellence.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Do not mock me, Caleb,&quot; said
Ellen, blushing. &quot;I have the heart
of a sinner, that needs all the mercy of
heaven for its weaknesses and faults.
I have ever fallen short of my
duty.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;You are the only one who says it.
Your father will not say so, and I
question if the villagers would take
your part in this respect.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Do not misunderstand me, Caleb.
I am not, I trust, a hypocrite. I have
endeavoured to be useful to the poor
and helpless in our neighbourhood&mdash;I
have been anxious to lighten the heaviness
of a parent's days, and, as far as
I could, to indemnify him for my mother's
loss. I believe that I have done
the utmost my imperfect faculties permitted.
I have nothing to charge
myself with on these accounts. But
my Heavenly Father,&quot; continued the
maiden, her cheeks flushing, her eyes
filling with tears&mdash;&quot;oh! I have been
backward in my affection and duty to
him. I have not ever had before my
eyes his honour and glory in my daily
walk&mdash;I have not done every act in
subordination to his will, for his sake,
and with a view to his blessing. But
He is merciful as well as just, and if
his punishment falls now upon my
head, it is assuredly to wean me from
my error, and to bring me to himself.&quot;</p>

<p>The maid covered her moistened
cheek, and sobbed loudly. I was fully
convinced that she was suffering from
the reaction consequent upon extreme
joy. I was rather relieved than distressed
by her burst of feeling, and I
did not attempt for a time to check
her tears.</p>

<p>&quot;Tell me, dear Caleb,&quot; she said
herself at length, &quot;if I were to lose
you&mdash;if it were to please Heaven to
take you suddenly from this earth,
would it not be sinful to murmur at
his act? Would it not be my duty to
bend to his decree, and to prepare to
follow you?&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;You would submit to such a trial
as a Christian woman ought. I am
sure you would, dear Ellen&mdash;parted,
as we should be, but for a season, and
sure of a reunion.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;And would you do this?&quot; enquired
the maiden quickly. &quot;Oh, say
that you would, dear Caleb! Let me
hear it.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;You are agitated, dearest. We
will not talk of this now. There is
grace in heaven appointed for the bitterest
seasons of adversity. It does
not fail when needed. Let us pray
that the hour may be distant which
shall bring home to either so great a
test of resignation.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Yes, pray, dear Stukely; but,
should it come suddenly and quickly&mdash;oh,
let us be prepared to meet it!&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;We will endeavour, then; and
now to a more cheerful theme. Do
we go to Dr Mayhew's, as proposed?
We shall spend a happy day with
our facetious, but most kind-hearted
friend.&quot;</p>

<p>Ellen burst again into a flood of
tears.</p>

<p>&quot;What is the matter, love?&quot; I exclaimed.
&quot;Confide to me, and tell
the grief that preys upon your mind.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Do not be alarmed, Stukely,&quot; she
answered rapidly; &quot;it may be nothing
after all; but when I woke this morning&mdash;it
may, I hope for your sake that
it <i>is</i> nothing serious&mdash;but my dear
mother, it was the commencement of
her own last fatal illness.&quot;</p>

<p>She stopped suddenly, as if her
speech had failed her&mdash;coughed sharply,
and raised her handkerchief to her
mouth. I perceived a thick, broad
spot of BLOOD, and shuddered.</p>

<p>&quot;Do not be frightened, Stukely,&quot; she
continued, shocked fearfully herself.
&quot;I shall recover soon. It is the
suddenness&mdash;I was unprepared. So it
was when I awoke this morning&mdash;and
it startled me, because I heard it was
the first bad symptom that my poor
mother showed. Now, I pray you,
Stukely, to be calm. Perhaps I shall
get well; but if I do not, I shall be so
happy&mdash;preparing for eternity, with
you, dear Caleb, at my side. You
promised to be tranquil, and to bear
up against this day; and I am sure you
will&mdash;yes, for my sake&mdash;that I may see
you so, and have no sorrow.&quot;</p>

<p>I took the dear one to my bosom,
and, like a child, cried upon her neck.
What could I say? In one moment I
was a bankrupt and a beggar&mdash;my fortunes
were scattered to the winds&mdash;my
solid edifice as stricken by the thunder-bolt,
and lay in ruins before me!
Was it real?</p>

<p>Ellen grew calmer as she looked at
me, and spoke.</p>

<p>&quot;Listen to me, dearest Stukely. It
was my duty to acquaint you with this
circumstance, and I have done so, relying
on your manliness and love.
You have already guessed what I am
about to add. My poor father&quot;&mdash;her
lips quivered as she said the word&mdash;&quot;he
must know nothing for the present.
It would be cruel unnecessarily
to alarm him. His heart would break.
He MUST be kept in ignorance of this.
You shall see Mayhew; he will, I
trust, remove our fears. Should he
confirm them, he can communicate to
papa.&quot; Again she paused, and her
tears trickled to her lips, which moved
convulsively.</p>

<p>&quot;Do not speak, my beloved,&quot; I exclaimed.
&quot;Compose yourself. We
will return home. Be it as you wish.
I will see Mayhew immediately, and
bring him with me to the parsonage.
Seek rest&mdash;avoid exertion.&quot;</p>

<p>I know not what conversation followed
this. I know not how we reached
our home again. I have no recollection
of it. Three times upon our road was
the cough repeated, and, as at first, it
was accompanied by that hideous sight.
In vain she turned her head away to
escape detection. It was impossible
to deceive my keen and piercing gaze.
I grew pale as death as I beheld on
each occasion the frightful evidence of
disease; but the maiden pressed my
hand, and smiled sweetly and encouragingly
to drive away my fears. She
did not speak&mdash;I had forbidden her to
do so; but her looks&mdash;full of tenderness
and love&mdash;told how all her thoughts
were for her lover&mdash;all her anxiety and
care.</p>

<p>At my request, as soon as we arrived
at home, she went to bed. I saw the
incumbent&mdash;acquainted him with her
sudden illness&mdash;taking care to keep its
nature secret&mdash;and then ran for my life
to Dr Mayhew's residence. The very
appearance of blood was to me, as it
is always to the common and
uninformed observer, beyond all doubt
confirmatory of the worst suspicions&mdash;the
harbinger of certain death. There
is something horrible in its sight,
presented in such a form; but not for
itself do we shrink as we behold it&mdash;not
for what it is, but for what it
awfully proclaims. I was frantic and
breathless when I approached the
doctor's house, and half stupified when
I at length stood before him.</p>

<p>I told my errand quickly.</p>

<p>The doctor attempted instantly to
mislead me, but he failed in his
design. I saw, in spite of the forced
smile that would not rest upon his lips,
how unexpectedly and powerfully this
news had come upon him&mdash;how seriously
he viewed it. He could not
remove my miserable convictions by
his own abortive efforts at cheerfulness
and unconcern. He moved to
his window, and strove to whistle, and
to speak of the haymakers who were
busy in the fields, and of the weather;
but the more he feigned to regard my
information as undeserving of alarm,
the more convinced I grew that deadly
mischief had already taken place.
There was an air about him that
showed him ill at ease; and, in the
midst of all his quietude and indifference,
he betrayed an anxiety to appear
composed, unwarranted by an ordinary
event. Had the illness been trifling
indeed, he could have afforded to be
more serious and heedful.</p>

<p>&quot;I will be at the parsonage some
time to-day. You can return without
me, Stukely.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Dr Mayhew,&quot; I exclaimed, &quot;I
entreat, I implore you not to trifle with
me! I can bear any thing but that.
Tell me the worst, and I will not
shrink from it. You must not think
to deceive me. You are satisfied that
there is no hope for us; I am sure you
are, and you will not be just and say
so.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;I am satisfied of no such thing,&quot;
answered the doctor quickly. &quot;I
should be a fool, a madman, to speak
so rashly. There is every reason to
hope, I do believe, at present. Tell
me one thing&mdash;does her father know
of it?&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;He does not.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Then let it still be kept a secret
from him. Her very life may depend
upon his ignorance. She must be
kept perfectly composed&mdash;no agitation&mdash;no
frightened faces around her. But
I will go with you, and see what can
be done. I'll warrant it is nothing at
all, and that puss is well over her fright
before we get to her.&quot;</p>

<p>Again the doctor smiled unhealthfully,
and tried, awkwardly enough, to
appear wholly free from apprehension,
whilst he was most uncomfortable with
the amount of it.</p>

<p>The physician remained for half an
hour with his patient, and rejoined me
in the garden when he quitted her.
He looked serious and thoughtful.</p>

<p>&quot;There is no hope, then?&quot; I
exclaimed immediately.</p>

<p>&quot;Tush, boy,&quot; he answered;
&quot;quiet&mdash;quiet. She will do well, I
hope&mdash;eventually. She has fever on her
now, which must be brought down.
While that remains there will be
anxiety, as there must be always&mdash;when
it leaves her, I trust she will be
well again. Do you know if she has
undergone any unusual physical exertion?&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;I do not.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;I confess to you that I do not like
this accident; but it is impossible to
speak positively now. Whilst the fever
lasts, symptoms may be confounded
and mistaken. I will watch her
closely.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Have you seen her father?&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;I have; but I have told him
nothing further than he knew. He believes
her slightly indisposed. I have
calmed him, and have told him not to
have the child disturbed. You will
see to that?&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;I will.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;And now mark me, Stukely. I
expect that you will behave like a man,
and as you ought. We cannot keep
Fairman ignorant of this business.
Should it go on, as it may&mdash;in spite of
every thing we can do&mdash;he must
know it. You have seen sufficient of
his character to judge how he will
receive the information which it may
be my painful lot to take to him. I
think of it with dread. It has been
my pleasure to stand your friend&mdash;you
must prove mine. I shall expect you
to act with fortitude and calmness, and
not, by weakness and self-indulgence,
to increase the pain that will afflict the
parent's heart&mdash;for it will be sufficient
for Fairman to know only what has
happened to give up every hope and
consolation. You must be firm on his
account and chiefly for the sake of the
dear girl, who should not see your face
without a smile of confidence and love
upon it. Do you hear me? I will let
you weep now,&quot; he continued, noticing
the tears which prevented my reply,
&quot;provided that you dry your eyes, and
keep them so from this time forward.
Do you hear me?&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Yes,&quot; I faltered.</p>

<p>&quot;And will you heed me?&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;I will try,&quot; I answered, as firmly as
I might, with every hope within me
crushed and killed by the words which
he had spoken.</p>

<p>&quot;Very well. Then let us say no
more, until we see what Providence is
doing for us.&quot;</p>

<p>The fever of Ellen did not abate
that day. The doctor did not leave
the house, but remained with the incumbent&mdash;not,
as he told his friend,
because he thought it necessary so
to do, but to keep the word which he
had given the night before&mdash;viz., to
pass the day with him. He was sorry
that he had been deprived of their
company at his own abode, but he
could make himself quite comfortable
where he was. About eleven o'clock
at night the doctor thought it strange
that Robin had not brought his pony
over, and wondered what had happened.</p>

<p>&quot;Shall we send to enquire?&quot; asked
Mr Fairman.</p>

<p>&quot;Oh no!&quot; was the quick answer,
&quot;that never can be worth while.
We'll wait a little longer.&quot;</p>

<p>At twelve the doctor spoke again.
&quot;Well, he must think of moving; but
he was very tired, and did not care
to walk.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Why not stay here, then? I cannot
see, Mayhew, why you should be
so uneasy at the thought of sleeping
out. Come, take your bed with us for
once.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Eh?&mdash;well&mdash;it's very late&mdash;suppose
I do.&quot;</p>

<p>Mayhew had not been shrewd enough,
and, with his ready acquiescence, the
minister learned all.</p>

<p>I did not go to bed. My place was
at her door, and there I lingered till the
morning. The physician had paid his
last visit shortly after midnight, and had
given orders to the nurse who waited
on the patient, to call him up if necessary,
but on no account to disturb the
lady if she slept or was composed.
The gentle sufferer did not require his
services, or, if she did, was too thoughtful
and too kind to make it known.
Early in the morning Doctor Mayhew
came&mdash;the fever had increased&mdash;and
she had experienced a new attack of
h&aelig;moptysis the moment she awoke.
The doctor stepped softly from her
room, and deep anxiety was written on
his brow. I followed him with eagerness.
He put his finger to his lips,
and said, &quot;Remember, Stukely.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Yes, I will&mdash;I do; but, is she better?&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;No&mdash;but I am not discouraged yet.
Every thing depends upon extreme
tranquillity. No one must see her.
Dear me, dear me! what is to be said
to Fairman, should he ask?&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Is she placid?&quot; I enquired.</p>

<p>&quot;She is an angel, Stukely,&quot; said the
good doctor, pressing my hands, and
passing on. When we met at breakfast,
the incumbent looked hard at me,
and seemed to gather something from
my pale and careworn face. When
Mayhew came, full of bustle, assumed,
and badly too, as the shallowest observer
could perceive, he turned to him, and
in a quiet voice asked &quot;if his child
was much worse since the previous
night.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Not much,&quot; said Mayhew. &quot;She
will be better in a short time, I trust.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;May I see her?&quot; enquired the father
in the same soft tone.</p>

<p>&quot;Not now&mdash;by and by perhaps&mdash;I
hope to-morrow. This is a sudden attack&mdash;you
see&mdash;any excitement may
prolong it&mdash;it wouldn't be well to give
a chance away. Don't you see that,
Fairman?&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Yes,&quot; said the minister, and from
that moment made no further mention
of his daughter during breakfast. The
meal was soon dispatched. Mr Fairman
retired to his study&mdash;and the doctor
prepared for his departure. He
promised to return in the afternoon.</p>

<p>&quot;Thank God!&quot; he exclaimed, as he
took leave of me at the gate, &quot;that
Fairman remains so very unsuspicious.
This is not like him. I expected to
find him more inquisitive.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;I am surprised,&quot; I answered; &quot;but
it is most desirable that he should continue
so.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Yes&mdash;yes&mdash;by all means&mdash;for the
present at all events.&quot;</p>

<p>Throughout the day there was no
improvement in the patient's symptoms.
The physician came according
to his promise, and again at night. He
slept at the parsonage for the second
time. The minister betrayed no wonder
at this unusual act, showed no agitation,
made no importunate enquiries.
He asked frequently during the day if
any amendment had taken place; but
always in a gentle voice, and without
any other reference to her illness. As
often as the doctor came, he repeated
his wish to visit his dear child, but, receiving
for answer &quot;that he had better
not at present,&quot; he retired to his
study with a tremulous sigh, but offering
no remonstrance.</p>

<p>The doctor went early to rest. He
had no inclination to spend the evening
with his friend, whom he hardly
cared to see until he could meet him
as the messenger of good tidings. I
had resolved to hover, as I did before,
near the mournful chamber in which
she lay; and there I kept a weary
watch until my eyes refused to serve
me longer, and I was forced against my
will, and for the sake of others, to yield
my place and crawl to my repose. As
I walked stealthily through the house,
and on tiptoe, fearful of disturbing one
beloved inmate even by a breath&mdash;I
passed the incumbent's study. The
door was open, and a glare of light
broke from it, and stretched across the
passage. I hesitated for a moment&mdash;then
listened&mdash;but, hearing nothing,
pursued my way. It was very strange.
The clock had just before struck three,
and the minister, it was supposed, had
been in bed since midnight. &quot;His
lamp is burning,&quot; thought I&mdash;&quot;he has
forgotten it.&quot; I was on the point of
entering the apartment&mdash;when I was
deterred and startled by his voice. My
hand was already on the door, and I
looked in. Before me, on his knees,
with his back towards me, was my revered
friend&mdash;his hands clasped, and his
head raised in supplication. He was
in his dress of day, and had evidently
not yet visited his pillow. I
waited, and he spoke&mdash;</p>

<p>&quot;Not my will,&quot; he exclaimed in a
piercing tone of prayer&mdash;&quot;not mine,
but thy kind will be done, O Lord!
If it be possible, let the bitter cup pass
from me&mdash;but spare not, if thy glory
must needs be vindicated. Bring me
to thy feet in meek, and humble, and
believing confidence&mdash;all is well, then,
for time and for eternity. It is merciful
and good to remove the idol that
stands between our love and God.
Father of mercy&mdash;enable me to bring
the truth <i>home, home</i> to this most
traitorous&mdash;this lukewarm, earthy heart
of mine&mdash;a heart not worthy of thy
care and help. Let me not murmur at
thy gracious will&mdash;oh, rather bend and
bow to it&mdash;and kiss the rod that punishes.
I need chastisement&mdash;for I
have loved too well&mdash;too fondly. I am
a rebel, and thy all-searching eye hath
found me faithless in thy service. Take
her, Father and Saviour&mdash;I will resign
her&mdash;I will bless the hand that smites
me&mdash;I will&quot;&mdash;he stopped; and big
tears, such as drop fearfully from manhood's
eye, made known to heaven the
agony that tears a parent's heart, whilst
piety is occupied in healing it.</p>

<p>It is not my purpose to recite the
doubts and fears, the terrible suspense,
the anxious hopes, that filled the hours
which passed whilst the condition of
the patient remained critical. It is a
recital which the reader may well
spare, and I avoid most gladly. At
the end of a week, the fever departed
from the sufferer. The alarming symptoms
disappeared, and confidence flowed
rapidly to the soul again. At this
time the father paid his first visit to
his child. He found her weak and
wasted; the violent applications which
had been necessary for safety had
robbed her of all strength&mdash;had effected,
in fact, a prostration of power, which
she never recovered, from which she
never rallied. Mr Fairman was greatly
shocked, and asked the physician for
his opinion <i>now</i>. The latter declined
giving it until, as he expressed himself,
&quot;the effects of the fever, and her attack,
had left him a fair and open field
for observation. There was a slight
cough upon her. It was impossible
for the present to say, whether it was
temporary and dependent upon what
had happened, or whether it resulted
from actual mischief in her lung.&quot;</p>

<hr style="width: 45%;">

<p>A month has passed away since the
physician spoke these words, and to
doubt longer would be to gaze upon
the sun and to question its brightness.
Mayhew has told the father his worst
fears, and bids him prepare like a Christian
and a man for the loss of his earthly
treasure. It was he who watched
the decay of her mother. The case is
a similar one. He has no consolation
to offer. It must be sought at the
throne of Him who giveth, and
hath the right to take away. The
minister receives the intelligence with
admirable fortitude. We are sitting
together, and the doctor has just spoken
as becomes him, seriously and well.
There is a spasm on the cheek of the
incumbent, whilst I sob loudly. The
latter takes me by the hand, and
speaks to the physician in a low and
hesitating tone.</p>

