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<div style='text-align:center'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BLACKWOOD'S EDINBURGH MAGAZINE, VOL. 76, NO. 467, SEPTEMBER 1954 ***</div>

<div class='tnotes covernote'>

<p class='c000'><strong>Transcriber’s Note:</strong></p>

<p class='c000'>New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the public domain.</p>

</div>

<div class='titlepage'>

<div>
  <h1 class='c001'>BLACKWOOD’S<br> EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.<br> <br> <span class='sc'>No.</span> CCCCLXVII.      SEPTEMBER, 1854.      <span class='sc'>Vol.</span> LXXVI.</h1>
</div>

<div>
  <h2 class='c002'>CONTENTS.</h2>
</div>

<table class='table0'>
  <tr>
    <td class='c003'><span class='sc'>The Holy Land</span>,</td>
    <td class='c004'><a href='#Page_243'>243</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c003'><span class='sc'>Bellerophon. A Classical Ballad</span>,</td>
    <td class='c004'><a href='#Page_256'>256</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c003'><span class='sc'>The Coming Fortunes of our Colonies in the Pacific</span>,</td>
    <td class='c004'><a href='#Page_268'>268</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c003'><span class='sc'>Speculators among the Stars</span>,</td>
    <td class='c004'><a href='#Page_288'>288</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c003'><span class='sc'>Mrs Stowe’s Sunny Memories</span>,</td>
    <td class='c004'><a href='#Page_301'>301</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c003'><span class='sc'>The Crystal Palace</span>,</td>
    <td class='c004'><a href='#Page_317'>317</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c003'><span class='sc'>The Secret of Stoke Manor: A Family History.—Part IV.</span>,</td>
    <td class='c004'><a href='#Page_336'>336</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c003'><span class='sc'>The Spanish Revolution</span>,</td>
    <td class='c004'><a href='#Page_356'>356</a></td>
  </tr>
</table>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c005'>
    <div><span class='xlarge'>EDINBURGH:</span></div>
    <div><span class='large'>WILLIAM BLACKWOOD &#38; SONS, 45 GEORGE STREET,</span></div>
    <div><span class='large'>AND 37 PATERNOSTER ROW, LONDON;</span></div>
    <div class='c006'><em>To whom all communications (post paid) must be addressed</em>.</div>
    <div class='c006'>SOLD BY ALL THE BOOKSELLERS IN THE UNITED KINGDOM.</div>
    <div class='c006'>PRINTED BY WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS, EDINBURGH.</div>
  </div>
</div>

</div>

<div class='chapter ph1'>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c007'>
    <div>BLACKWOOD’S</div>
    <div class='c006'>EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.</div>
  </div>
</div>

</div>

<table class='table1'>
<colgroup>
<col class='colwidth33'>
<col class='colwidth33'>
<col class='colwidth33'>
</colgroup>
  <tr>
    <td class='c008'><span class='sc'>No.</span> CCCCLXVII.</td>
    <td class='c003'>SEPTEMBER, 1854.</td>
    <td class='c004'><span class='sc'>Vol.</span> LXXVI.</td>
  </tr>
</table>

<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_243'>243</span>
  <h2 class='c002'>THE HOLY LAND.<a id='r1'></a><a href='#f1' class='c009'><sup>[1]</sup></a></h2>
</div>

<p class='c010'>Strong and many are the claims
made upon us by our mother Earth;
the love of locality—the charm and
attraction which some one homely
landscape possesses to us, surpassing
all stranger beauties, is a remarkable
feature in the human heart. We who
are not ethereal creatures, but of a
mixed and diverse nature—we who,
when we look our clearest towards
the skies, must still have our standing-ground
of earth secure—it is strange
what relations of personal love we
enter into with the scenes of this lower
sphere. How we delight to build our
recollections upon some basis of reality—a
place, a country, a local habitation—how
the events of life, as we
look back upon them, have grown
into the well-remembered background
of the places where they fell upon us;—here
is some sunny garden or summer
lane, beatified and canonised for
ever with the flood of a great joy; and
here are dim and silent places, rooms
always shadowed and dark to us,
whatever they may be to others,
where distress or death came once,
and since then dwells for evermore.
As little as we can deprive ourselves
of the human frame, can we divest
our individual history of its graceful
garment of place and scene. Such a
thing happened, we say; but memory
is no bare chronicler of facts and
events, and as we say the words, the
time starts up before us, with all its
silent witnesses;—leaves that were
shed years ago, trees cut down and
gone, yet they live in our thoughts
with the joy or the sorrow of which
they were silent attendants. We have
caught and appropriated these bits of
still life—they are a part of our history,
and belong to us for ever.</p>