<p>&quot;Mayhew,&quot; said he, &quot;I thank you
for this sincerity. I will endeavour to
look the terror in the face, as I have
struggled to do for many days. It is
hard&mdash;but through the mercy of Christ
it is not impracticable. Dear and oldest
friend, unite your prayers with
mine, for strength, and holiness, and
resignation. Cloud and agitation are
at our feet. Heaven is above us. Let
us look there, and all is well.&quot;</p>

<p>We knelt. The minister prayed.
He did not ask his Master to suspend
his judgments. He implored him to
prepare the soul of the afflicted one for
its early flight, and to subdue the hearts
of them all with his grace and holy
spirit. Let him who doubts the efficacy
of <i>prayer</i> seek to clear his difficulty
in the season of affliction, or
when death sits grimly at the hearth&mdash;he
shall be satisfied.</p>

<p>If it were a consolation and a joy
in the midst of our tribulation to behold
the father chastened by the heavy
blow which had fallen so suddenly
upon his age, how shall I express the
ineffable delight&mdash;yes, delight, amidst
sorrow the most severe&mdash;with which
I contemplated the beloved maiden,
upon whose tender years Providence
had allowed to fall so great a trial.
Fully sensible of her position, and of
the near approach of death, she was,
so long as she could see her parent and
her lover without distress, patient,
cheerful, and rejoicing. Yes, weaker
and weaker as she grew, happier and
happier she became in the consciousness
of her pure soul's increase. Into
her ear had been whispered, and before
her eyes holy spirits had appeared
with the mysterious communication,
which, hidden as it is from us, we find
animating and sustaining feeble nature,
which else would sink, appalled and
overwhelmed. There was not one of
us who did not live a witness to the
truth of the heavenly promise, &quot;<i>as thy
days, so shall thy strength be</i>;&quot; not one
amongst the dearest friends of the sufferer,
who did not feel, in the height of
his affliction, that God would not cast
upon his creatures a burden which a
Christian might not bear. But to <i>her</i>
especially came the celestial declaration
with power and might. An angel,
sojourning for a day upon the earth,
and preparing for his homeward flight,
could not have spread his ready wing
more joyfully, with livelier anticipation
of his native bliss, than did the maiden
look for her recall and blest ascension
to the skies. In her presence I had
seldom any grief; it was swallowed up
and lost in gratitude for the victory
which the dear one had achieved, in
virtue of her faith, over all the horrors
of her situation. It was when alone
that I saw, in its reality and naked
wretchedness, the visitation that I,
more than any other, was doomed to
suffer. For days I could scarcely bring
myself to the calm consideration of it.
It seemed unreal, impossible, a dream&mdash;any
thing but what it was&mdash;the direst
of worldly woes&mdash;the most tremendous
of human punishments.</p>

<p>I remember vividly a day passed in
the chamber of the resigned creature,
about two months after the first indication
of her illness. Her disease had
increased rapidly, and the signs of its
ravages were painfully manifest in her
sunken eye, her hectic cheek, her hollow
voice, her continual cough. Her
spirit became more tranquil as her body
retreated from the world&mdash;her hopes
more firm, her belief in the love of her
Saviour&mdash;his will and power to save
her, more clear, and free from all perplexity.
I had never beheld so beautiful
a sight as the devoted maid presented
to my view. I had never supposed
it possible to exist; and thus, as
I sat at her side, though the thought of
death was ever present, it was as of a
terror in a milkwhite shroud&mdash;a monster
enveloped and concealed beneath
a robe of beauty. I listened to her
with enchantment whilst she spoke of
the littleness of this world, and the
boundless happiness that awaited true
believers in the next&mdash;of the unutterable
mercy of God, in removing us
from a scene of trouble whilst our
views were cloudless, and our hopes
sure and abiding. Yes, charmed by the
unruffled air, the angelic look, I could
forget even my mortality for a moment,
and feel my living soul in
deep communion with a superior and
brighter spirit. It was when she recalled
me to earth by a reminiscence
of our first days of love, that the
bruised heart was made sensible of
pain, and of its lonely widowed lot.
Then the tears would not be checked,
but rushed passionately forth, and, as
the clouds shut out and hid the one
brief glimpse of heaven, flowed unrestrained.</p>

<p>Her mind was in a sweet composed
state during the interview to which I
allude. She had pleasure in referring
to the days of her childhood, and in
speaking of the happiness which she
had found amongst her native hills.</p>

<p>&quot;How little, Caleb,&quot; she said, &quot;is
the mind occupied with thoughts
of death in childhood&mdash;with any
thoughts of actual lasting evil! We
cannot see these things in childhood&mdash;we
cannot penetrate so deeply or
throw our gaze so far, we are so
occupied with the joys that are round
about us. Is it not so? Our parents
are ever with us. Day succeeds to
day&mdash;one so like the other&mdash;and our
home becomes our world. A sorrow
comes at length&mdash;a parent dies&mdash;the
first and dearest object in that world;
then all is known, and the stability of
life becomes suspected.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;The home of many,&quot; I replied,
&quot;is undisturbed for years!&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Yes, and how sweet a thing is love
of home! It is not acquired, I am
sure. It is a feeling that has its
origin elsewhere. It is born with us;
brought from another world, to carry
us on in this with joy. It attaches to
the humblest heart that ever throbbed.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Dear Ellen!&quot; I exclaimed, &quot;how
little has sorrow to do with your affliction!&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;And why, dear Caleb? Have you
never found that the difficulties of the
broad day melt away beneath the influences
of the quiet lovely night?
Have you never been perplexed in the
bustle and tumult of the day, and has
not truth revealed itself when all was
dark and still? This is my night, and
in sickness I have seen the eye of God
upon me, and heard his words, as I
have never seen and heard before?&quot;</p>

<p>It was in this manner that she would
talk, not more disturbed, nay, not so
much, as when in happier times I
never heard her speak of the troubles
and anxieties of her poor villagers.
No complaint&mdash;no mournful accents
escaped her lips. If at times the soaring
spirit was repressed, dejected,
the living&mdash;the loved ones whom she
must leave behind her had possession
of her thoughts, and loaded them
with pain. Who would wait upon
her father? Who would attend to all
his little wants? Who could understand
his nature as she had learnt it&mdash;and
who would live to comfort and to
cheer his days? These questions she
has asked herself, whilst her only
answers have been her struggling
tears.</p>

<p>The days were travelling fast; each
one taking from the doomed girl&mdash;years
of life. She dwindled and wasted;
and became at length less than a
shadow of her former self. Why
linger on the narrative? Autumn arrived,
and, with the general decay&mdash;she
died. A few hours before her
death she summoned me to her bedside,
and acquainted me with her fast-approaching
dissolution. &quot;It is the
day,&quot; she said, speaking with difficulty&mdash;&quot;I
am sure of it. I have watched
that branch for many days&mdash;look&mdash;it
is quite bare. Its last yellow leaf has
fallen&mdash;I shall not survive it.&quot; I gazed
upon her; her eye was brighter than
ever. It sparkled again, and most
beautiful she looked. But death was
there&mdash;and her soul eager to give him
all that he could claim!</p>

<p>&quot;You are quite happy, dearest
Ellen!&quot; I exclaimed, weeping on her
thin emaciated hand.</p>

<p>&quot;Most happy, beloved. Do not
grieve&mdash;be resigned&mdash;be joyful. I have
a word to say. Nurse,&quot; she continued,
calling to her attendant&mdash;&quot;the drawing.&quot;</p>

<p>The nurse placed in her hand the
sketch which she had taken of my
favourite scene.</p>

<p>&quot;Do you remember, love?&quot; said
she. &quot;Keep it, for Ellen&mdash;you loved
that spot&mdash;oh, so did I!--and you will
love it still. There is another sketch,
you will find it by and by&mdash;afterwards&mdash;when
I am&mdash;&mdash;It is in my desk.
Keep that too, for Ellen, will you?
It is the last drawing I have
made.&quot;</p>

<p>I sat by and bit my lips to crush my
grief, but I would not be silent whilst
my heart as breaking.</p>

<p>&quot;You should rejoice, dear,&quot; continued
Ellen solemnly. &quot;We did not
expect this separation so very soon;
but it is better now than later. Be
sure it is merciful and good. Prepare
for this hour, Caleb; and when it
comes, you will be so calm, so ready
to depart. How short is life! Do not
waste the precious hours. Read from
St John, dearest&mdash;the eleventh chapter.
It is all sweetness and consolation.&quot;</p>

<p>The sun was dropping slowly into
the west, leaving behind him a deep
red glow that illuminated the hills, and
burnished the windows of the sick-chamber.
The wind moaned, and,
sweeping the sere leaves at intervals,
threatened a tempest. There was a
solemn stillness in the parsonage,
around whose gate&mdash;weeping in silence,
without heart to speak, or wish
to make their sorrow known&mdash;were
collected a host of humble creatures&mdash;the
poorest but sincerest friends of
Ellen&mdash;the villagers who had been her
care. They waited and lingered for
the heavy news, which they were told
must come to them this day; and
prayed secretly&mdash;every one of them,
old and young&mdash;for mercy on the sufferer's
soul! And she, whose gentle
spirit is about to flit, lies peacefully,
and but half-conscious of the sounds
that pass to heaven on her behalf.
Her father, Mayhew, and I, kneel
round her bed, and the minister in supplicating
tones, where nature does not
interpose, dedicates the virgin to <i>His</i>
favour whose love she has applied so
well. He ceases, for a whisper has
escaped her lips. We listen all.
&quot;<i>Oh, this is peace</i>!&quot; she utters faintly,
but most audibly, and the scene is
over.</p>

<p>&quot;It is a dream,&quot; said the minister,
when we parted for the night&mdash;I with
the vain hope to forget in sleep the
circumstances of the day&mdash;the father
to stray unwittingly into <i>her</i> former
room, and amongst the hundred objects
connected with the happy memory
of the departed.</p>

<p>The picture of which my Ellen had
spoken, I obtained on the following
day. It was a drawing of the church
and the burial-ground adjoining it.
One grave was open. It represented
that in which her own mortal remains
were deposited, amidst the unavailing
lamentations of a mourning village.</p>

<p>In three months the incumbent quitted
Devonshire. The scenery had no
pleasure for him, associated as it was
with all the sorrows of his life. His
pupils returned to their homes. He
had offered to retain them, and to retain
his incumbency for the sake of
my advancement; but, whilst I saw
that every hour spent in the village
brought with it new bitterness and
grief, I was not willing to call upon
him for so great a sacrifice. Such
a step, indeed, was rendered unnecessary
through the kind help of Dr Mayhew,
to whom I owe my present situation,
which I have held for forty years
with pleasure and contentment. Mr
Fairman retired to a distant part of
the kingdom, where the condition of
the people rendered the presence of an
active minister of God a privilege and
a blessing. In the service of his
Master, in the securing of the happiness
of other men, he strove for
years to deaden the pain of his own
crushed heart. And he succeeded&mdash;living
to bless the wisdom which had
carried him through temptation; and
dying, at last, to meet with the reward
conferred upon the man <i>who, by patient
continuance in well-doing, seeks for glory,
and honour, and immortality</i>&mdash;ETERNAL
LIFE.</p>

<p>The employment obtained for me by
the kind interest of Dr Mayhew, which
the return of so many summers and
winters has found me steadily prosecuting,
was in the house of his brother&mdash;a
gentleman whose name is amongst
the first in a profession adorned by a
greater number of high-minded, honourable
men, than the world generally
is willing to allow. Glad to avail
myself of comparative repose, an active
occupation, and a certain livelihood, I
did not hesitate to enter his office in
the humble capacity of clerk. I have
lived to become the confidential secretary
and faithful friend of my respected
principal.</p>

<p>As I have progressed noiselessly in
the world, and rather as a spectator
than an actor on the broad stage of
life, it has been no unprofitable task
to trace the career of those with whom
I formed an intimacy during the bustle
and excitement of my boyhood. Not
many months after my introduction
into the mysteries of law, tidings reached
my ears concerning Mr Clayton.
He had left his chapel suddenly. His
avarice had led him deeper and deeper
into guilt; speculation followed speculation,
until he found himself entangled
in difficulties, from which, by
lawful means, he was unable to extricate
himself. He forged the signature
of a wealthy member of his congregation,
and thus added another knot to
the complicated string of his delinquencies.
He was discovered. There
was not a man aware of the circumstances
of the case who was not satisfied
of his guilt; but a legal quibble
saved him, and he was sent into the
world again, branded with the solemn
reprimand of the judge who tried him
for his life, and who bade him seek existence
honestly&mdash;compelled to labour,
as he would be, in a humbler sphere of
life than that in which he had hitherto
employed his undoubted talents. To
those acquainted with the working of
the unhappy system of <i>dissent</i>, it will
not be a matter of surprise that the
result was not such as the good judge
anticipated. It so happened that, at
the time of Mr Clayton's acquittal, a
dispute arose between the minister of
his former congregation and certain
influential members of the same. The
latter, headed by a fruiterer, a very turbulent
and conceited personage, separated
from what they called the <i>church</i>,
and set up another <i>church</i> in opposition.
The meeting-house was built,
and the only question that remained
to agitate the pious minds of the half-dozen
founders was&mdash;<i>How to let the
pews</i>! Mr CLAYTON, more popular
amongst his set than ever, was invited
to accept the duties of a pastor. He
consented, and had the pews been
trebled they would not have satisfied
one half the applications which, in one
month, were showered on the victorious
schismatics. Here, for a few
years, Mr Clayton continued; his character
improved, his fame more triumphant,
his godliness more spiritual
and pure than it had been even before
he committed the crime of forgery.
His ruling passion, notwithstanding,
kept firm hold of his soul, and very
soon betrayed him into the commission
of new offences. He fled from London,
and I lost sight of him. At
length I discovered that he was preaching
in one of the northern counties,
and with greater success than ever&mdash;yes,
such is the fallacy of the system&mdash;with
the approbation of men, and the
idolatry of women, to whom the history
of his career was as familiar as
their own. Again circumstances compelled
him to decamp. I know not
what these were, nor could I ever
learn; satisfied, however, that from
his nature <i>money</i> must have been in
close connexion with them, I expected
soon to hear of him again; and
I did hear, but not for years. The
information that last of all I gained
was, that he had sold his noble faculties
<i>undisguisedly</i> to the arch enemy of
man. He had become the editor of
one of the lowest newspaper of the
metropolis, notorious for its Radical
politics and atheistical blasphemies.</p>

<p>Honest, faithful and unimpeachable
John Thompson! Friend, husband,
father&mdash;sound in every relation of this
life&mdash;thou noble-hearted Englishman!
Let me not say thy race is yet extinct.
No; in spite of the change that has
come over the spirit of our land&mdash;in
spite of the rust that eats into men's
souls, eternally racked with thoughts
of gain and traffic&mdash;in spite of the
cursed poison insidiously dropped beneath
the cottage eaves, by reckless,
needy demagogues, I trust my native
land, and still believe, that on her lap
she cherishes whole bands of faithful
children, and firm patriots. Not
amongst the least inducements to return
to London was the advantage of
a residence near to that of my best
friend and truest counsellor. I cannot
number the days which I have spent
with him and his unequalled family&mdash;unequalled
in their unanimity and love.
For years, no Sunday passed which
did not find me at their hospitable
board; a companion afterwards in their
country walks, and at the evening service
of their parish church. The children
were men and women before it
pleased Providence to remove their
sire. How like his life was good John
Thompson's death! Full of years,
but with his mental vision clear as in
its dawn, aware of his decline, he called
his family about his bed, and to the
weeping group spoke firmly and most
cheerfully.</p>

<p>&quot;He had lived his time,&quot; he said,
&quot;and long enough to see his children
doing well. There was not one who
caused him pain and fear&mdash;and that
was more than every father of a family
could say&mdash;thank God for it! He
didn't know that he had much to ask
of any one of them. If they continued
to work hard, he left enough behind
to buy them tools; and if they didn't,
the little money he had saved would
be of very little use. There was their
mother. He needn't tell 'em to be
kind to her, because their feelings
wouldn't let them do no otherwise.
As for advice, he'd give it to them
in his own plain way. First and foremost,
he hoped <i>they never would sew
their mouths up</i>&mdash;never act in such a
way as to make themselves ashamed
of speaking like a man;&quot; and then he
recommended strongly that <i>they should
touch no bills but such as they might cut
wood with</i>. The worst that could befall
'em would be a cut upon the finger;
and if they handled other bills they'd
cut their heads off in the end, be sure
of it. &quot;Alec,&quot; said he at last,&mdash;&quot;you
fetch me bundle of good sticks. Get
them from the workshop.&quot; Alec
brought them, and the sire continued,&mdash;&quot;Now,
just break one a-piece.
There, that's right&mdash;now, try and break
them altogether. No, no, my boys,
you can't do that, nor can the world
break you so long as you hold fast
and well together. Disagree and separate,
and nothing is more easy. If a year
goes bad with one, let the others see
to make it up. Live united, do your
duty, and leave the rest to heaven.&quot;
So Thompson spake; such was the
legacy he left to those who knew from
his good precept and example how to
profit by it. My friendship with his
children has grown and ripened. They
are thriving men. Alec has inherited
the nature of his father more than any
other son. All go smoothly on in
life, paying little regard to the broils
and contests of external life, but most
attentive to the <i>in-door</i> business. All,
did I say?&mdash;I err. Exception must
be made in favour of my excellent good
friend, Mr Robert Thompson. He has
in him something of the spirit of his
mother, and finds fault where his
brethren are most docile. Catholic
emancipation he regarded with horror&mdash;the
Reform bill with indignation;
and the onward movement of the present
day he looks at with the feelings
of an individual waiting for an earthquake.
He is sure that the world is
going round the other way, or is turned
topsy-turvy, or is coming to an end.
He is the quietest and best disposed
man in his parish&mdash;his moral character
is without a flaw&mdash;his honesty
without a blemish, yet is his mind
filled with designs which would astonish
the strongest head that rebel ever
wore. He talks calmly of the propriety
of hanging, without trial, all
publishers of immorality and sedition&mdash;of
putting embryo rioters to death,
and granting them a judicial examination
as soon as possible afterwards.
Dissenting meeting-houses he would
shut up instanter, and guard with
soldiers to prevent irregularity or
disobedience. &quot;Things,&quot; he says, &quot;are
twisted since his father was a boy, and
must be twisted back&mdash;by force&mdash;to
their right place again. Ordinary
measures are less than useless for
extraordinary times, and he only wishes
he had power, or was prime-minister
for a day or two.&quot; But for this unfortunate
<i>monomania</i>, the Queen has not a
better subject, London has not a worthier
citizen than the plain spoken,
simple-hearted Robert Thompson.</p>

<p>In one of the most fashionable streets
of London, and within a few doors of
the residence of royalty, is a stylish
house, which always looks as if it were
newly painted, furnished, and decorated.
The very imperfect knowledge
which a passer-by may gain, denotes
the existence of great wealth within the
clean and shining walls. Nine times
out of ten shall you behold, standing at
the door, a splendid equipage&mdash;a britzka
or barouche. The appointments
are of the richest kind&mdash;the servants'
livery gaudiest of the gaudy&mdash;silvery
are their buttons, and silver-gilt the
horses' harness. Stay, whilst the big
door opens, and then mark the owner
of the house and britzka. A distinguished
foreigner, you say, of forty, or
thereabouts. He seems dressed in
livery himself; for all the colours of
the rainbow are upon him. Gold
chains across his breast&mdash;how many
you cannot count at once&mdash;intersect
each other curiously; and on every
finger sparkles a precious jewel, or a
host of jewels. Thick mustaches
and a thicker beard adorn the foreign
face; but a certain air which it assumes,
convinces you without delay
that it is the property of an unmitigated
blackguard. Reader, you see the
ready Ikey, whom we have met oftener
than once in this short history. Would
you know more? Be satisfied to learn,
that he exists upon the follies and the
vices of our high nobility. He has
made good the promises of his childhood
and his youth. He rolls in riches,
and is&mdash;&mdash;a fashionable money-lender.</p>

<p>Dark were the shadows which fell
upon my youth. The indulgent
reader has not failed to note them&mdash;with
pain it may be&mdash;and yet, I trust, not
without improvement. Yes, sad and
gloomy has been the picture, and light
has gleamed but feebly there. It has
been otherwise since I carried, for my
comfort and support, the memory of
my beloved Ellen into the serious employment
of my later years. With the
catastrophe of her decease, commenced
another era of my existence&mdash;the era
of self-denial, patience, sobriety,
and resignation. Her example dropped
with silent power into my soul,
and wrought its preservation. Struck
to the earth by the immediate blow,
and rising slowly from it, I did not
mourn her loss as men are wont to
grieve at the departure of all they hold
most dear. Think when I would of
her, in the solemn watches of the
night, in the turmoil of the bustling
day&mdash;a saint beatified, a spirit of purity
and love&mdash;hovered above me, smiling
in its triumphant bliss, and whispering&mdash;&mdash;peace.
My lamentation was intercepted
by my joy. And so throughout
have I been irritated by the small annoyances
of the world, her radiant countenance&mdash;as
it looked sweetly even upon
death&mdash;has risen to shame and silence
my complaint. Repining at my humble
lot, her words&mdash;that estimated well
the value, the nothingness of life compared
with life eternal&mdash;have spoken
the effectual reproof. As we advance
in years, the old familiar faces gradually
retreat and fade at length entirely.
Forty long years have passed,
and on this bright spring morning the
gentle Ellen steals upon the lawn, unaltered
by the lapse of time. Her
slender arm is twined in mine, and her
eye fills with innocent delight. Not
an hour of age is added to her face,
although the century was not yet born
when last I gazed upon its meek and
simple loveliness. She vanishes. Is it
her voice that through the window
flows, borne on the bosom of the vernal
wind? Angel of Light, I wait
thy bidding to rejoin thee!</p>

<hr class="full" />



<a name="bw329s9" id="bw329s9"></a><h2>COMMERCIAL POLICY.</h2>

<h3>SPAIN.</h3>
<br>

<p>The extraordinary breadth and
boldness of the fiscal measures propounded
and carried out at once in
the past year with vigour and promptitude
no less extraordinary, wisely
calculated of themselves, as they may
be, perhaps, and so far experience is
assumed to have confirmed, to exercise
a salutary bearing upon the physical
condition of the people, and to reanimate
the drooping energies of the
country, can, however, receive the
full, the just development of all the
large and beneficial consequences
promised, only as commercial intercourse
is extended, as new marts are
opened, and as hostile tariffs are mitigated
or abated, by which former
markets have been comparatively
closed against the products of British
industry. The fiscal changes already
operated, may be said to have laid the
foundation, and prepared the way, for
this extension and revival of our foreign
commercial relations; but it remains
alone for our commercial policy
to raise the superstructure and
consummate the work, if the foundations
be of such solidity as we are
assured on high authority they are.
In the promotion of national prosperity,
colonization may prove a gradually
efficient auxiliary; but as a remedy
for present ills, its action must evidently
be too slow and restricted; and
even though it should be impelled to
a geometrical ratio of progression,
still would the prospect of effectual relief
be discernible only through a vista
of years. Meanwhile, time presses,
and the patient might perish if condemned
alone to the hom&oelig;opathic
process of infinitesimal doses of relief.</p>

<p>The statesman who entered upon
the Government with his scheme of
policy, reflected and silently matured
as a whole, (as we may take for
granted,) with principles determined,
and his course chalked out in a right
line, was not, assuredly, tardy, whilst
engaged with the work of fiscal revision,
in proceeding practically to the
enlargement of the basis of the commercial
system of the empire. An
advantageous treaty of commerce with
the young but rising republic of Monte
Video, rewarded his first exertions,
and is there to attest also the zealous
co-operation of his able and accomplished
colleague, Lord Aberdeen. This
treaty is not important only in reference
to the greater facilities and increase
of trade, conceded with the provinces
on the right bank of the river Plate,
and of the Uruguay and Parana, but
inasmuch also as, in the possible failure
of the negotiations for the renewal
of the commercial treaty with Brazil,
now approaching its term, it cannot
fail to secure easy access for British
wares in the territory of Rio Grande, lying
on the borders of the republic of
the Uruguay, and far the most extensive,
though not the most populous, of
Brazilian provinces; and this in despite
of the Government of Brazil,
which does not, and cannot, possess the
means for repressing its intercourse
with Monte Video, even though its
possession and authority were as absolute
and acknowledged in Rio
Grande as they are decidedly the reverse.
The next, and the more difficult,
achievement of Conservative diplomacy
resulted in the ratification of a
supplementary commercial convention
with Russia. We say difficult, because
the iron-bound exclusiveness
and isolation of the commercial, as
well as of the political, system of St
Petersburg, is sufficiently notorious;
and it must have required no small
exercise of sagacity and address to
overcome the known disinclination of
that Cabinet to any relaxation of the
restrictive policy which, as the Autocrat
lately observed to a distinguished
personage, &quot;had been handed down
to him from his ancestors, and was
found to work well for the interests of
his empire.&quot; The peculiar merits of
this treaty are as little understood,
however, as they have been unjustly
depreciated in some quarters, and the
obstacles to the accomplishment overlooked.
It will be sufficient to state,
on the present occasion, that notice
had been given by the Russian Government,
of the resolution to subject
British shipping, importing produce
other than of British, or British colonial
origin, to the payment of differential
or discriminating duties on entrance
into Russian ports. The result
of such a measure would have been
to put an entire stop to that branch
of the carrying trade, which consisted
in supplying the Russian market
with the produce of other European
countries, and of Brazil, Cuba,
and elsewhere, direct in British
bottoms. To avert this determination,
representations were not spared,
and at length negotiations were
consented to. But for some time they
wore but an unpromising appearance,
were more than once suspended, if
not broken off, and little, if any, disposition
was exhibited on the part of
the Russian Government to listen to
terms of compromise. After upwards
of twelvemonths' delay, hesitation,
and diplomacy, the arrangement was
finally completed, which was laid before
Parliament at the commencement
of the session. It may be accepted as
conclusive evidence of the tact and
skill of the British negotiators, that,
in return for waiving the alterations
before alluded to, and leaving British
shipping entitled to the same privileges
as before, it was agreed that the produce
of Russian Poland, shipped from
Prussian ports in Russian vessels,
should be admissible into the ports of
Great Britain on the same conditions
of duty as if coming direct and loaded
from Russian ports. As the greater
part of Russian Poland lies inland,
and communicates with the sea only
through the Prussian ports, it was no
more than just and reasonable that
Russian Polish produce so brought to
the coast&mdash;to Dantzig, for example&mdash;should
be admissible here in Russian
bottoms on the same footing as if from
a Russian port. To this country it
could be a matter of slight import
whether such portion of the produce
so shipped in Prussian ports as was
carried in foreign, and not in British
bottoms, came in Russian vessels or
in those of Prussia, as before. To
Russia, however, the boon was clearly
of considerable interest, and valued
accordingly. In the mean time, British
shipping retains its former position,
in respect of the carriage of foreign
produce; and, however hostile
Russian tariffs may be to British manufactured
products&mdash;as hostile to the
last degree they are, as well as against
the manufactured wares of all other
States&mdash;it is undeniable that our commercial
marine enjoys a large proportion
of the carrying trade with Russia&mdash;almost
a monopoly, in fact, of the
carrying trade between the two countries
direct. Of 1147 foreign ships
which sailed with cargoes during the
year 1842 from the port of Cronstadt,
515 were British, with destination direct
to the ports of the United Kingdom,
whilst only forty-one foreign or Russian
vessels were loaded and left during
that year for British ports. Of 525
British vessels, of the aggregate burden
of nearly 118,000 tons, which anchored
in the roadstead of Cronstadt
in that year, 472 were direct from the
United Kingdom, and fifty-three from
various other countries, such as the
two Sicilies, Spain, Cuba, South America,
&amp;c. The number of British
vessels which entered the port of St
Petersburg, as Cronstadt in fact is,
was more considerable still in 1840
and 1841&mdash;having been in the first
year, 662, of the aggregate burden
of 146,682 tons; in the latter, of
645 ships and 146,415 tons. Of
the total average number of vessels
by which the foreign trade of that empire
is carried on, and load and leave
the ports of Russia yearly, which, in
round numbers, may be taken at
about 6000, of an aggregate tonnage
of 1,000,000&mdash;ships sailing on ballast
not comprehended&mdash;the average number
of ships under the Russian flag,
comprised in the estimate, does not
much, if any, exceed 1000, of the aggregate
burden of 150 or 160,000 tons.
This digression, though it has led us
further astray from our main object
than we had contemplated, will not
be without its uses, if it serve to correct
some exaggerated notions which
prevail about the comparative valuelessness
of our commerce with Russia,
because of its assumed entire one-sidedness&mdash;losing
sight altogether of
its vast consequence to the shipping
interest; and of the freightage, which
is as much an article of commerce and
profit as cottons and woollens; oblivious,
moreover, of the great political
question involved in the maintenance
and aggrandisement of that shipping
interest, which must be taken to
account by the statesman and the patriot
as redressing to no inconsiderable
extent the adverse action of unfriendly
tariffs. It is only after careful
ponderance of these and other combined
considerations, that the value of
any trading relations with Russia can
be clearly understood, and that the
importance of the supplementary
treaty of navigation recently carried
through, with success proportioned
to the remarkable ability and perseverance
displayed, can be duly appreciated.
It is, undoubtedly, the
special economical event of the day,
upon which the commercial, and
scarcely less the political, diplomacy
of the Government may be most justly
complimented for its mastery of prejudices
and impediments, which, under
the circumstances, and in view of the
peculiar system to be combated, appeared
almost insurmountable. Common
honesty and candour must compel
this acknowledgment, even from
men so desperate in their antipathies
to the political system of Russia, as
Mr Urquhart or Mr Cargill&mdash;antipathies,
by the way, with which we shall
not hesitate to express a certain measure
of participation.</p>

<p>We shall not dwell upon those
other negotiations, now and for some
time past in active progress with
France, with Brazil, with Naples,
with Austria, and with Portugal, by
which Sir Robert Peel is so zealously
labouring to fill up the broad outlines
of his economical policy&mdash;a policy
which represents the restoration of
peace to the nation, progress to industry,
and plenty to the cottage;
but which also otherwise is not without
its dangers. Amidst the whirlwind
of passions, the storm of hatred and
envy, conjured by the evil genius of
his predecessors in office, and most
notably by the malignant star which
lately ruled over the foreign destinies
of England, the task has necessarily
been, yet is, and will be, Herculean;
but the force of Hercules is there also,
as may be hoped, to wrestle with and
overthrow the hydra&mdash;the &AElig;olus to
recall and encage the tempestuous
elements of strife. A host in himself,
hosts also the premier has with him
in his cabinet; for such singly are the
illustrious Wellington, the Aberdeen,
the Stanley, the Graham, the Ripon,
and, though last, though youngest,
scarcely least, the Gladstone.</p>

<p>Great as is our admiration, deeply
impressed as we are with a sense of
the extraordinary qualifications, of the
varied acquirements, of the conscientious
convictions, and the singleness
and rightmindedness of purpose of
the right honourable the vice-president
of the Board of Trade, we must
yet presume to hesitate before we give
an implicit adherence upon all the
points in the confession of economical
faith expressed and implied in an article
attributed to him, and not without
cause, which ushered into public
notice the first number of a new
quarterly periodical, &quot;The Foreign
and Colonial Quarterly Review,&quot;
in January last, and was generally
accepted as a programme
of ministerial faith and action. Our
points of dissonance are, however, few;
but, as involving questions of principle,
whilst we are generally at one
on matters of detail, we hold them to
be of some importance. This, however,
is not the occasion proper for
urging them, when engaged on a special
theme. But on a question of
fact, which has a bearing upon the
subject in hand, we may be allowed
to express our decided dissent from
the <i>dictum</i> somewhat arbitrarily
launched, in the article referred to,
in the following terms:&mdash;&quot;We shall
urge that foreign countries neither
have combined, nor ought to combine,
nor can combine, against the commerce
of Great Britain; and we <i>shall
treat as a calumny the imputation that
they are disposed to enter into such a
combination</i>.&quot; The italics, it must be
observed, are ours.</p>

<p>We have at this moment evidence
lying on our table sufficiently explanatory
and decisive to our minds that
such a spirit of combination is abroad
against British commercial interests.
We might indeed appeal to events
of historical publicity, which would
seem confirmatory of a tacitly understood
combination, from the simultaneity
of action apparent. We have, for
example, France reducing the duties
on Belgian iron, coal, linen, yarn, and
cloths, whilst she raises those on similar
British products; the German
Customs' League imposing higher and
prohibitory duties on British fabrics
of mixed materials, such as wool, cotton,
silk, &amp;c.; puny Portugal interdicting
woollens by exorbitant rates of
impost, and scarcely tolerating the
admission of cotton manufactures;
the United States, with sweeping action,
passing a whole tariff of prohibitory
imposts; and, in several of these
instances, this war of restrictions
against British industry commenced,
or immediately followed upon, those
remarkable changes and reductions in
the tariff of this country which signalized
the very opening of Sir Robert
Peel's administration. Conceding,
however, this seeming concert of action
to be merely fortuitous, what will
the vice-president of the Board of
Trade say to the long-laboured, but
still unconsummated customs' union
between France and Belgium? Was
that in the nature of a combination
against British commercial interests,
or was it the reverse? It is no cabinet
secret&mdash;it has been publicly proclaimed,
both by the French and Belgian
Governments and press, that the
indispensable basis, the <i>sine qua non</i>
of that union, must be, not a calculated
amalgamation of, not a compromise
between the differing and inconsistent
tariffs of Belgium and France, but the
adoption, the imposition, of the tariff
of France for both countries in all its
integrity, saving in some exceptional
cases of very slight importance, in deference
to municipal dues and <i>octrois</i>
in Belgium. When, after previous parley
and cajoleries at Brussels, commissioners
were at length procured to be
appointed by the French ministry, and
proceeded to meet and discuss the
conditions of the long-cherished project
of the union, with the officials
deputed on the part of France to assist
in the conference, it is well known
that the final cause of rupture was the
dogged persistance of the French members
of the joint commission in urging
the tariff of France, in all its nakedness
of prohibition, deformity, and fiscal
rigour, as the one sole and exclusive
<i>r&eacute;gime</i> for the union debated,
without modification or mitigation.
On this ground alone the Belgian deputies
withdrew from their mission.
How this result, this check, temporary
only as it may prove, chagrined the
Government, if not the people, and
the mining and manufacturing interests
of France, may be understood by
the simple citation of a few short but
pithy sentences from the <i>Journal des
D&eacute;bats</i>, certainly the most influential,
as it is the most ably conducted, of
Parisian journals:&mdash;</p>

<div class="blkquot"><p>&quot;<i>Le 'ZOLLVEREIN,'</i>&quot;
observes the <i>D&eacute;bats, &quot;a prodigieusement
rehauss&eacute; la Prusse; l'union
douani&egrave;re avec la Belgique aurait, &agrave; un
degr&eacute; moindre cependant, le m&ecirc;me r&eacute;sultat
pour nous.... Nous sommes, donc,
les partisans de cette union, ses partisans
prononc&eacute;s, &agrave; deux conditions: la premi&egrave;re,
c'est qu'il ne faille pas payer ces
beaux r&eacute;sultats par le bouleversement de
l'industrie rationale; la seconde, c'est
que la Belgique en accepte sinc&egrave;rement
es charges en m&ecirc;me temps qu'elle en
recuiellera les profits, et qu'en consequence
elle se pr&ecirc;te &agrave; tout ce qui sera n&eacute;cessaire
pour mettre NOTRE INDUSTRIE A L'ABRI
DE L'INVASION DES PRODUITS ETRANGERS,
et pour que les int&eacute;r&ecirc;ts de notre
Tr&eacute;sor soient &agrave; couvert.</i>&quot;</p></div>