<p class='c011'>In some degree every mind must
have its own private gallery of pictures,
impossible to be revealed to the
vision of another,—from the homely
imagination which cherishes that one
bit of sunshine on its walls, “the
house where I was born,” the old
childish paradise and ideal, rich with
such flowers and verdure as can be
found in no other place, to the stately
and well-furnished recollection which
can roam at will through all the
brightest countries in the world; but
wherever we go, we weave ourselves
into the landscape, and make every
milestone a historical monument in
the chronicle of our life.</p>

<p class='c011'>And so it comes that natives of a
country never expatriated from their
home-soil, grow into a passionate
veneration and love for their own
land. The hills which are radiant
for ever with their dreams of youth—the
rivers whose familiar voices have
chimed into every sound of their
<span class='pageno' id='Page_244'>244</span>lamentation and their joy—the roads
that echo to their daily footsteps, and
all the silent accessories upon which,
as on so many props and pillars, their
thoughts for years are hung—the very
sight of which recall a hundred fleeting
fancies—the very name of which
spreads pictures lovelier than reality
before closed eyes—the “kindly”
country, which seems to respond with
a voice borrowed from our own past
thoughts to the thoughts of to-day,
suggesting ancient comforts, ancient
blessings, silently speaking hope from
experience, solace present from solace
past, lays claims upon us, the most
intimate of our confidants, the nearest
to our bosom; and Nature lavish in
her demands upon our sympathy—perpetually
calling upon us to weep
with her and to rejoice with her—makes
liberal recompense, and softens around
us with a visible embrace our mother
country, our sympathetic and consolatory
home.</p>

<p class='c011'>And scarcely less are we moved by
localities sacred to the heroes of our
race—storied ground, peopled with
names and persons historic in the
national annals, or consecrated to
other lives than ours. It is natural
for us to seek those spots with eager
interest, to believe ourselves brought
nearer to the great Spirit whose habitation
made them famous, and to
linger with visionary satisfaction,
looking at things which <em>he</em> must have
looked at, realising his life where he
led it. Pilgrimages many grow out
of this natural sentiment. The cottage
of Shakespeare—the palace of
Scott—the “warm study of deals,”
where the Scottish Reformer belaboured
Satan—and the dark-browed
rooms where hapless Mary accomplished
her fate. From these shrines
we come no wiser—not a whit better
acquainted with the saint of each—notwithstanding
we stand in the same
space, we look upon the same walls,
we have over us the hallowed roof,
and the instinctive superstition is
satisfied with this limited result of
our faith.</p>

<p class='c011'>But places sacred to one nation are
indifferent to another—one class of
men exult over a monument, which
to their neighbours is but a block of
stone. Yet there is one holy place
where all the nations of the earth
come together to worship—one country
rich with a perpetual attraction.
The soil thrills to the consecrating
touch of love and grief; the ages of
the past dwell in it as in a sanctuary.
Making no account of the wandering
handful of wild Asiatics who surround
him, the traveller there seeks not
scenes of to-day, but cities of the dead.
The place has a solemn array of lofty
inhabitants, undying fathers of the
soil; generation after generation, conquerors,
defenders, devotees, have
come and gone and departed. But we
do not search this country for traces
of the Saracen or the Crusader; passing
beyond them as modern visitors,
a more ancient race claims the universal
awe. It is not the city of Godfrey
of Bouillon, but of David of
Bethlehem, which shines on yonder
cluster of hills; and these are not the
knightly names of romance which
sanctify the tombs. The brave Crusaders
claim memories in other countries,
but they have no memory here
where their blood watered the sacred
soil. Turk and Christian, creatures
of to-day, stand on the same platform
as we do,—beyond the earliest of them
are the true monuments and memories
of this country—</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c012'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“Over whose acres walked those blessed feet,</div>
      <div class='line'>Which eighteen hundred years ago were nailed</div>
      <div class='line'>For our redemption to the bitter cross.”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c011'>The story begins and ends in this
great figure appearing visibly before
our eyes, and we bow our head to
acknowledge Jerusalem, the universal
centre of pilgrimage—Judea, Galilee,
the Holy Land.</p>