<p>This is
plain speaking; the Government journal
of France worthily disdains to
practise mystery or attempt deception,
for its mission is to contend
for the interests, one-sided, exclusive,
and egoistical, as they may
be, and establish the supremacy of
France&mdash;<i>quand m&ecirc;me</i>; at whatever
resulting prejudice to Belgium&mdash;at
whatever total exclusion of Great
Britain from commercial intercourse
with, and commercial transit through
Belgium, must inevitably flow from
a customs' union, the absolute preliminary
condition of which is to be,
that Belgium &quot;shall be ready to do
every thing necessary to place our
commerce beyond the reach of invasion
by foreign products.&quot; Mr Gladstone
may rest assured that the
achievement of this Franco-Belgiac
customs' union will still be pursued
with all the indomitable perseverance,
the exhaustless and ingenious devices,
the little-scrupulous recources, for
which the policy of the Tuileries in
times present does not belie the transmitted
traditions of the past. And it
will be achieved, to the signal detriment
of British interests, both commercial
and political, unless all the
energies and watchfulness of the distinguished
statesmen who preside at
the Foreign Office and the Board of
Trade be not unceasingly on the
alert.</p>

<p>Other and unmistakeable signs of the
spirit of commercial combination, or
confederation, abroad, and more or less
explicitly avowed and directed against
this country, are, and have been for
some time past, only too patent, day by
day, in most of those continental journals,
the journals of confederated Germany,
of France, with some of those
of Spain and of Portugal, which exercise
the largest measure of influence
upon, and represent with most authority
the voice of, public opinion.
Nor are such demonstrations confined
to journalism. <i>Collaborateurs</i>, in serial
or monthly publications, are found
as earnest auxiliaries in the same
cause&mdash;as <i>redacteurs</i> and <i>redactores</i>;
pamphleteers, like light irregulars,
lead the skirmish in front, whilst the
main battle is brought up with the
heavy artillery of <i>tome</i> and works
voluminous. Of these, as of <i>brochures,
filletas</i>, and journals, we have
various specimens now on our library
table. All manner of customs, or commercial
unions, between states are
projected, proposed, and discussed,
but from each and all of these proposed
unions Great Britain is studiously
isolated and excluded. We
have the &quot;Austrian union&quot; planned
out and advocated, comprising, with
the hereditary states of that empire,
Moldavia, Wallachia, Bulgaria, Servia,
Bosnia, as well as those provinces
of ancient Greece, which, like Macedonia,
remain subject to Turkey,
with, perhaps, the modern kingdom of
Greece. We have the &quot;Italian
union,&quot; to be composed of Sardinia,
Lombardy, Lucca, Parma, and Modena,
Tuscany, the two Sicilies, and
the Papal States. There is the
&quot;Peninsular union&quot; of Spain and
Portugal. Then we have one &quot;French
union&quot; sketched out, modestly projected
for France, Belgium, Switzerland,
and Savoy only. And we have
another of more ambitious aspirations,
which should unite Belgium, Switzerland,
and Spain under the commercial
standard of France. One of the
works treating of projects of this
kind was, we believe, crowned with a
prize by some learned institution in
France.</p>

<p>From this slight sketch of what
is passing abroad&mdash;and we cannot
afford the space at present for more
ample development&mdash;the right honourable
Vice President of the Board
of Trade will perhaps see cause to
revise the opinion too positively
enounced, that &quot;foreign countries
neither have combined, nor ought to
combine, nor can combine, against
the commerce of Great Britain;&quot;
and that it is a &quot;calumny&quot; to conceive
that they are &quot;disposed to enter
into such a combination.&quot;</p>

<p>With these preliminary remarks,
we now proceed to the consideration
of the commercial relations between
Spain and Great Britain, and of the
policy in the interest of both countries,
but transcendently in that of Spain,
by which those relations, now reposing
on the narrowest basis, at least
on the one side, on that of Spain
herself, may be beneficially improved
and enlarged. It may be safely asserted,
that there are no two nations
in the old world&mdash;nay more, no two
nations in either, or both, the old
world and the new&mdash;more desirably
situated and circumstanced for an
intimate union of industrial interests,
for so direct and perfect an interchange
of their respective products.
The interchange would, indeed, under
a wise combination of reciprocal dealing,
resolve itself purely almost into
the primitive system of barter; for the
wants of Spain are such as can be
best, sometimes only, supplied from
England, whilst Spain is rich in products
which ensure a large, sometimes
an exclusive, command of British consumption.
Spain is eminently agricultural,
pastoral, and mining; Great
Britain more eminently ascendant
still in the arts and science of manufacture
and commerce. With a diversity
of soil and climate, in which
almost spontaneously flourish the
chief productions of the tropical as
of the temperate zone; with mineral
riches which may compete with, nay,
which greatly surpass in their variety,
and might, if well cultivated, in their
value, those of the Americas which
she has lost; with a territory vast and
virgin in proportion to the population;
with a sea-board extensively
ranging along two of the great high-ways
of nations&mdash;the Atlantic and the
Mediterranean&mdash;and abundantly endowed
with noble and capacious harbours;
there is no conceivable limit
to the boundless production and creation
of exchangeable wealth, of which,
with her immense natural resources,
still so inadequately explored, Spain
is susceptible, that can be imagined,
save from that deficient supply of labour
as compared with the territorial
expanse which would gradually come
to be redressed as industry was
promoted, the field of employment
extended, and labour remunerated.
With an estimated area of 182,758
square miles, the population of
Spain does not exceed, probably,
thirteen millions and a half of souls,
whilst Great Britain and Ireland,
with an area of 115,702 square
miles, support a population of double
the number. Production, however,
squares still less with territorial
extent than does population; for the
stimulus to capital and industry is
wanting when the facilities of exchanges
are checked by fiscal prohibitions
and restrictions. Agricultural
produce, the growth of the vine and
the olive, is not unfrequently known
to run to waste, to be abandoned, as
not worth the toil of gathering and
preparation, because markets are
closed and consumption checked in
countries from which exchangeable
commodities are prohibited. The
extent of these prohibitions and restrictions,
almost unparalleled even
by the arbitrary tariff of Russia, may
be estimated in part by the following
extract from a pamphlet, published
last year by Mr James Henderson,
formerly consul-general to the Republic
of New Granada, entitled &quot;A
Review of the Commercial Code and
Tariffs of Spain;&quot; a writer, by the
way, guilty of much exaggeration of
fact and opinion when not quoting
from, or supported by, official documents.</p>

<div class="blkquot"><p>&quot;The 'Aranceles,' or Tariffs, are four
in number; 1st, of foreign importations;
2d, of importations from America; 3d,
from Asia; and, 4th, of exportations
from Spain.</p>

<p>&quot;The Tariff of foreign importations
contains 1326 articles alphabetically arranged:&mdash;</p></div>

<table summary="" class="blkquot">
  <tr>
    <td align="right">800</td>
    <td>to pay a duty of</td>
    <td align="right">15</td>
    <td>per cent in Spanish vessels,</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td align="right">230</td>
    <td align="center">&quot;</td>
    <td align="right">20</td>
    <td align="center">&quot;</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td align="right">80</td>
    <td align="center">&quot;</td>
    <td align="right">25</td>
    <td align="center">&quot;</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td align="right">55</td>
    <td align="center">&quot;</td>
    <td align="right">10</td>
    <td align="center">&quot;</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td align="right">26</td>
    <td align="center">&quot;</td>
    <td align="right">30</td>
    <td align="center">&quot;</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td align="right">3</td>
    <td align="center">&quot;</td>
    <td align="right">36</td>
    <td align="center">&quot;</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td align="right">2</td>
    <td align="center">&quot;</td>
    <td align="right">24</td>
    <td align="center">&quot;</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td align="right">2</td>
    <td align="center">&quot;</td>
    <td align="right">45</td>
    <td align="center">&quot;</td>
  </tr>
</table>


<div class="blkquot"><p>about 50 from 1 to 8 per cent, and the rest free of duty.</p></div>

<div class="blkquot"><p>&quot;The preceding articles imported in
foreign vessels are subject to an increased
duty, at the following rates:&mdash;</p></div>

<table summary="" class="blkquot">
  <tr>
    <td align="right">1150</td>
    <td>articles at the rate of</td>
    <td align="right">1/8</td>
    <td>more,</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td align="right">80</td>
    <td align="center">&quot;</td>
    <td align="right">1/4</td>
    <td>more,</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td align="right">10</td>
    <td align="center">&quot;</td>
    <td align="right">1/2</td>
    <td>more.</td>
  </tr>
</table>

<div class="blkquot"><p>&quot;There is, besides, a duty of 'consumo,'
principally at the rate of 1/8 of the
respective duties, and in some very few
cases at the rate of 1/4 and 1/2.</p>

<p>&quot;Thus the duty of 15 per cent levied,
if the importation is by a Spanish vessel,
will be increased by the 'consumo' to
20 per cent. And the duty of 20 per cent
on the same articles, in foreign vessels,
will be augmented to 27 per cent.</p>

<p>&quot;The duty of 20 per cent will be about
27 in Spanish vessels, and in foreign
vessels, on the same articles, 36 per cent.
The duty of 25 per cent, will in the whole
be 33 per cent by Spanish, and by foreign
vessels 44 per cent.</p>

<p>&quot;The duty on articles, amounting to
seventy-three, imported from America,
vary from 1 to 15 per cent, with double
the duty if in foreign vessels.</p>

<p>&quot;The articles of importation from Asia
are&mdash;sixty-nine from the Phillipines at 1 to
5 per cent duty, and thirty-six from China
at 5 to 25 per cent duty, and can only be
imported in Spanish ships.</p>

<p>&quot;The articles of export are fourteen,
with duties at 1 to 80 per cent, with one-third
increase if by foreign vessels.</p>

<p>&quot;There are eighty-six articles of importation
prohibited, amongst which are
wrought iron, tobacco, spirits, quicksilver,
ready-made clothing, corn, salt, hats, soap,
wax, wools, leather, vessels under 400
tons, &amp;c. &amp;c. &amp;c.</p>

<p>&quot;There are eleven articles of exportation
prohibited, amongst which are hides,
skins, and timber for naval purposes.&quot;</p></div>

<p>Such a tariff contrasts strangely
with that of this country, in which 10
per cent is the basis of duty adopted
for importations of foreign manufactures,
and 5 per cent for foreign raw
products.</p>

<p>Can we wonder that, with such a
tariff, legitimate imports are of so
small account, and that the smuggler
intervenes to redress the enormously
disproportionate balance, and administer
to the wants of the community?
Can we wonder that the powers of
native production should be so bound
down, and territorial revenue so comparatively
diminutive, when exchanges
are so hampered by fiscal and protective
rapacity? Canga Arguelles, the
first Spanish financier and statistician
of his day, calculated the territorial
revenue of Spain at 8,572,220,592
reals, say, in sterling, L.85,722,200;
whilst he asserts, with better cultivation,
population the same, the soil
is capable of returning ten times the
value. As a considerable proportion
of the revenue of Spain is derived
from the taxation of land, the prejudice
resulting to the treasury is alone
a subject of most important consideration.
For the proprietary, and, in
the national point of view, as affecting
the well-being of the masses, it is of
far deeper import still. And what is
the financial condition of Spain, that
her vast resources should be apparently
so idle, sported with, or cramped?
Take the estimates, the budget, presented
by the minister <i>De ca Hacienda</i>,
for the past year of 1842:&mdash;</p>

<table summary="" class="blkquot">
<tr><td>Revenue 1842,</td><td align="right">879,193,400</td><td>reals</td></tr>
<tr><td>Id. expenditure,</td><td align="right">1,541,639,800</td><td align="center">id.</td></tr>
<tr><td>&nbsp;</td><td align="right">&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;</td><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
<tr><td>Deficit on the year,</td><td align="right">662,446,400</td><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
</table>

<p>Thus, with a revenue of L.8,791,934,
an expenditure of L.15,416,398, and
a deficit of L.6,624,460, the debt
of Spain, foreign and domestic, is
almost an unfathomable mystery as to
its real amount. Even at this present
moment, it cannot be said to be determined;
for that amount varies with
every successive minister who ventures
to approach the question. Multifarious
have been the attempts to arrive
at a clear liquidation&mdash;that is, classification
and ascertainment of claims;
but hitherto with no better success
than to find the sum swelling under
the labour, notwithstanding national
and church properties confiscated,
appropriated, and exchanged away
against <i>titulos</i> of debt by millions. It
is variously estimated at from 120 to
200 millions sterling, but say 150
millions, under the different heads of
debt active, passive, and deferred;
debt bearing interest, debt without interest,
and debt exchangeable in part&mdash;that
is, payable in certain fixed proportions,
for the purchase of national
and church properties. For a partial
approximation to relative quantities,
we must refer the reader, for want of
better authority, to Fenn's &quot;Compendium
of the English and Foreign Funds&quot;&mdash;a
work containing much valuable
information, although not altogether
drawn from the best sources.</p>

<p>In the revenues of Spain, the customs
enter for about 70,000,000 of
reals, say L.700,000 only, including
duties on exports as well as imports.
Now, assuming the contraband imports
to amount only to the value of
L.6,000,000, a moderate estimate,
seeing that some writers, Mr Henderson
among the number, rashly calculate
the contraband imports alone at
eight, and even as high as ten, millions
sterling, it should follow that, at
an average rate of duty of twenty per
cent, the customs should yield additionally
L.1,200,000, or nearly double
the amount now received under
that head. As, through the cessation
of the civil war, a considerable portion
of the war expenditure will be,
and is being reduced, the additional
L.1,200,000 gained, by an equitable
adjustment of the tariff, on imports
alone, perhaps we should be justified
in saying one million and a half, or
not far short of two millions sterling,
import and export duties combined,
would go far to remedy the
desperation of Spanish financial
embarrassments&mdash;the perfect solution
and clearance of which, however,
must be, under the most favourable
circumstances, an affair of many years.
It is not readily or speedily that the
prodigalities of Toreno, or the unscrupulous,
but more patriotic financial
impostures of Mendizabal, can be retrieved,
and the national faith redeemed.
The case is, to appearance,
one past relief; but, with honest and
incorruptible ministers of finance like
Ramon Calatrava, hope still lingers in
the long perspective. With an enlightened
commercial policy on the
one hand, with the retrenchment of a
war expenditure on the other, the
balance between receipts and expenditure
may come to be struck, an excess
of revenue perhaps created; whilst the
sales of national domains against <i>titulos</i>
of debt, if managed with integrity,
should make way towards its gradual
diminution.</p>

<p>As there is much misapprehension,
and many exaggerations, afloat respecting
the special participation of
Great Britain in the contraband trade
of Spain, its extraordinary amount,
and the interest assumed therefrom
which would result exclusively from,
and therefore induces the urgency for,
an equitable reform of the tariff of
Spain, we shall briefly take occasion to
show the real extent of the British share
in that illicit trade, so far as under the
principal heads charged; and having
exhibited that part of the case in its
true, or approximately true, light, we
shall also prove that it is, as it should
be, the primary interest of this country
to regain its due proportion in the
regular trade with Spain, and which
can only be regained by legitimate
intercourse, founded on a reciprocal,
and therefore identical, combination of
interests. In this strife of facts we
shall have to contend against Se&ntilde;or
Marliani, and others of the best and
most steadfast advocates of a more
enlightened policy, of sympathies entirely
and patriotically favourable towards
a policy which shall cement
and interweave indissolubly the material
interests and prosperity of Spain
and Great Britain&mdash;of two realms
which possess each those products and
peculiar advantages in which the other
is wanting, and therefore stand seized
of the special elements required for
the successful progress of each other.
Our contest will, however, be one of
friendly character, our differences will
be of facts, but not of principles.
But we hold it to be of importance to
re-establish facts, as far as possible, in
all their correctness; or rather, to reclaim
them from the domain of vague
conjecture and speculation in which
they have been involved and lost sight
of. The task will not be without its difficulties;
for the position and precise data
are wanting on which to found, with
even a reasonable approximation to mathematical
accuracy, a comprehensive
estimate, to resolve into shape the various
and complex elements of Spanish
industry and commerce, legitimate and
contraband. Statistical science&mdash;for
which Spain achieved an honourable
renown in the last century, and may
cite with pride her Varela, Musquiz,
Gabarrus, Ulloa, Jovellanos, &amp;c., was
little cultivated or encouraged in that
decay of the Spanish monarchy which
commenced with the reign of the idiotic
Carlos IV., and his venal minister
Godoy, and in the wars and revolutions
which followed the accession,
and ended not with the death of
Fernando his son, the late monarch&mdash;was
almost lost sight of; though Canga
Arguelles, lately deceased only, might
compete with the most erudite economist,
here or elsewhere, of his day.
Therefore it is, that few are the statistical
documents or returns existing
in Spain which throw any clear light
upon the progress of industry, or the
extent and details of her foreign commerce.
Latterly, indeed, the Government
has manifested a commendable
solicitude to repair this unfortunate
defect of administrative detail,
and has commenced with the periodical
collection and verification of returns
and information from the various
ports, which may serve as the basis&mdash;and
indispensable for that end they
must be&mdash;on which to reform the errors
of the present, or raise the superstructure
of a new, fiscal and commercial
system. Notwithstanding, however,
the difficulties we are thus exposed
to from the lack or incompleteness
of official data on the side of
Spain, we hope to present a body of
useful information illustrative of her
commerce, industry, and policy; in
especial, we hope to dispel certain
grave misconceptions, to redress signal
exaggeration about the extent of the
contraband trade, rankly as it flourishes,
carried on along the coasts, and more
largely still, perhaps, by the land
frontiers of that country, at least so
far as British participation. Various
have been the attempts to establish
correct conclusions, to arrive at some
fixed notions of the precise quantities
of that illicit traffic; but hitherto the
results generally have been far from
successful, except in one instance. In
a series of articles on the commerce of
Spain, published under the head of
&quot;Money Market and City Intelligence,&quot;
in the months of December
and January last, the <i>Morning Herald</i>
was the first to observe and to
apply the data in existence by which
such an enquiry could be carried out,
and which we purpose here to follow
out on a larger scale, and with materials
probably more abundant and of
more recent date.</p>

<p>The whole subject of Spanish commerce
is one of peculiar interest, and,
through the more rigorous regulations
recently adopted against smuggling, is
at this moment exciting marked attention
in France, which, it will be
found with some surprise, is far the
largest smuggler of prohibited commodities
into Spain, although the smallest
consumer of Spanish products in
return. It is in no trifling degree
owing to the jealous and exclusive
views which unhappily prevail with
our nearest neighbour across the Channel,
that the prohibitory tariff, scarcely
more adverse to commercial intercourse
than that of France after all,
which robs the revenue of Spain,
whilst it covers the country with hosts
of smugglers, has not sooner been revised
and reformed. France is not
willing to enter into a confederacy of
interests with Spain herself, nor to
permit other nations, on any fair equality
of conditions, and with the abandonment
of those unjust pretensions to
special privileges in her own behalf,
which, still tenaciously clinging to Bourbonic
traditions of by-gone times, would
affect to annihilate the Pyrenees, and
regard Spain as a dependent possession,
reserved for the exclusive profit and
the commercial and political aggrandisement
of France. That these exaggerated
pretensions are still entertained
as an article of national faith,
from the sovereign on his throne to
the meanest of his subjects, we have
before us, at this moment of writing,
conclusive evidence in the report of
M. Ch&eacute;garay, read in the Chamber of
Deputies on the 11th of April last,
(<i>vide Moniteur</i> of the 12th,) drawn up
by a commission, to whom was referred
the consideration of the actual
commercial relations of France with
Spain&mdash;provoked by various petitions
of the merchants of Bayonne, and
other places, complaining of the prejudice
resulting to their commerce and
shipping from certain alterations in
the Spanish customs' laws, decreed by
the Regent in 1841. We may have
occasion hereafter to make further reference
to this report.</p>

<p>The population of Spain may be
rated in round numbers at thirteen
millions and a half, whilst that of the
United Kingdom may be taken at
about double the number. With a
wise policy, therefore, the interchange
should be of an active and most extensive
nature betwixt two countries,
reckoning together more than forty
millions of inhabitants, one of which,
with a superficial breadth of territory
out of all proportion with a comparatively
thinly-scattered community,
abounding with raw products and natural
riches of almost spontaneous
growth; whilst the other, as densely
peopled, on the contrary, in comparison
with its territorial limits, is
stored with all the elements, and surpasses
in all the arts and productions
of manufacturing industry. Unlike
France, Great Britain does not rival
Spain in wines, oils, fruits, and
other indigenous products of southern
skies, and therefore is the more free
to act upon the equitable principle of
fair exchange in values for values.
Great Britain has a market among
twenty-seven millions of an active and
intelligent people, abounding in wealth
and advanced in the tastes of luxurious
living, to offer against one presenting
little more than half the range
of possible customers. She has more;
she has the markets of the millions of
her West Indies and Americas&mdash;of
the tens of millions of British India,
amongst whom a desire for the
various fruits and delicious wines
of Spain might gradually become diffused
for a thousand of varieties of
wines which, through the pressure of
restrictive duties, are little if at all
known to European consumption beyond
the boundaries of Spain herself.
With such vast fields of commercial
intercourse open on the one side and
the other, with the bands of mutual
material interests combining so happily
to bind two nations together which
can have no political causes of distrust
and estrangement, it is really
marvellous that the direct relations
should be of so small account, and so
hampered by jealous adherence to the
strict letter of an absurd legislation,
as in consequence to be diverted from
their natural course into other and
objectionable channels&mdash;as the waters
of the river artificially dammed up
will overflow its banks, and, regaining
their level, speed on by other pathways
to the ocean. We shall briefly
exemplify the force of these truths by
the citation of official figures representing
the actual state of the trade
between Spain and the United Kingdom
antecedent to and concluding
with the year 1840, which is the last
year for which in detail the returns
have yet issued from the Board of
Trade. That term, however, would
otherwise be preferentially selected,
because affording facilities for comparison
with similar but partial returns
only of foreign commerce made
up in Spain to the same period, little
known in this country, and with the
French customhouse returns of the
trade of France with Spain. It must
be premised that the tables of the
Board of Trade in respect of import
trade, as well as of foreign
and colonial re-exports, state quantities
only, but not values; nor do they
present any criteria by which values
approximately might be determined.
Where, therefore, such values are attempted
to be arrived at, it will be
understood that the calculations are
our own, and pretend no more&mdash;for no
more could be achieved&mdash;than a rough
estimate of probable approximation.</p>

<p>Total declared value of British and Irish produce and manufactures exported
to Spain and the Balearic Isles in&mdash;</p>

<table summary="" align="center">
<tr><td>1840,</td><td> amounted to &nbsp; </td><td>L.404,252</td></tr>
<tr><td>1835,</td><td align="center">...</td><td align="right">405,065</td></tr>
<tr><td>1831,</td><td align="center">...</td><td align="right">597,848</td></tr>
</table>

<p>From the first to the last year of the
decennial term, the regular trade,
therefore, had declined to the extent of
above L.193,000, or at the rate of about
33 per cent. But as for three of the
intermediate years 1837, 1838, and
1839, the exports are returned at
L.286,636, L.243,839, and L.262,231,
exclusive of fluctuations downwards
in previous years, it will be more satisfactory
to take the averages for five
years each, of the term. Thus from&mdash;</p>

<table summary="" align="center">
<tr><td>1831 to 1835,</td><td> both inclusive, the average was</td><td align="right"> &nbsp; L.442,916</td></tr>
<tr><td>1836 to 1840,</td><td align="center">...</td><td align="right">320,007</td></tr>
</table>

<p>The average decline in the latter
term, was therefore above 27&frac12; per
cent.</p>

<p>Of the Foreign and Colonial merchandise
re-exported within the
same period it is difficult to say what
proportion was for British account,
and, as such, should therefore be
classed under the head of trade with
Spain. It may be assumed, however,
that the following were the products
of British colonial possessions, whose
exports to Spain are thus stated in
quantities:&mdash;</p>

<table summary="" align="center">
  <tr>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
    <td align="center">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;1831.&nbsp;</td>
    <td align="center">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;1835.&nbsp;</td>
    <td align="center">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;1840.&nbsp;</td>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Cinnamon,</td>
    <td align="right">284,201</td>
    <td align="right">123,590</td>
    <td align="right">144,291</td>
    <td>lbs.</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Cloves,</td>
    <td align="right">15,831</td>
    <td align="right">9,470</td>
    <td align="right">23,504</td>
    <td>...</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>India Cottons,</td>
    <td align="right">38,969</td>
    <td align="right">3,267</td>
    <td align="right">10,067</td>
    <td>pieces</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>India Bandannas,</td>
    <td align="right">17,386</td>
    <td align="right">11,864</td>
    <td align="right">16,049</td>
    <td>...</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Indigo,</td>
    <td align="right">16,641</td>
    <td align="right">5,231</td>
    <td align="right">8,623</td>
    <td>lbs.</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Pepper,</td>
    <td align="right">227,305</td>
    <td align="right">69,365</td>
    <td align="right">194,254</td>
    <td>...</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td></td>
    <td align="right"></td>
    <td align="right"></td>
    <td align="right"></td>
    <td></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>To which may be added&mdash;</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Tobacco,</td>
    <td align="right">64,851</td>
    <td align="right">&nbsp;2,252,356</td>
    <td align="right">&nbsp;1,729,552</td>
    <td>...</td>
  </tr>
</table>

<p>The tobacco, being of United States'
growth, may, to a considerable extent,
be bonded here for re-exportation on
foreign account merely. The foregoing,
though the heaviest, are not
the whole of the foreign and colonial
products re-exported for Spain, but
they constitute the great bulk of value.
Taking those of the last year, their
value may be approximatively
estimated in round numbers, as calculated
upon what may be assumed a
fair average of the rates of the prices
current in the market, as they appear
quoted in the London <i>Mercantile Journal</i>
of the 4th of April. It is only
necessary to take the more weighty
articles.</p>

<table summary="" align="center">
  <tr>
    <td>Cinnamon,</td>
    <td align="right">144,290</td>
    <td align="center">lbs.</td>
    <td>at</td>
    <td align="right">5s.</td>
    <td>6d.</td>
    <td>L.39,679</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Indigo,</td>
    <td align="right">8,620</td>
    <td align="center">&mdash;</td>
    <td>at</td>
    <td align="right">6s.</td>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
    <td align="right">2,586</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Pepper,</td>
    <td align="right">194,250</td>
    <td align="center">&mdash;</td>
    <td>at</td>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
    <td>4d.</td>
    <td align="right">3,232</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Tobacco,</td>
    <td align="right">1,729,550</td>
    <td align="center">&mdash;</td>
    <td>at</td>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
    <td>4d.</td>
    <td align="right">28,825</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Indian Bandannas,</td>
    <td align="right">16,049</td>
    <td align="center">pieces</td>
    <td>at</td>
    <td>&nbsp;25s.</td>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
    <td align="right">20,061</td>
  </tr>
</table>

<p>It may, we conceive, be assumed
from these citations of some few of the
larger values exported to Spain under
the head of &quot;Foreign and Colonial
Merchandise,&quot; that the total amount
of such values, inclusive of all the commodities
non-enumerated here, would
not exceed L.150,000, which, added
to the L.404,252 already stated as the
&quot;declared values&quot; of &quot;British and Irish
produce&quot; also exported, would give a
total export for 1840 of L.554,250.</p>

<p>We come now to the imports from Spain and the Balearic Isles, direct
also into the United Kingdom, as stated in the Board of Trade tables in quantities;
selecting the chief articles only, however:&mdash;</p>

<table summary="" align="center">
  <tr>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
    <td align="center">&nbsp;&nbsp;1831.</td>
    <td align="center">&nbsp;&nbsp;1835.</td>
    <td align="center">&nbsp;&nbsp;1840.</td>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Barilla,</td>
    <td align="right">61,921</td>
    <td align="right">64,175</td>
    <td align="right">36,585</td>
    <td>cwts.</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Lemons and Oranges,</td>
    <td align="right">28,266</td>
    <td align="right">30,548</td>
    <td align="right">30,171</td>
    <td>packages.</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Madder,</td>
    <td align="right">1,569</td>
    <td align="right">3,418</td>
    <td align="right">6,174</td>
    <td>cwts.</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Olive Oil,</td>
    <td align="right">1,243,686</td>
    <td align="right">1,793</td>
    <td align="right">1,305,384</td>
    <td>galls.</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Quicksilver,</td>
    <td align="right">269,558</td>
    <td align="right">1,438,869</td>
    <td align="right">2,157,823</td>
    <td>lbs.</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Raisins,</td>
    <td align="right">105,066</td>
    <td align="right">104,334</td>
    <td align="right">166,505</td>
    <td>cwts.</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Brandy,</td>
    <td align="right">69,319</td>
    <td align="right">15,880</td>
    <td align="right">223,268</td>
    <td>galls.</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Wines,</td>
    <td align="right">2,537,968</td>
    <td align="right">2,641,547</td>
    <td align="right">3,945,161</td>
    <td>galls.</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Wool,</td>
    <td align="right">&nbsp; 3,474,823</td>
    <td align="right">&nbsp; 1,602,752</td>
    <td align="right">&nbsp; 1,266,905</td>
    <td>lbs.</td>
  </tr>
</table>


<p>Applying the same plan of calculation upon an average of the prices ruling
in the London market, we arrive at the following approximate results:&mdash;</p>

<table summary="" align="center">
  <tr>
    <td>Barilla, 36,585 cwts. at 10s. per cwt.</td>
    <td align="right">L.18,292</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Lemons and oranges, 30,170 packages, at 30s. per packet,</td>
    <td align="right">45,255</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Madder, 6174 cwts. at 30s per cwt.</td>
    <td align="right">9,261</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Olive oil, 1,305,384 gallons, at L.45 per 252 gallons</td>
    <td align="right">233,100</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Quicksilver, 2,157,823 lbs., at 4s. per lb.,</td>
    <td align="right">431,564</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Raisins, 166,505 cwts., at 40s. per cwt.</td>
    <td align="right">333,000</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Brandy, 223,268 gallons, at 2s. 6d. per gallon,</td>
    <td align="right">27,900</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Wines, 3,945,160, gallons, at L.20 per butt,</td>
    <td align="right">730,580</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Wool, 1,266,900 lbs., at 2s. per lb.,</td>
    <td align="right">126,690</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
    <td align="right">&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
    <td align="right">&nbsp;L.1,965,642</td>
  </tr>

  <tr>
    <td>The value of the other articles of import from Spain,
which need not be enumerated here, amongst which
corn, skins, pig-lead, bark for tanning, &amp;c., would
certainly swell this amount more by</td><td align="right">200,000.</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
    <td align="right">&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Total direct imports from Spain,</td>
    <td>L.2,165,642</td>
  </tr>
</table>

<p>On several of the foregoing commodities
the average rates of price on which
they are calculated may be esteemed
as moderate, such as wines, brandies,
raisins, &amp;c.; and several are exclusive
of duty charge, as where the averages
are estimated at the prices in bond.
In other commodities the average rates
are inclusive of duty. Wines, brandies,
quicksilver, barilla, are exclusive
of duty, for example; the others, duty
paid, but in some instances duties
scarcely more than nominal. On the
other hand, it must be taken into the
account, for the purpose of a fair comparison,
that these average estimates of
the prices of imported merchandise
do include and are enhanced by the
expense of freights and the profits of
the importer, and therefore all the
difference must be in excess of the cost
price at which shipped, and by which
estimated in Spain. The &quot;declared
values&quot; of British exports to Spain
embrace but a small proportion, perhaps,
of these shipping charges, and
are altogether irrespective of duties
levied on arrival in Spanish ports. As
not only a fair, but probably an outside
allowance, let us, therefore, redress
the balance by striking off 20
per cent from the total estimated values
of imports from Spain to cover
shipping charges, profits, and port-dues,
whether included in prices or not. The
account will then stand thus:&mdash;</p>

<table summary="" align="center">
<tr><td>Estimated imports from Spain in round numbers</td><td align="right">L.2,165,000</td></tr>
<tr><td>Deduct 20 per cent,</td><td align="right">433,000</td></tr>
<tr><td>&nbsp;</td><td align="right">&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;</td></tr>
<tr><td>Value of imports shipped,</td><td align="right">L.1,732,000</td></tr>
<tr><td>Deduct declared value of British exports to Spain,</td><td align="right">554,000</td></tr>
<tr><td>&nbsp;</td><td align="right">&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;</td></tr>
<tr><td>Excess of Spanish imports direct on equalized estimates of values,</td>
<td align="right">&nbsp;L.1,178,000</td></tr>
</table>

<p>The acceptation is so common, it
has been so long received as a truism
unquestionable as unquestioned, as
well in Spain as in Great Britain, of
British commerce being one-sided,
and carrying a large yearly balance
against the Peninsular state, that these
figures of relative and approximate
quantities can hardly fail to excite
a degree of astonishment and of
doubt also. It will be, as it ought
to be, observed at once, that the trade
with Spain direct represents one part
of the question only; that the indirect
trade through Gibraltar, and elsewhere,
might, in its results, reverse
the picture. The objection is reasonable,
and we proceed to enquire how far
it is calculated to affect the statement.</p>

<p>The total &quot;declared value&quot; of the
exports of British and Irish produce,
and manufactures to Gibraltar, for the
year 1840, is stated at</p>

<table summary="" align="center">
  <tr>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
    <td align="right">&pound;1,111,176</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Of which, as more or less destined
for Spain, licitly or illicitly,
cotton manufactures,</td>
    <td align="right">635,821</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Linens, &amp;c., &amp;c.,</td>
    <td align="right">224,061</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Woollens,</td>
    <td align="right">97,092</td
  </tr>
</table>

<p>It may be asserted as a fact, for,
although not on official authority, yet
we have it from respectable parties
who have been resident on, and well
conversant with the commerce of that
rock, that, of the cotton goods thus
imported into Gibraltar, the exports
to Ceuta and the opposite coast of
Africa amount, on the average, to
L.70,000 per annum. Of linens and
woollens a considerable proportion
find their way there also, and to
Italian ports. Of British and colonial
merchandise exported to Gibraltar in
the same year, the following may be
considered to be mainly, or to some
extent, designed for introduction into
Spain:&mdash;</p>

<table summary="" align="center">
  <tr>
    <td>Cinnamon value, 77,352 lbs., say value</td>
    <td align="right">&nbsp; L.21,000</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Indigo 26,000 lbs., say</td>
    <td align="right">7,800</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Tobacco 610,000 lbs., say</td>
    <td align="right">10,166</td>
  </tr>
</table>

<p>Some cotton piece-goods from India,
and silk goods, such as bandannas,
&amp;c., pepper, cloves, &amp;c., &amp;c.,
were also exported there; say, inclusive
of the quantities enumerated above,
to the total value of L.100,000 of commodities,
of which a considerable proportion
was destined for Spain. Assuming
the whole of the cotton goods
to be for introduction into Spain,
minus the quantity dispatched to the
African coast, we have in round numbers
the value of</p>

<table summary="" align="center">
  <tr>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
    <td align="right">L.565,800</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Say of linens one-third,</td>
    <td align="right">74,660</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Of woollens, ib.,</td>
    <td align="right">32,360</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Of cinnamon, India goods, and other articles, in value<br> L.90,000, minus tobacco, one-half,</td>
    <td align="right">45,000</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
    <td align="right">&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
    <td align="right">L.717,820</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Tobacco, the whole,</td>
    <td align="right">10,166</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
    <td align="right">&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td> &nbsp; &nbsp; Total indirect exports</td>
    <td align="right">727,986</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td> &nbsp; &nbsp; To which add direct</td>
    <td align="right">554,000</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
    <td align="right">&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
    <td align="right">L.1,281,986</td>
  </tr>
</table>

<p>Again, however, various products of
Spain are also imported into the United
Kingdom <i>via</i> Gibraltar, such as&mdash;</p>

<table summary="" align="center">
  <tr>
    <td>Bark for tanning or dyeing, 5,724 tons, say value,</td>
    <td align="right"> &nbsp; L.51,500</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Wool, 292,730 lbs. ib.,</td>
    <td align="right">29,270</td>
  </tr>
</table>

<p>It may be fairly assumed, therefore,
that to the extent of L.100,000
of Spanish products, consisting, besides
the foregoing, of wines, skins,
pig-lead, &amp;c., &amp;c., is brought here
through Gibraltar, which, added to
the amount of the imports from Spain
direct, will sum up the account thus:&mdash;</p>