<p class='c011'>A land which, if it could be possible
to sweep it altogether out of earthly
knowledge, would still live in the
pages of one wonderful Book, and to
the readers of that Book be of all
countries the most familiar and well
known. Many an untutored peasant,
who knows no more of the road to
our own capital than the half-mile of
dusty highway under his own eyes,
knows of the way to Bethany, signalised
by many wonders—knows of
the road to Gaza which is desert—knows
of that road to Damascus
where the traveller was solemnly
arrested on his way; and is better
aware of the wayside grave where
her heart-stricken husband buried
<span class='pageno' id='Page_245'>245</span>Rachel, “sweet Syrian shepherdess,”
and of Absalom’s tomb which he
built to preserve his name, than of
where the royal ashes lie in our own
land. Many a humble scholar, untaught
in other history, is learned in
the ancient wars of Israel, and apprehends
Moab, and Edom, and
Assyria with a stronger sense of
reality than he can apprehend the
Russian hordes embattled against
ourselves; and sees Pi-ha-hiroth
shut in with its mountains, Egypt
behind and the sea before, as no description,
however vivid, will ever
make him see the marshes of the
Danube, though he have a son or a
brother militant on that disastrous
shore to-day. Strong security has
God taken for the universal remembrance
of that beloved country, blessed
by His own Divine preference:
while there is a Bible, there must be
a Judea; the landscape in all its glorious
tints is associated for ever with
the wonderful artist’s name; and
neither its wretched population nor
its heathen rulers, nor all its melancholy
meanness and desolation, existing
now, can make Christendom
forget that this discrowned city is the
city over which fell the tears of the
Lord.</p>

<p class='c011'>We have no Crusaders in these
days; all that remains of our ancient
chivalry finds holier work at home
than that impossible redemption of
the Holy Land, which God reserves
for His own time, and His own hands;
nor do we need to depend on the
vagabond saint of antique times, the
hero of scallop-shell and pilgrim-staff,
for our knowledge of Palestine.
Neither travellers nor reports are
wanting, and we are by no means
afflicted with monotony of tone or
sameness of aspect in the revelations
of our modern pilgrimages. The
weary man of fashion who loiters
over Palestine in search of a new sensation—the
curt and business-like
Divine who goes thither professionally
on a mission of verification and
proof—the wandering <em>litterateur</em> who
has a book to make—the accomplished
<i><span lang="fr">savant</span></i> and man of science, follow each
other in rapid succession. Dreamy
speculation—decisions of bold rapidity,
made at a glance—accurate topography,
slow and careful—each do
their devoir in making known to us
this country of universal interest.
Nor does even the lighter portraiture
of fiction shrink from the Holy Land,
though here our novelist is a statesman,
as much beyond the range of
ordinary novelists, as the locality of
that last brilliant romance which it
has pleased him “to leave half told,”
differs from the English village or
Scottish glen of common story-telling.
To follow Disraeli and Warburton is
no easy task, neither is it quite holiday
work to go over the ground after
Robinson and De Saulcy. Lieut. C.
W. N. Van de Velde, the latest traveller
of this storied soil, is neither a
born poet, nor an accomplished bookmaker,
nor a great divine; but whosoever
receives his book into their household,
receives a social visitor, distinct
and tangible—a real man. It is impossible
not to clothe the historian with
an imagined person—not to see him
sitting down to his extempore writingtable
compounding his letters—not to
form a good guess of the measures of
his paces, of perhaps now and then a
little puff of Dutch impatience, curiously
wrought into a large amount of
phlegm.  From his first offset he
comes clearly out from among the
shadows—we are at no loss to keep
the thread of personal identity, and
are never dubious, in picture number
two, about the hero of picture number
one. A most recognisable and characteristic
personage, we yet stand in
no dread of our pilgrim. He makes
nothing of his cockle-hat and staff,
or his sandal shoon. Instead of calling
to his reverent disciples to follow,
he offers his arm to any good neighbour
who will make the tour with
him. You may help to set up the
Aneroid, or level the telescope, if you
will, but you cannot doubt for a moment
that Lieut. Van de Velde takes
the angle of yonder nameless villages
as a conscientious duty, and when
he makes his survey of a bare hillside
or Arab desert, does it with the
full-hearted and devout conviction
that this is his highest capability of
serving God; for you ascertain immediately
that this is not an expedition
of the pleasure-seeker, or a pilgrimage
of the devotee. Surveying
Palestine is the <em>work</em> of the traveller—his
special end and object—and he sets
<span class='pageno' id='Page_246'>246</span>about it simply as his vocation, an
enterprise which gives consistence
and necessity to all his travel.</p>