<table summary="" align="center">
  <tr>
    <td>Imports from Spain direct,</td>
    <td align="right">&nbsp;</td>
    <td align="right">L.1,732,000</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td><i>Via</i> Gibraltar,</td>
    <td align="right">&nbsp;</td>
    <td align="right">100,000</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
    <td align="right">&nbsp;</td>
    <td align="right">&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
    <td>Total,</td>
    <td align="right">L.1,832,000</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Exports to Spain direct,</td>
    <td align="right">L.554,000</td>
    <td align="right">&nbsp;</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td><i>Via</i> Gibraltar,</td>
    <td align="right">727,900</td>
    <td align="right">&nbsp;</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
    <td align="right">&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;</td>
    <td align="right">&nbsp;</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
    <td align="right">&nbsp;</td>
    <td align="right">L.1,281,900</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
    <td align="right">&nbsp;</td>
    <td align="right">&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Excess in favour of Spain,<br> and against England,</td>
    <td align="right">&nbsp;</td>
    <td align="right">L.550,100</td>
  </tr>
</table>


<p>&mdash;A sum nearly equal to the amount
of the exports to Spain direct. As
we remarked before, these figures and
valuations, which are sufficiently approximative
of accuracy for any useful
purpose, will take public men and
economists, both here and in Spain,
by surprise. Amongst other of the
more distinguished men of the Peninsula,
Se&ntilde;or Marliani, enlightened
statesman, and well studied in the
facts of detail and the philosophy of
commercial legislation as he undoubtedly
is, does not appear to have exactly
suspected the existence of evidence
leading to such results.</p>

<p>From the incompleteness of the
Spanish returns of foreign trade, it is
unfortunately not possible to test the
complete accuracy of those given here
by collation. The returns before us,
and they are the only ones yet undertaken
in Spain, and in order, embrace
in detail nine only of the principal
ports:&mdash;</p>

<table summary="" align="center">
  <tr>
    <td>For Cadiz, Malaga, Carthagena, St Sebastian, Bilboa, Santander,
Gijon, Corunna, and the Balearic Isles, the total imports and exports
united are stated to have amounted, in 1840, to about</td>
    <td align="right">L.6,147,280</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Employing 5782 vessels of the aggregate tonnage of 584,287</td>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Of the foreign trade of other ports and provinces no returns are made
out. All known of the important seaport of Barcelona was, that its
foreign trade in the same year occupied 1,645 vessels of 173,790
tonnage. The special aggregate exports from the nine ports cited to
the United Kingdom&mdash;the separate commodities composing which, as
of imports, are given with exactness of detail&mdash;are stated for 1840
in value at</td>
    <td>L.1,476,000</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>To which add, of raisins alone, from Valencia, about 184,000 cwts,
(other exports not given,) value</td>
    <td align="right">185,000</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Exports from Almeria,</td>
    <td align="right">13,000</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
    <td align="right">&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
    <td>&nbsp;L.1,674,000</td>
  </tr>
</table>

<p>Although these are the principal
ports of Spain, yet they are not the
only ports open to foreign trade, although,
comparatively, the proportion
of foreign traffic shared by the others
would be much less considerable. It
is remarkable, under the circumstances,
how closely these Spanish returns
of exports to Great Britain approach
to our own valuations of the total imports
from Spain direct, as calculated
from market prices upon the quantities
alone rendered in the tables of
the Board of Trade.</p>

<table summary="" align="center">
  <tr>
    <td>Our valuation of the direct imports from Spain being</td>
    <td align="right">&nbsp;L.1,732,000</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>The Spanish valuation,</td>
    <td align="right">1,674,000</td>
  </tr>
</table>

<p>The public writers and statesmen
of Spain have long held, and still
maintain the opinion, that the illicit
introduction into that country of British
manufactures whose legal import
is prohibited, or greatly restricted by
heavy duties, is carried on upon a
much more extensive scale than what
is, or can be, the case. In respect of
cotton goods, the fact is particularly
insisted upon. It may be confidently
asserted, for it is susceptible of proof,
that much exaggeration is abroad on
the subject. We shall bring some
evidence upon the point. There can
be no question that, so far as British
agency is directly concerned, or British
interest involved, in the contraband
introduction of cottons, or other
manufactures, or tobacco, it is almost
exclusively represented by the trade
with Gibraltar. We are satisfied,
moreover, that the Spanish consumption
of cotton goods is overrated, as
well as the amount of the clandestine
traffic. Se&ntilde;or Marliani an authority
generally worthy of great respect,
errs on this head with many others of
his countrymen. In a late work, entitled
<i>De la Influencia del Sistema prohibitiva
en la Agricultura, Commercio, y rentas
Publicas</i>, he comes to the following
calculation:&mdash;</p>

<table summary="" align="center">
  <tr>
    <td>Imported direct to Spain,</td>
    <td align="right">L.34,687</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>To Gibraltar,</td>
    <td align="right">608,581</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>To Portugal, &pound;731,673, of which three-fourths find their way to Spain,</td>
    <td align="right">540,000</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
    <td align="right">&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Total,</td>
    <td align="right">L.1,183,268</td>
  </tr>
</table>

<p>Again, Great Britain imports annually
into Italy to the amount of
&pound;2,005,785 in cotton goods, &pound;500,000
worth of which, it is not too much to
assume, go into Spain through the ports
of Leghorn and Genoa. Adding together,
then, these several items of
cotton goods introduced from France
and England into Spain by contraband,
we arrive at the following startling
result:&mdash;</p>

<table summary="" align="center">
  <tr>
    <td>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;FRANCE.</td>
    <td align="right">&nbsp;</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Cotton goods imported into Spain, according to the Government returns,</td>
    <td align="right">L.1,331,608</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;ENGLAND.</td>
    <td align="right">&nbsp;</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Cotton goods through Spanish ports,</td>
    <td align="right">34,637</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Through Gibraltar,</td>
    <td align="right">608,581</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Through Portugal,</td>
    <td align="right">540,000</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Through Leghorn, Genoa, &amp;c. &amp;c.</td>
    <td align="right">500,000</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
    <td align="right">&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Total,</td>
    <td align="right">&nbsp;L.3,014,826</td>
  </tr>
</table>

<p>An extravagant writer, of the name
of Pebrer, carried the estimate up to
&pound;5,850,000. Se&ntilde;or Inclan, more
moderate, still valued the import and
consumption at &pound;2,720,000. A &quot;Cadiz
merchant,&quot; with another anonymous
writer of practical authority, calculated
the amount, with more sagacity,
at &pound;2,000,000 and &pound;2,110,000
respectively. Se&ntilde;or Marliani is,
moreover, of opinion&mdash;considering the
weight of tobacco, from six to eight
millions of pounds, assumed to be
imported into Gibraltar for illicit
entrance into Spain, on the authority
of Mr Porter, but the words
and work not expressly quoted; the
tobacco, dressed skins, corn, flour,
&amp;c. from France, with the illegal import
of cottons&mdash;that the whole contraband
trade carried on in Spain cannot
amount to less than the enormous
mass of one thousand millions of reals,
or say <i>ten millions</i> sterling a-year.
Conceding to the full the millions of
pounds of tobacco here registered as
smuggled from Gibraltar, of which,
notwithstanding, we cannot stumble
upon the official trace for half the
quantity, we must, after due reflection,
withhold our assent wholly to
this very wide, if not wild, assumption
of our Spanish friend. We are inclined,
on no slight grounds, to come
to the conclusion, that the amount of
contraband trade really carried on is
here surcharged by not far short of
one-half; that it cannot in any case
exceed six millions sterling&mdash;certainly
still a bulk of illegitimate values sufficiently
monstrous, and almost incredible.
We shall proceed to deal conclusively,
however, with that special
branch of the traffic for which the
materials are most accessible and irrecusable,
and the verification of truth
therefore scarcely left to the chances
of speculation.</p>

<p>First, for the rectification for exact,
or official, quantities and values, we
give the returns of the total exports
of cotton manufactures, taken from
the tables of the Board of Trade:&mdash;</p>

<table summary="" align="center">
  <tr>
    <td>1840.</td>
    <td>Cotton manufactures,</td>
    <td>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;</td>
    <td>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;</td>
    <td align="right">L.17,567,310</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
    <td>Yarns,</td>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
    <td align="right">7,101,308</td>
  </tr>
</table>

<p>And for 1840 here are the exports to the countries specified:&mdash;</p>

<table summary="" align="center">
  <tr>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
    <td align="right">Declared Value.</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>1840.</td>
    <td>Cottons to Portugal,</td>
    <td align="center">yards</td>
    <td align="right">37,002,209</td>
    <td align="right">L.681,787</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
    <td>Hosiery, lace, small wares,</td>
    <td align="center">&nbsp;</td>
    <td align="center">&mdash;</td>
    <td align="right">20,403</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
    <td>Yarn,</td>
    <td align="center">lbs.</td>
    <td align="right">175,545</td>
    <td align="right">2,796</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td align="center">Id.</td>
    <td>Cottons to Spain,</td>
    <td align="center">yards</td>
    <td align="right">355,040</td>
    <td align="right">7,987</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
    <td>Hosiery, &amp;c.</td>
    <td align="center">&nbsp;</td>
    <td align="center">&mdash;</td>
    <td align="right">2,819</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
    <td>Yarn,</td>
    <td align="center">lbs.</td>
    <td align="center">&mdash;</td>
    <td align="right">345</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td align="center">Id.</td>
    <td>Cottons to Gibraltar,</td>
    <td align="center">yards</td>
    <td align="right">27,609,345</td>
    <td align="right">610,456</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
    <td>Hosiery, &amp;c.</td>
    <td align="center">&nbsp;</td>
    <td align="center">&mdash;</td>
    <td align="right">21,996</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
    <td>Yarn,</td>
    <td align="center">lbs.</td>
    <td align="center">&mdash;</td>
    <td align="right">3,369</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td align="center">Id.</td>
    <td>Cottons to Italy and Italian Islands,</td>
    <td align="center">yds.</td>
    <td align="right">58,866,278</td>
    <td align="right">1,119,135</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
    <td>Hosiery, &amp;c.</td>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
    <td align="center">&mdash;</td>
    <td align="right">41,197</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
    <td>Yarn,</td>
    <td align="center">lbs.</td>
    <td align="right">11,490,034</td>
    <td align="right">510,040</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
    <td align="center">&nbsp;</td>
    <td align="right">&nbsp;</td>
    <td align="right">&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
    <td>Total,</td>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
    <td align="right">L.3,022,430</td>
  </tr>
</table>

<p>The discrepancies between some of the figures in these returns and those
cited by Se&ntilde;or Marliani, arise probably from their respective reference to different
years; they are, however, unimportant. We have already shown, that,
deducting the re-exports of cottons to Ceuta and the coast of Africa opposite
to Gibraltar, the value of those destined for Spain, by way of the Rock; in
1840, could not exceed</p>

<table summary="" align="center" class="blkquot">
  <tr>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
    <td align="right">L.565,800</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>We shall assume that <i>one-fourth</i> only of the cottons exported
to Portugal find their way fraudulently into Spain&mdash;say</td>
    <td align="right">176,290</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Say re-exports of cottons from Genoa to Gibraltar, assumed to
be for Spain, as per official return of that port for 1839,</td>
    <td align="right">31,400</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Cotton goods direct to Spain from the United Kingdom,</td>
    <td align="right">11,150</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
    <td align="right">&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Total value of British cottons which could find their way into
Spain, direct and indirect, in 1840,</td>
    <td align="right">L.784,640</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
    <td align="right">&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Instead of the amount exaggerated of Se&ntilde;or Marliani,</td>
    <td align="right">&nbsp;L.1,663,268</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Or the large excess in estimation, of</td>
    <td align="right">898,628</td>
  </tr>
</table>

<p>We have the official returns of the
whole imports of cotton manufactures,
with the exports, of the Sardinian
States for 1840, now lying before us.</p>

<table summary="" align="center">
  <tr>
    <td>The imports were to the value of only</td>
    <td align="right">&nbsp;&nbsp;L.443,360</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Of which from the United Kingdom</td>
    <td align="right">242,680</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Exported, or re-exported,</td>
    <td align="right">458,680</td>
  </tr>
</table>

<p>The <i>whole</i> of which to Tuscany, the
Two Sicilies, the Roman States, Parma
and Placentia, the Isle of Sardinia,
and Austria. It will be observed that
there had been a great falling off in
the trade with the Sardinian States in
1840, as compared with 1838 and
1839; and here, for greater convenience,
we make free to extract the
following remarks and returns from
our esteemed contemporary of the
<i>Morning Herald</i>, with some slight
corrections of our own, when appropriately
correcting certain misrepresentations
of Mr Henderson, similar
to those of Se&ntilde;or Marliani, respecting
the assumed clandestine ingress of
British cotton goods into Spain from
the Italian states:&mdash;</p>

<p>&quot;Now the official customhouse returns
of most of the Italian states are
lying before us&mdash;the returns of the
Governments themselves&mdash;but unfortunately
none of them come down
later than 1839, so that it is impossible,
however desirable, to carry out
fully the comparison for 1840. Not
that it is of any signification for more
than uniformity, because, on referring
to years antecedent to 1839, the relation
between imports of cottons and
re-exports, with the places from which
imported and to which re-exports took
place, is not sensibly disturbed. The
returns for the whole of Sardinia are
not possessed later than 1838, but
those for Genoa, its chief port, are
for 1839, and nearly the whole imports
into Sardinia, as well as exports,
are effected at Genoa. Thus of the
total imports of cotton goods into
Sardinia in 1838, to the value of
about L.843,000, the amount into
Genoa alone was L.823,000. That
year was one of excessive imports
and 1839 one of equal depression, but
this can only bear upon the facts of the
case so far as proportionate quantities.</p>

<table summary="" align="center">
  <tr>
    <td>In 1839, total imports of cottons into Genoa&mdash;value</td>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
    <td align="right">L.494,000</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Of which from England</td>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
    <td align="right">313,680</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Total re-exports</td>
    <td>&nbsp;                     </td>
    <td align="right">475,000</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Of which to Tuscany</td>
    <td align="right">L.131,760</td>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Naples and Sicily</td>
    <td align="right">110,800</td>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Austria</td>
    <td align="right">61,080</td>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Parma and Placentia</td>
    <td align="right">40,840</td>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Sardinia Island</td>
    <td align="right">28,320</td>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Switzerland</td>
    <td align="right">22,240</td>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Roman States</td>
    <td align="right">14,880</td>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>GIBRALTAR</td>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
    <td align="right">31,440</td>
  </tr>
</table>

<p>The total value of cottons introduced
into the Roman states is stated for
1839 at L.108,640, of which the whole
imported from France, Sardinia, and
Tuscany&mdash;</p>

<table summary="" align="center" class="blkquot">
  <tr>
    <td>1839.</td>
    <td>Total imports of cotton and hempen manufactures classed together into Tuscany (Leghorn)</td>
    <td align="right">L.440,000</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
    <td>Of woollens</td>
    <td align="right">117,200</td>
  </tr>
</table>

<p>&quot;The total imports of woollen, cotton,
and hempen goods together, in
the same year, were to the amount of
L.155,000.</p>

<p>&quot;Of the imports and exports of
Naples, unfortunately, no accounts
are possessed; but the imports of
cottons into the island of Sicily for
1839 were only to the extent of
L.26,000, of which to the value of
L.8,000 only from England. In
1838 the total imports of cottons were
for L.170,720, but no re-exportation
from the island. The whole of the
inconsiderable exports of cottons from
Malta are made to Turkey, Greece,
the Barbary States, Egypt, and the
Ionian Isles, according to the returns
of 1839.&quot;</p>

<p>From these facts and figures, derived
from official documents, of the
existence of which it is probable
Se&ntilde;or Marliani was not aware, it will
be observed at once how extremely
light and fallacious are the grounds
on which he jumps to conclusions.
What more preposterous than the
vague assumption founded on data
little better then guess-work, that <i>one-fourth</i>
of the whole exports of British
cottons to Italy and the Italian islands,
say L.500,000 out of L.2,000,000,
go to Spain, when, in point of fact,
not one-tenth of the amount does, or
can find its way there&mdash;or could, under
any conceivable circumstances
short of an absolute famine crop of
fabrics in France and England.
Neither prices nor commercial profits
could support the extra charges of a
longer voyage out, landing charges,
transhipment and return voyage to
the coasts of Spain. It has been
shown that in the year 1840, not the
shipment of a single yard of cottons
took place from Genoa, the only port
admitting of the probability of such
an operation.</p>

<p>Not less preposterous is the allegation,
that three-fourths of the whole
exports of British cottons to Portugal
are destined for, and introduced into
Spain by contraband. Assuming that
Spain, with thirteen and a half millions
of people, consumes, in the whole, cotton
goods to the value of</p>

<table summary="" align="center" class="blkquot">
  <tr>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
    <td align="right">L.2,200,000</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Why should not Portugal, with more than
three and a half millions of inhabitants,
that is more than one-fourth the population
of Spain, consume also more than one-fourth
the value of cotton goods, or say only</td>
    <td align="right">550,000?</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Brazil, a <i>ci-devant</i> colony of
Portugal, and with a Portuguese population,
as may be said, of 5,400,000, consumed
British cotton fabrics to the value, in
1840, of</td>
    <td align="right">1,525,000</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
<td>So, also, why should not Italy and the
Italian islands, with twenty-two millions
of people, be able to consume as much
cotton values as Spain with 13&frac12; millions;
or say only the whole amount really exported
there from this country of</td>
    <td align="right">2,005,000?</td>
  </tr>
</table>

<p>It is necessary for the interests of
truth, for the interests also of both
countries, that the popular mind, the
mind of the public men of Spain also,
should be disabused in respect of
two important errors. The first is,
that an enormous balance of trade
against Spain, that is, of British
exports, licit and illicit too, compared
with imports from Spain&mdash;results annually
in favour of this country, from
the present state of our commercial
exchanges with her. The second is,
the greatly exaggerated notion of the
transcendant amount of the illicit
trade carried on with Spain in British
commodities, cottons more especially.
In correction of the latter misconception,
we have shown that the
amount of British cotton introduced
by contraband cannot exceed, <i>nor
equal</i>,</p>

<table summary="" align="center" class="blkquot">
  <tr>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
    <td align="right">L.780,640</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Instead, as asserted by Se&ntilde;or Marliani, of</td>
    <td align="right">1,683,268</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>And, in correction of the first error
relative to the balance of trade, we have
established the feet by calculations of
approximate fidelity&mdash;for exactitude is out
of the question and unattainable with the
materials to be worked up&mdash;that an excess
of values, that is, of exports, results to
Spain upon such balance as against imports,
licit and illicit, to the extent per annum of</td>
    <td align="right">550,000</td>
  </tr>
</table>

<p>It is therefore Great Britain, and
not Spain, which is entitled to demand
that this adverse balance be redressed,
and which would stand justified in
retaliating the restrictions and prohibitions
on Spanish products, with
which, so unjustly, Spain now visits
those of Great Britain. Far from us
be the advocacy of a policy so harsh&mdash;we
will add, so unwise; but at least
let our disinterested friendship and
moderation be appreciated, and provoke,
in reason meet, their appropriate
consideration.</p>

<p>The more formidable, because far
more extensive and facile abuses, arising
out of the unparalleled contraband
traffic of which Spain is, and long has
been, the theatre, and the attempted
repression of which requires the constant
employment of entire armies of
regular troops, are elsewhere to be
found in action and guarded against;
they concern a neighbour nearer than
Great Britain. According to an official
report made to his Government
by Don Mateo Durou, the active and
intelligent consul for Spain at Bordeaux,
and the materials for which
were extracted from the customhouse
returns of France, the trade betwixt
France and Spain is thus stated, but
necessarily abridged:&mdash;</p>

<table summary="" align="center">
  <tr>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
    <td align="center">Francs.</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>1840.&mdash;Total exports from France into Spain,</td>
    <td align="right">104,679,141</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>1840.&mdash;Total imports into France from Spain,</td>
    <td align="right">42,684,761</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
    <td align="right">&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Deficit against Spain,</td>
    <td align="right">61,994,380</td>
  </tr>
</table>

<p>France, therefore, exported nearly
two and a half times as much as she
imported from Spain; a result greatly
the reverse of that established in
the trade of Spain with Great Britain.
In these exports from France,
cotton manufactures figure for a total
of</p>

<table summary="" align="center">
  <tr>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
    <td align="right">34,251,068</td>
    <td align="center">fr.</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Or, in sterling,</td>
    <td align="right">L.1,427,000</td>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Of which smuggled in by the land or Pyrennean frontier,</td>
    <td align="right">32,537,992</td>
    <td align="center">fr.</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>By sea, only</td>
    <td align="right">1,713,076</td>
    <td align="center">...</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Linen yarns, entered for</td>
    <td align="right">15,534,391</td>
    <td align="center">...</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Silks, for</td>
    <td align="right">8,953,423</td>
    <td align="center">...</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Woollens, for</td>
    <td align="right">8,919,760</td>
    <td align="center">...</td>
  </tr>
</table>

<p>Among these imports from France,
various other prohibited articles are
enumerated besides cottons. As here
exhibited, the illicit introduction of
cotton goods from France into Spain
is almost double in amount that of
British cottons. The fact may be accounted
for from the closer proximity
of France, the superior facilities and
economy of land transit, the establishment
of stores of goods in Bayonne,
Bordeaux, &amp;c., from which the
Spanish dealers may be supplied in
any quantity and assortment to order,
however small; whilst from Great
Britain heavy cargoes only can be
dispatched, and from Gibraltar quantities
in bulk could alone repay the
greater risk of the smuggler by sea.</p>

<p>Se&ntilde;or Durou adds the following
brief reflections upon this <i>expos&eacute;</i> of the
French contraband trade. &quot;Let the
manufactures of Catalonia be protected;
but there is no need to make all
Spain tributary to one province, when
it cannot satisfy the necessities of the
others, neither in the quantity, the
quality, nor the cost of its fabrics.
What would result from a protecting
duty? Why, that contraband trade
would be stopped, and the premiums
paid by the assurance companies established
in Bayonne, Oleron, and
Perpignan, would enter into the Exchequer
of the State.&quot;</p>

<p>The active measures decreed by the
Spanish Government in July and October
1841, supported by cordons of
troops at the foot of the Pyrenees,
have, indeed, very materially interfered
with and checked the progress
of this contraband trade. In consequence
of ancient compact, the
Basque, that is frontier provinces of
Spain, enjoyed, among other exclusive
privileges, that of being exempt
from Government customhouses, or
customs' regulations. For this privilege,
a certain inconsiderable subsidy
was periodically voted for the service
of the State. Regent Espartero resolutely
suspended first, and then abrogated,
this branch of the <i>fueros</i>. He
carried the line of the customhouses
from the Ebro, where they were comparatively
useless and scarcely possible
to guard, to the very foot and passes
of the Pyrenees. The advantageous
effect of these vigorous proceedings was
not long to wait for, and it may be found
developed in the Report to the Chamber
of Deputies in Paris, before referred
to; in which M. Ch&eacute;garay, the
<i>rapporteur</i> on the part of the complaining
petitioners of Bayonne, Bordeaux,
&amp;c., after stating that the
general exports of France to Spain in</p>

<table summary="" align="center">
  <tr>
    <td>1839</td>
    <td>represented the aggregate sum of</td>
    <td align="right">83,000,000 francs,</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>1840</td>
    <td align="center">&quot;</td>
    <td align="right">104,000,000 francs,</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>1841</td>
    <td align="center">&quot;</td>
    <td align="right">101,000,000 francs,</td>
  </tr>
</table>

<p>proceeds to say, that the general returns
for 1842 were not yet (April 11)
made up, but that &quot;<i>M. le directeur-g&eacute;n&eacute;ral
des douanes nous a declar&eacute; que
la diminution avait &eacute;t&eacute; enorme</i>.&quot; But
although the general returns could
not be given, those specially referring
to the single customhouse of Bayonne
had been obtained, and they
amply confirmed the assertion of the
enormous diminution. The export
of cottons, woollens, silks, and linens,
from that port to Spain, which in</p>

<table summary="" align="center">
  <tr>
    <td>1840</td>
    <td>amounted in value to</td>
    <td align="right">15,800,000 francs,</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>1841</td>
    <td align="right">also</td>
    <td align="right">15,800,000 francs,</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>1842</td>
    <td align="right">had fallen to</td>
    <td align="right">5,700,000 francs.</td>
  </tr>
</table>

<p>A fall, really tremendous, of nearly
two-thirds.</p>

<p>M. Ch&eacute;garay, unfortunately, can
find no other grievance to complain of
but the too strict enforcement of the
Spanish custom laws, by which French
and Spanish contrabandists are harassed
and damaged&mdash;can suggest no
other remedy than the renewal of the
&quot;family compact&quot; of the Bourbons&mdash;no
hopes for the revival of smuggling
prosperity from the perpetuation of
the French reciprocity system of trade
all on one side, but in the restoration
of the commercial privileges so long
enjoyed exclusively by French subjects
and shipping, but now broken
or breaking down under the hammering
blows of Espartero&mdash;nor discover
any prospect of relief until the Spanish
customhouse lines are transferred
to their old quarters on the
other side of the Ebro, and the <i>fueros</i>
of the Biscaiano provinces, which, by
ancient treaty, he claims to be under
the guarantee of France, re-established
in all their pristine plenitude.</p>

<p>It is surely time for the intelligence,
if not the good sense, of France to do
justice by these day-dreams. The
tutelage of Spain has escaped from the
Bourbons of Paris, and the ward of
full majority will not be allowed, cannot
be, if willing, to return or remain
under the trammels of an interested
guardian, with family pretensions to
the property in default of heirs direct.
France, above all countries,
has the least right to remonstrate
against the reign of prohibitions and
restrictions, being herself the classic
land of both. Let her commence
rather the work of reform at home,
and render tardy justice to Spain,
which she has drained so long, and
redress to Great Britain, against
whose more friendly commercial code
she is constantly warring by differential
preferences of duties in favour
of the same commodities produced
in other countries, which consume
less of what she abounds in, and
have less the means of consumption.
Beyond all, let her cordially join this
country in urging upon the Spanish
Government, known to be nowise
averse to the urgency of a wise revision
and an enlightened modification of
the obsolete principles of an absurd
and impracticable policy both fiscal
and commercial&mdash;a policy which beggars
the treasury, whilst utterly failing
to protect native industry, and
demoralizes at the same time that it
impoverishes the people. We are
not of the number of those who would
abandon the assertion of a principle
<i>quoad</i> another country, the wisdom
and expediency of which we have advocated,
and are still prepared to advocate,
in its regulated application to
our own, from the sordid motive of
benefiting British manufactures to
the ruin of those of Spain. Rather,
we say to the government of Spain,
let a fair protection be the rule, restrictions
the exceptions, prohibition
the obsolete outcast, of your fiscal
and commercial policy. We import
into this country, the chief and most
valuable products of Spain, those
which compose the elements and a
very considerable proportion of her
wealth and industry, are either untaxed,
or taxed little more than nominally.
We may still afford, with proper
encouragement and return in
kind, to abate duties on such Spanish
products as are taxed chiefly
because coming into competition with
those of our own colonial possessions,
and on those highly taxed as luxuries,
for revenue; and this we can do,
and are prepared to do, although
Spain is so enormously indebted to us
already on the balance of commercial
exchanges.</p>

<p>This revision of her fiscal system,
and reconstruction, on fair and reciprocal
conditions, of her commercial
code, are questions of far deeper import&mdash;and
they are of vital import&mdash;to
Spain than to this empire. Look at
the following statement of her gigantic
debt, upon which, beyond some
three or four hundred thousand pounds
annually, for the present, on the capitalized
<i>coupons</i> of over-due interest
accruing on the conversion and consolidation
operation of 1834, the
Toreno abomination, not one <i>sueldo</i>
of interest is now paying, has been
paid for years, or can be paid for
years to come, and then only as industry
furnishes the means by extended
trade, and more abundant customhouse
revenues, resulting from an improved
tariff.</p>

<table summary="" align="center">
  <tr>
    <td align="center" colspan=5><i>Statement of the Spanish Debt at commencement of 1842</i>:&mdash;</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Internal&mdash;</td>
    <td>Liquidated, that is verified,</td>
    <td align="right">L.50,130,565</td>
    <td align="center" colspan=2>Without interest.</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
    <td>Not liquidated</td>
    <td align="right">9,364,228</td>
    <td align="center" colspan=2>with 5 per cent in paper.</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
    <td>Not consolidated,</td>
    <td align="right">2,609,832</td>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
    <td>Bearing 5 per cent,</td>
    <td align="right">15,242,593</td>
    <td align="center">Interest,</td>
    <td align="right">L.762,128</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
    <td>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Do. 3 do.</td>
    <td align="right">5,842,632</td>
    <td align="center">&mdash;</td>
    <td align="right">233,705</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
    <td align="right">&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;</td>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
    <td align="right">&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
    <td align="right">L.83,189,850</td>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
    <td align="right">L.995,833</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
    <td align="right">&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;</td>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
    <td align="right">&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>External</td>
    <td>Loan of 1834, and the conversion of old debt,</td>
    <td align="right">L.33,985,939</td>
    <td align="center">5&nbsp;per&nbsp;cent,</td>
    <td align="right">&nbsp;L.1,699,296</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
    <td>Balance of inscription to the public treasury of France,</td>
    <td align="right">2,782,681</td>
    <td align="center">&mdash;</td>
    <td align="right">160,000</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
    <td>Inscriptions in payment of English claims,</td>
    <td align="right">600,000</td>
    <td align="center">&mdash;</td>
    <td align="right">30,000</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
    <td>Ditto for American claims,</td>
    <td align="right">120,000</td>
    <td align="center">&mdash;</td>
    <td align="right">6,000</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
    <td align="right">&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;</td>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
    <td align="right">&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
    <td align="right">L.37,488,620</td>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
    <td align="right">L.1,895,296</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
    <td>Capitalized <i>coupons</i>, treasury bonds, &amp;c., amount not stated, but some millions more</td>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
    <td align="center">3 per cent,</td>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
    <td>Deferred,</td>
    <td align="right">5,944,584</td>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
    <td>Ditto,</td>
    <td align="right">4,444,040</td>
    <td align="center" colspan=2>Calculated at 100 reals</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
    <td>Passive,</td>
    <td align="right">10,542,582</td>
    <td align="center" colspan=2>per L. sterling.</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
    <td align="right">&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;</td>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
    <td align="right">20,931,206</td>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
    <td align="right">&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;</td>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td colspan=2>Grand total, exclusive of capitalization</td>
    <td align="right">L.141,669,676</td>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
  </tr>
</table>

<p>The latest account of Spanish
finance, that for 1842 before referred
to, exhibits an almost equally hopeless
prospect of annual deficit, as between
revenue and expenditure; 1st,
the actual receipts of revenue being
stated at</p>

<table summary="" align="center">
  <tr>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
    <td align="right">879,193,475</td>
    <td>reals</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>The expenditure,&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>
    <td align="right">1,541,639,879</td>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
    <td align="right">&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;</td>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td align="center">Deficit,</td>
    <td align="right">662,446,404</td>
    <td>&nbsp;</td>
  </tr>
</table>

<table summary="" align="center">
  <tr>
    <td>That is, with a revenue sterling of</td>
    <td align="right">L.8,791,934
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>A deficiency besides uncovered, of</td>
    <td align="right">6,624,464</td>
  </tr>
</table>

<p>Assuming the amount of the contraband
traffic in Spain at six millions
sterling per annum, instead of the
ten millions estimated, we think
most erroneously, by Se&ntilde;or Marliani,
the result of an average duty on the
amount of 25 per cent, would produce
to the treasury L.1,500,000 per
annum; and more in proportion as
the traffic, when legitimated, should
naturally extend, as the trade would
be sure to extend, between two countries
like Great Britain and Spain,
alone capable of exchanging millions
with each other for every million now
operated. The L.1,500,000 thus
gained would almost suffice to meet
the annual interest on the L.34,000,000
loan conversion of 1834, still singularly
classed in stock exchange parlance
as &quot;active stock.&quot; As for the
remaining mass of domestic and foreign
debt, there can be no hope for
its gradual extinction but by the sale
of national domains, in payment for
which the titles of debt of all classes
may be, as some now are, receivable
in payment. As upwards of two
thousand millions of reals of debt
are said to be thus already extinguished,
and the national domains yet
remaining for disposal are valued
at nearly the same sum, say
L.20,000,000, it is clear that the final
extinction of the debt is a hopeless
prospect, although a very large reduction
might be accomplished by
that enhanced value of these domains
which can only flow from increase of
population and the rapid progression
of industrial prosperity.</p>

<p>All Spain, excepting the confining
provinces in the side of France, and
especially the provinces where are the
great commercial ports, such as
Cadiz, Malaga,<a name="footnotetag27" id="footnotetag27"></a><a href="#footnote27"><sup>27</sup></a> Corunna, &amp;c., have
laid before the Cortes and Government
the most energetic memorials
and remonstrances against the prohibition
system of tariffs in force, and
ask why they, who, in favour of their
own industry and products, never
asked for prohibitions, are to be sacrificed
to Catalonia and Biscay? The
Spanish Government and the most
distinguished public men are well
known to be favourable, to be anxiously
meditating, an enlightened
change of system, and negotiations
are progressing prosperously, or
would progress, but for France.
When will France learn to imitate
the generous policy which announced
to her on the conclusion of peace with
China&mdash;We have stipulated no conditions
for ourselves from which we
desire to exclude you or other nations?</p>

<p>We could have desired, for the pleasure
and profit of the public, to extend
our notice of, and extracts from,
the excellent work of Se&ntilde;or Marliani,
so often referred to, but our limits
forbid. To show, however, the state
and progress of the cotton manufacture
in Catalonia, how little it gains
by prohibitions, and how much it is
prejudiced by the contraband trade,
we beg attention to the following extract:&mdash;</p>

<div class="blkquot"><p>&quot;Since the year 1769, when the cotton
manufacture commenced in Catalonia, the
trade enjoyed a complete monopoly, not
only in Spain, but also in her colonies.
To this protection were added the fostering
and united efforts of private individuals.
In 1780, a society for the encouragement
of the cotton manufacture was
established in Barcelona. Well, what has
been the result? Let us take the unerring
test of figures for our guide. Let us
take the medium importation of raw cotton
from 1834 to 1840 inclusive, (although
the latter year presents an inadmissible
augmentation,) and we shall have an average
amount of 9,909,261 lbs. of raw cotton.
This quantity is little more than half that
imported by the English in the year 1784.
The sixteen millions of pounds imported
that year by the English are less than the
third part imported by the same nation in
1790, which amounted in all to thirty-one
millions; it is only the sixth part of
that imported in 1800, when it rose to
56,010,732 lbs.; it is less than the seventh
part of the British importations in 1810,
which amounted to seventy-two millions of
pounds; it is less than the fifteenth part
of the cotton imported into the same
country in 1820, when the sum amounted
to 150,672,655 pounds; it is the twenty-sixth
part of the British importation in 1830,
which was that year 263,961,452 lbs.;
and lastly, the present annual importation
into Catalonia is about the sixty-sixth part
of that into Great Britain for the year
1840, when the latter amounted to
592,965,504 lbs. of raw cotton. Though
the comparative difference of progress is
not so great with France, still it shows the
slow progress of the Catalonian manufactures
in a striking degree. The quantity
now imported of raw cotton into Spain is
about the half of that imported into France
from 1803 to 1807; a fourth part compared
with French importations of that
material from 1807 to 1820; seventh-and-a-half
with respect to those of 1830;
and a twenty-seventh part of the quantity
introduced into France in 1840.&quot;</p></div>

<p>And we conclude with the following
example, one among several which
Se&ntilde;or Marliani gives, of the daring
and open manner in which the operations
of the <i>contrabandistas</i> are conducted,
and of the scandalous participation
of authorities and people&mdash;incontestable
evidences of a wide-spread
depravation of moral sentiments.</p>

<div class="blkquot"><p>&quot;Don Juan Prim, inspector of preventive
service, gave information to the Government
and revenue board in Madrid,
on the 22d of November 1841, that having
attempted to make a seizure of contraband
goods in the town of Estepona, in
the province of Malaga, where he was
aware a large quantity of smuggled goods
existed, he entered the town with a force
of carabineers and troops of the line. On
entering, he ordered the suspected dep&ocirc;t
of goods to be surrounded, and gave notice
to the second alcalde of the town to
attend to assist him in the search. In
some time the second alcalde presented
himself, and at the instance of M. Prim
dispersed some groups of the inhabitants
who had assumed a hostile attitude. In a
few minutes after, and just as some shots
were fired, the first alcalde of the town
appeared, and stated that the whole population
was in a state of complete excitement,
and that he could not answer for the
consequences; whereupon he resigned his
authority. While this was passing, about
200 men, well armed, took up a position
upon a neighbouring eminence, and assumed
a hostile attitude. At the same
time a carabineer, severely wounded from
the discharge of a blunderbuss, was
brought up, so that there was nothing left
for M. Prim but to withdraw his force
immediately out of the town, leaving the
smugglers and their goods to themselves,
since neither the alcaldes nor national
guards of the town, though demanded in
the name of the law, the regent, and the
nation, would aid M. Prim's force against
them!&quot;</p></div>