<p class='c011'>One disadvantage of this accurate
survey, as indeed of all scientific expeditions,
is the bare chronicle of unknown
villages, a confusion of barren
names, and brief descriptions which
take the life out of many pages of
this narrative. Lieut. Van de Velde
has a very pretty talent for making
pictures in words, but to make a map
in words is one of the driest and
least profitable operations of literature.
Toil after him as we may, it is
impossible to keep in mind this long
course which finds no track, and
leaves none—a mere piece of elaborate
geography, with only the point,
here and there, of a hospitable sheikh,
or a hastily-sketched interior, to reward
us for the toilsome interval of
road. This, however, is not a fault
peculiar to M. Van de Velde, but
belongs alike to all the more serious
explorers of Palestine, to whom every
fallen stone has, or ought to have, its
separate history.</p>

<p class='c011'>And notwithstanding this, which,
indeed, is a necessary feature of the
conscientious and painstaking mind
visible in these pages, there is much
of the picturesque in the travels of
Lieut. Van de Velde. If his sketches
are as graphic and clear as his descriptions,
it is very much to be regretted
that they are not added to
this work, for we have nowhere seen
more rapid and vivid landscapes with
so little pretension on the part of the
artist. We speak much of the poetic
merit of transferring one’s own mind
and individuality into the scenery described,
and it is a poetic necessity—nevertheless,
once in a way, remembering
that the real poet who can do
this is not a very common tourist,
it is a refreshment to have the landscape
without the traveller—the hills
and the valleys as they lie, without
Mr Brown in the corner taking their
likeness. In these volumes our honest
traveller offers to your view what he
saw, sometimes in an honest fervour
of admiration; but you cannot fail to
be aware that his eye is on the landscape
as he draws it, and not upon
the central figure I which overshadows
the scene. From first to last,
indeed, Lieut. Van de Velde never
sees his own shadow between himself
and the sunshine, never is oppressed
by his own claims to be looked at—in
fact, is not troubled whether you
look at him at all, but demands of
you, most distinctly, to look at his
picture, and claims from you an interest
in it equal to his own. With
strong religious feelings, and a mind
deeply leavened with Gospel truths,
and the Gospel history of which this
soil is redolent, our pilgrim travels
onward, not without perturbations, yet
full of confidence in the special protection
of God, and everywhere, a
single-hearted Christian, seeks his
own “edification,” and to promote
the edification of others. We have
said that his is not the pilgrimage of
a devotee, yet it is undeniable that
though too orthodox to expect any
miraculous influence from these holy
places, he yet looks for “impressions,”
for a more vivid realisation of
those great events to which our faith
looks back, and a brighter apprehension
of the Divine teachings which
were first delivered in this favoured
land. Here is an instance of one profane
interruption of his devout meditations;—he
is seated by Jacob’s
well:—</p>