<p>All that consummate statesmanship
can do, will be done, doubtless, by the
present Government of Great Britain,
to carry out and complete the economical
system on which they have so
courageously thrown themselves <i>en
avant</i>, by the negotiation and completion
of commercial treaties on every
side, and by the consequent mitigation
or extinction of hostile tariffs.
Without this indispensable complement
of their own tariff reform, and
low prices consequent, he must be
a bold man who can reflect upon
the consequences without dismay.
Those consequences can benefit no one
class, and must involve in ruin every
class in the country, excepting the
manufacturing mammons of the Anti-corn-law
league, who, Saturn-like, devour
their own kindred, and salute
every fall of prices as an apology for
grinding down wages and raising profits.
It may be well, too, for sanguine
young statesmen like Mr Gladstone
to turn to the DEBT, and cast
about how interest is to be forthcoming
with falling prices, falling
rents, falling profits, (the exception
above apart,) excise in a rapid state
of decay, and customs' revenue a
blank!</p>

<hr class="full" />

<a name="bw329-footnotes"></a>
<h2>FOOTNOTES.</h2>

<blockquote class="footnote">
<a name="footnote1"></a><b>Footnote 1</b>: <a href="#footnotetag1">(return)</a><div class="note"><p>
This was not the only case of compensation made out against this travelling
companion. &quot;Milord,&quot; says our tourist, &quot;in his quality of bulldog, was so great
a destroyer of cats, that we judged it wise to take some precautions against overcharges
in this particular. Therefore, on our departure from Genoa, in which
town Milord had commenced his practices upon the feline race of Italy, we enquired
the price of a full-grown, well-conditioned cat, and it was agreed on all
hands that a cat of the ordinary species&mdash;grey, white, and tortoiseshell&mdash;was worth
two pauls&mdash;(learned cats, Angora cats, cats with two heads or three tails, are not,
of course, included in this tariff.) Paying down this sum for two several Genoese
cats which had been just strangled by our friend, we demanded a legal receipt, and
we added successively other receipts of the same kind, so that this document
became at length an indisputable authority for the price of cats throughout all
Italy. As often as Milord committed a new assassination, and the attempt was
made to extort from us more than two pauls as the price of blood, we drew this
document from our pocket, and proved beyond a cavil that two pauls was what we
were accustomed to pay on such occasions, and obstinate indeed must have been
the man or woman who did not yield to such a weight of precedent.&quot;</p></div>
</blockquote>

<blockquote class="footnote">
<a name="footnote2"></a><b>Footnote 2</b>: <a href="#footnotetag2">(return)</a><div class="note"><p>
It is amusing to contrast the <i>artistic</i> manner in which our author makes all his
statements, with the style of a guide-book, speaking on the manufactures and industry
of Florence. It is from Richard's <i>Italy</i> we quote. Mark the exquisite
medley of humdrum, matter-of-fact details, jotted down as if by some unconscious
piece of mechanism:&mdash;&quot;Florence <i>manufactures</i> excellent silks, woollen cloths,
elegant carriages, bronze articles, earthenware, straw hats, perfumes, essences, <i>and
candied fruits</i>; also, all kinds of turnery and inlaid work, piano-fortes, philosophical
and mathematical instruments, &amp;c. The dyes used at this city are much admired,
particularly the black, <i>and its sausages are famous throughout all Italy</i>.&quot;</p></div>
</blockquote>

<blockquote class="footnote">
<a name="footnote3"></a><b>Footnote 3</b>: <a href="#footnotetag3">(return)</a><div class="note"><p> The extreme misery of the paupers in Sicily, who form, he tells us, a tenth
part of the population, quite haunts the imagination of M. Dumas. He recurs to
it several times. At one place he witnesses the distribution, at the door of a convent,
of soup to these poor wretches, and gives a terrible description of the famine-stricken
group. &quot;All these creatures,&quot; he continues, &quot;had eaten nothing
since yesterday evening. They had come there to receive their porringer of soup,
as they had come to-day, as they would come to-morrow. This was all their
nourishment for twenty-four hours, unless some of them might obtain a few <i>grani</i>
from their fellow-citizens, or the compassion of strangers; but this is very rare,
as the Syracusans are familiarized with the spectacle, and few strangers visit Syracuse.
When the distributor of this blessed soup appeared, there were unheard-of
cries, and each one rushed forward with his wooden bowl in his hand. Only there
were some too feeble to exclaim, or to run, and who dragged themselves forward,
groaning, upon their hands and knees. There was in the midst of all, a child
clothed, not in anything that could be called a shirt, but a kind of spider's web,
with a thousand holes, who had no wooden bowl, and who wept with hunger. It
stretched out its poor little meagre hands, and joined them together, to supply as
well as it could, by this natural receptacle, the absent bowl. The cook poured in
a spoonful of the soup. The soup was boiling, and burned the child's hand. It
uttered a cry of pain, and was compelled to open its fingers, and the soup fell upon
the pavement. The child threw itself on all fours, and began to eat in the manner
of a dog.&quot;&mdash;Vol. iii. p. 58.
</p><p>
And in another place he says, &quot;Alas, this cry of hunger! it is the eternal cry
of Sicily; I have heard nothing else for three months. There are miserable
wretches, whose hunger has never been appeased, from the day when, lying in their
cradle, they began to draw the milk from their exhausted mothers, to the last hour
when, stretched on their bed of death, they have expired endeavouring to swallow
the sacred host which the priest had laid upon their lips. Horrible to think of!
there are human beings to whom, to have eaten once sufficiently, would be a remembrance
for all their lives to come.&quot;&mdash;Vol. iv. p. 108.</p></div>
</blockquote>

<blockquote class="footnote">
<a name="footnote4"></a><b>Footnote 4</b>: <a href="#footnotetag4">(return)</a><div class="note"><p> <i>Lar</i> is the Tartar plural of all substantives.</p></div>
</blockquote>

<blockquote class="footnote">
<a name="footnote5"></a><b>Footnote 5</b>: <a href="#footnotetag5">(return)</a><div class="note"><p> Beaters for the game.</p></div>
</blockquote>

<blockquote class="footnote">
<a name="footnote6"></a><b>Footnote 6</b>: <a href="#footnotetag6">(return)</a><div class="note"><p> Rather less than an English yard.</p></div>
</blockquote>

<blockquote class="footnote">
<a name="footnote7"></a><b>Footnote 7</b>: <a href="#footnotetag7">(return)</a><div class="note"><p> The Tartars have an invariable custom, of taking off some part of their dress
and giving it to the bearer of good news.</p></div>
</blockquote>

<blockquote class="footnote">
<a name="footnote8"></a><b>Footnote 8</b>: <a href="#footnotetag8">(return)</a><div class="note"><p> Coin.</p></div>
</blockquote>

<blockquote class="footnote">
<a name="footnote9"></a><b>Footnote 9</b>: <a href="#footnotetag9">(return)</a><div class="note"><p> Shakh&eacute;eds, traders of the sect of Souni. Yakho&uacute;nt the senior mo&oacute;llah.</p></div>
</blockquote>

<blockquote class="footnote">
<a name="footnote10"></a><b>Footnote 10</b>: <a href="#footnotetag10">(return)</a><div class="note"><p>
Of the two opening lines we subjoin the original&mdash;to the vivacity and spirit of
which it is, perhaps, impossible to do justice in translation:&mdash;</p>
<p>
&quot;Ihr&mdash;Ihr dort aussen in der Welt,<br>
Die Nasen einges pannt!&quot;<br>
</p><p>
Eberhard, Count of Wurtemberg, reigned from 1344 to 1392. Schiller was a
Swabian, and this poem seems a patriotic effusion to exalt one of the heroes of his
country, of whose fame (to judge by the lines we have just quoted) the rest of the
Germans might be less reverentially aware.</p></div>
</blockquote>

<blockquote class="footnote">
<a name="footnote11"></a><b>Footnote 11</b>: <a href="#footnotetag11">(return)</a><div class="note"><p>
Schiller lived to reverse, in the third period of his intellectual career, many of the
opinions expressed in the first. The sentiment conveyed in these lines on Rousseau is
natural enough to the author of &quot;The Robbers,&quot; but certainly not to the poet of &quot;Wallenstein&quot;
and the &quot;Lay of the Bell.&quot; We confess we doubt the maturity of any mind that
can find either a saint or a martyr in Jean Jacques.</p></div>
</blockquote>

<blockquote class="footnote">
<a name="footnote12"></a><b>Footnote 12</b>: <a href="#footnotetag12">(return)</a><div class="note"><p> &quot;Und Empfindung soll mein Richtschwert seyn.&quot;<br><br>
A line of great vigour in the original, but which, if literally translated, would seem
extravagant in English.</p></div>
</blockquote>

<blockquote class="footnote">
<a name="footnote13"></a><b>Footnote 13</b>: <a href="#footnotetag13">(return)</a><div class="note"><p> Joseph, in the original.</p></div>
</blockquote>

<blockquote class="footnote">
<a name="footnote14"></a><b>Footnote 14</b>: <a href="#footnotetag14">(return)</a><div class="note"><p><br>
&quot;The World was sad, the garden was a wild,<br>
And Man, the Hermit, sigh'd&mdash;till Woman smiled.&quot;<br>
CAMPBELL.<br>
</p></div>
</blockquote>

<blockquote class="footnote">
<a name="footnote15"></a><b>Footnote 15</b>: <a href="#footnotetag15">(return)</a><div class="note"><p>
Literally, &quot;the eye beams its sun-splendour,&quot; or, &quot;beams like a sun.&quot; For the
construction that the Translator has put upon the original (which is extremely obscure)
in the preceding lines of the stanza, he is indebted to Mr Carlyle. The general
meaning of the Poet is, that Love rules all things in the inanimate or animate
creation; that, even in the moral world, opposite emotions or principles meet and
embrace each other. The idea is pushed into an extravagance natural to the youth,
and redeemed by the passion, of the Author. But the connecting links are so slender,
nay, so frequently omitted, in the original, that a certain degree of paraphrase in many
of the stanzas is absolutely necessary to supply them, and render the general sense and
spirit of the poem intelligible to the English reader.</p></div>
</blockquote>

<blockquote class="footnote">
<a name="footnote16"></a><b>Footnote 16</b>: <a href="#footnotetag16">(return)</a><div class="note"><p> Mr Shaw's researches include some curious physiological and other details, for
an exposition of which our pages are not appropriate. But we shall here give the
titles of his former papers. &quot;An account of some Experiments and Observations
on the Parr, and on the Ova of the Salmon, proving the Parr to be the Young of
the Salmon.&quot;&mdash;<i>Edinburgh New Phil. Journ</i>. vol. xxi. p. 99. &quot;Experiments on
the Development and Growth of the Fry of the Salmon, from the Exclusion of the
Ovum to the Age of Six Months.&quot;&mdash;<i>Ibid</i>. vol. xxiv. p. 165. &quot;Account of Experimental
Observations on the Development and Growth of Salmon Fry, from the
Exclusion of the Ova to the Age of Two Years.&quot;&mdash;<i>Transactions of the Royal Society
of Edinburgh</i>, vol. xiv. part ii. (1840.) The reader will find an abstract of
these discoveries in the No. of this Magazine for April 1840.</p></div>
</blockquote>

<blockquote class="footnote">
<a name="footnote17"></a><b>Footnote 17</b>: <a href="#footnotetag17">(return)</a><div class="note"><p>
Mr Young has, however, likewise repeated and confirmed Mr Shaw's earlier
experiments regarding the slow growth of salmon fry in fresh water, and the conversion
of parr into smolts. We may add, that Sir William Jardine, a distinguished
Ichthyologist and experienced angler, has also corroborated Mr Shaw's observations.</p></div>
</blockquote>

<blockquote class="footnote">
<a name="footnote18"></a><b>Footnote 18</b>: <a href="#footnotetag18">(return)</a><div class="note"><p> These two specimens are now preserved in the Museum of the Royal Society
of Edinburgh.</p></div>
</blockquote>

<blockquote class="footnote">
<a name="footnote19"></a><b>Footnote 19</b>: <a href="#footnotetag19">(return)</a><div class="note"><p> The existence in the rivers during spring, of grilse which have spawned, and
which weigh only three or four pounds, is itself a conclusive proof of this retardation
of growth in fresh water. These fish had <i>run</i>, as anglers say&mdash;that is, had entered
the rivers about midsummer of the preceding year&mdash;and yet had made no progress.
Had they remained in the sea till autumn, their size on entering the fresh waters
would have been much greater; or had they spawned early in winter, and descended
speedily to the sea, they might have returned again to the river in spring <i>as small
salmon</i>, while their more sluggish brethren of the same age were still in the
streams under the form of grilse. All their growth, then, seems to take place during
their sojourn in the sea, usually from eight to twelve weeks. The length of
time spent in the salt waters, by grilse and salmon which have spawned, corresponds
nearly to the time during which smolts remain in these waters; the former
two returning as <i>clean</i> salmon, the last-named making their first appearance in our
rivers as grilse.</p></div>
</blockquote>

<blockquote class="footnote">
<a name="footnote20"></a><b>Footnote 20</b>: <a href="#footnotetag20">(return)</a><div class="note"><p>
These two specimens, with their wire marks <i>in situ</i>, may now be seen in the
Museum of the Royal Society of Edinburgh.</p></div>
</blockquote>

<blockquote class="footnote">
<a name="footnote21"></a><b>Footnote 21</b>: <a href="#footnotetag21">(return)</a><div class="note"><p>
Mr Shaw, for example, states the following various periods as those which he
found to elapse between the deposition of the ova and the hatching of the fry&mdash;90,
101, 108, and 131 days. In the last instance, the average temperature of the
river for eight weeks, had not exceeded 33&deg;.</p></div>
</blockquote>

<blockquote class="footnote">
<a name="footnote22"></a><b>Footnote 22</b>: <a href="#footnotetag22">(return)</a><div class="note"><p>
If we are rightly informed, salmon were not in the habit of spawning in the
rivulets which run into Loch Shin, till under the direction of Lord Francis Egerton
some full-grown fish were carried there previous to the breeding season.
These spawned; and their produce, as was to be expected, after descending to the
sea, returned in due course, and, making their way through the loch, ascended their
native tributaries.</p></div>
</blockquote>

<blockquote class="footnote">
<a name="footnote23"></a><b>Footnote 23</b>: <a href="#footnotetag23">(return)</a><div class="note"><p>
A complete series of specimens, from the day of hatching till about the middle
of the sixth year, has been deposited by Mr Shaw in the Museum of the Royal
Society of Edinburgh.</p></div>
</blockquote>

<blockquote class="footnote">
<a name="footnote24"></a><b>Footnote 24</b>: <a href="#footnotetag24">(return)</a><div class="note"><p>
Mr Shaw informs us, moreover, that if those individuals which have assumed
the silvery lustre be forcibly detained for a month or two in fresh water, they will
resume the coloured coating which they formerly bore. The captive females, he
adds, manifested symptoms of being in a breeding state by the beginning of the
autumn of their third year. They were, in truth, at this time as old as <i>herlings</i>,
though not of corresponding size, owing to the entire absence of marine agency.</p></div>
</blockquote>

<blockquote class="footnote">
<a name="footnote25"></a><b>Footnote 25</b>: <a href="#footnotetag25">(return)</a><div class="note"><p>
Another interesting result may be noticed in connexion with this Compensation
Pond. The original streamlet, like most others, was naturally stocked with small
&quot;burn-trout,&quot; which never exceeded a few ounces in weight, as their ultimate term
of growth. But, in consequence of the formation above referred to, and the great
increase of their productive feeding-ground, and tranquil places for repose and play,
these tiny creatures have, in some instances, attained to an enormous size. We
lately examined one which weighed six pounds. It was not a sea-trout, but a
common fresh-water one&mdash;<i>Salmo fario</i>. This strongly exemplifies the conformable
nature of fishes; that is, their power of adaptation to a change of external circumstances.
It is as if a small Shetland pony, by being turned into a clover field,
could be expanded into the gigantic dimensions of a brewer's horse.</p></div>
</blockquote>

<blockquote class="footnote">
<a name="footnote26"></a><b>Footnote 26</b>: <a href="#footnotetag26">(return)</a><div class="note"><p> The specimen is preserved in the Museum of the Royal Society of Edinburgh.</p></div>
</blockquote>

<blockquote class="footnote">
<a name="footnote27"></a><b>Footnote 27</b>: <a href="#footnotetag27">(return)</a><div class="note"><p> See <i>Exposicion de que dirige &aacute; las Cortes et Ayuntamiento Constitucional de
Malaga</i>, from which the following are extracts:&mdash;&quot;El ayuntamiento no puede menos
de indicar, que entre los infinitos renglones fabriles aclimatados ya en Espana, las
sedas de Valencia, los panos de muchas provincias, los hilados de Galicia, las blondas
de Cataluna, las bayetas de Antequera, los hierros de Vizcaya y los elaborados por maquinaria
en las ferrer&iacute;as &aacute; un lado y otro de esta ciudad, han adelantado, prosperan y
compiten con los efectos extranjeros mas acreditados. &iquest;Y han solicitado acaso una
prohibicion? N&oacute; jamas: un derecho protector, s&iacute;; &aacute; su sombra se criaron, con la
competencia se formaron y llegaron &aacute; su robustez.... Ingleterra
figura en la exportacion por el mayor valor sin admitir comparacion alguna. Su
gobierno piensa en reducir muy considerablemente todos los renglones de su arancil;
pero se ha espresado con reserva para negar &oacute; conceder, si lo estima conveniente, esta
reduccion &aacute; las naciones que no correspondan &aacute; los beneficios que les ofrece; ninguno
puede esperar que le favorezcan sin compensacion.&quot;</p></div>
</blockquote>

<hr class="full" />

<center><i>Edinburgh; Printed by Ballantyne and Hughes Paul's Work.</i></center>

<hr class="full" />

<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 12263 ***</div>
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