<p class='c013'>“I placed myself in the same position,
and could well figure to myself the woman
with her pitcher on her head coming
down out of the valley. He who
knows all things, and whose free sovereign
love has chosen His own to eternal
life from the foundation of the world—He
beheld her, the poor sinner, for whose
preservation He had come down from
heaven. He saw her as she came along
under the olive trees, long before she was
aware of His being there. And when
she saw Him, she hesitated, perhaps
whether she should approach Him, perceiving
that he was a Jew. But what
should she be afraid of, she the lost, who
had lost all, for whom there seemed to be
nothing but despair? Therefore she
came on, and——</p>

<p class='c014'>“Thus was I musing with myself, as
I sat alone at the side of the well, and
had just begun to read the fourth chapter
of John, when I was suddenly roused by
the blustering voice of a gigantic Arab,
who had come up without my observing
him, and addressed me thus, with all the
characteristic repulsiveness and loathsomeness
of the Arabs:</p>

<p class='c014'>“‘Marhhabah chawadja! baksheesh,
baksheesh!’</p>

<p class='c014'><span class='pageno' id='Page_247'>247</span>“This disturbance was most unwelcome.
Think what a contrast: To be
lost, as it were, in heavenly thoughts,
and then all at once to be aroused by
such a thief-like clamour for baksheesh.
He was a fellow with a face enough to
frighten one, filthy and disgusting—so
filthy and disgusting as none but an
Arab can be. I replied to his salutation,
and begged him to leave me alone.</p>

<p class='c014'>“But no—he had no idea of doing
that.</p>

<p class='c014'>“‘Baksheesh, baksheesh!’ he roared,
and sat himself down at the well-side,
opposite me, at the same time taking
out his pipe and lighting it with such
composure as to convince me that he
had not the smallest intention to leave me
for some time at least.</p>

<p class='c014'>“And before five minutes had elapsed,
half-a-dozen of his fellows appeared, who
forthwith placed themselves all round
me in a very social circle, so that I had
to abandon all thoughts of proceeding
with my meditations on the favourite
chapter.</p>

<p class='c014'>“A chorus of ‘baksheesh!’ with all
sorts of variations on the same theme,
was now raised about my ears. I asked
them through Philip on what pretence
they wanted a baksheesh, begging at the
same time that they would withdraw.
Their answer was to this effect: ‘The
land and the well belong to us, and no
foreigner has any right to come here
without paying us a baksheesh. Would
you like to go down into the well? Here
is a rope that we have brought with that
view. We will let you safely down;
you can see the well from within, and
on coming up again pay us a baksheesh.’</p>

<p class='c014'>“‘But what makes you suppose that
I want to examine your well? I know
quite the appearance of the well from
within, and thus have no need to go
down into it. Be, then, so good as to
take your rope home again, and leave me
alone.’</p>

<p class='c014'>“I had almost added, ‘then I will
give you a baksheesh;’ but I thought if
these rogues see that a baksheesh is
earned by merely allowing a stranger to
be left alone at the well, then there is
every chance that, as soon as they are
gone, another similar party will come
down to me, and give me still more
molestation than these.</p>

<p class='c014'>“‘If the Chawadja will not go down
into the well, then will we go down
instead of him, and tell him how it looks
on our return; but anyhow, we must
have a baksheesh.’”</p>

<p class='c010'>A sore trial to the righteous soul of
our traveller is at all times this demand
for “baksheesh;” and he complains
feelingly of the extravagant
example of former travellers who
have encouraged the Arab, only too
willing to be encouraged, in his shameless
exactions. No small grievance
this for the pilgrim of duty or science
who must economise; but, from railway
porters to Bedouin chiefs, human
nature is the same. We suspect the
London cabman, compelled to take
his legal fare, would turn out as
troublesome as Abu Dahuk, if it were
not for the terror of the police magistrate;
and where there is no such
heaven-appointed institution—no
guardian angel in blue coat and
leaden buttons—no Mr Commissioner
Mayne—it is scarcely to be expected
that your master of conveyances in
the desert—your grand representative
of railway and public roads for the
district of the Dead Sea—should content
himself with the polite information
of what “a real gentleman”
would offer, as your cabman must be
content to do.</p>

<p class='c011'>Reaching by Smyrna and Beyrout
the land of his destination, and rising
with serious enthusiasm to hail the
first glimpse of Lebanon, Lieutenant
Van de Velde wanders for some time
along “the coasts of Tyre and Sidon,”
stepping aside now and then to a
mission station on the skirts of Lebanon,
or to a native village, where,
among discordant patches of Roman
Catholics, of Greek Catholics, and of
Mahommedans, he finds nothing but
strife and bitter animosities, with not
so much as a shadow of the religion
for whose name, a vain badge, they
hold each other in the direst hatred.
Druse and Maronite and Moslem,
Greek and Latin and unbeliever,
every village hates its neighbour
heartily and with a will; and though
the Druse patronises the English
Protestant, and the Maronite takes
the French Catholic under his protection,
Christianity vainly seeks a resting-place
with either: but, where all
cherish the natural intolerance of another
faith than their own, the Greek
Church, ignorant and bigoted, carries
this evil principle farthest. Brutal
violence and legal injury are alike
the fate of every unfortunate convertite
who ventures to embrace the
somewhat different gospel preached
by the missionaries of the Evangelical
<span class='pageno' id='Page_248'>248</span>churches in these coasts, so long the
habitation of the Gentiles. The first
instance which strikes the traveller
is the state of the persecuted missionary
churches at Hâsbeiya, whose history
he thus relates:—</p>

<p class='c013'>“Hâsbeiya has a population of 6000
souls, of whom about three-fourths belong
to the Greek Church: of the remainder,
1500 are Druses, about 500
Maronites, about 100 Jews of the class
called Sephardim, and as many Mahommedans
belonging to the court of the Emir
<em>Sad-Ed-Din-Shepebi</em>, with some few
Anzairies. Mr Bird, one of the American
missionaries, was the first who attempted,
twenty-five years ago, to diffuse the gospel
here. He established a school, and
obtained a native teacher; but his effort
met with no success, and the school
dwindled away. In 1842 the brethren
sent a colporteur from Beirût to Hâsbeiya
with tracts; and it was from this
man that the people first learned to
attach to the name Protestant the meaning
it bears among them—a true Christian.
The books he left behind him
would perhaps have had a good effect, if
the Greek priests—like all priests who
dispute with the only High Priest, Jesus
Christ, his right to supremacy over the
souls of men—had not found means, in
their hatred of the gospel, to get possession
of the books and burn them.</p>

<p class='c014'>“It was about this time that the Emir
imposed certain new taxes, which caused
great dissatisfaction. These taxes fell
particularly hard upon the poor, who
had no protector; and the thought occurred
to them, ‘We may possibly find
protection from the missionaries; they
are merciful men.’ In this hope, forty-five
of them went to the brethren at
Beirût, to enrol themselves, as Protestants,
under their protection.</p>

<p class='c014'>“The missionaries did not, of course,
interfere with regard to the tax, but they
‘expounded to them the way of God more
perfectly;’ showing them, at the same
time, how much true faith in the Son of
God differs from such nominal Protestantism
as has its origin in mere secular
motives. The brethren then sent them
back to Hâsbeiya with bibles and tracts,
promising to give them spiritual help, if
their future conduct should attest the
sincerity of their wishes. Shortly after
the missionaries found an opportunity of
sending two native teachers to Hâsbeiya,
who had, in a few days, a hundred and
fifty people in attendance on them, desirous
of receiving instruction. This was
too much for the priests. The bishop
threatened to excommunicate all who
should adopt the Protestant heresies;
but, seeing that this threat had no effect,
he had recourse to that powerful weapon,
by which, in the East, justice and right
are so constantly assailed.</p>

<p class='c014'>“The head of the Greeks of Hâsbeiya
is the Patriarch of Damascus, a certain
Mathodios, who, as also the Emir of Hâsbeiya,
is subject to the Pasha of Damascus.
The Bishop of Hâsbeiya had no difficulty,
through his superior in Damascus,
in purchasing from the Pasha an order to
the Emir, to the effect that the heretics
should be brought back by force to the
Greek Church. The Emir obeyed but
too willingly. The new converts had to
endure the bitterest persecutions. They
were pelted with stones, and spit upon
in the bazaars; they were beaten and
insulted in their houses, as well as in the
public places; they were no longer safe
anywhere, and were debarred all social
intercourse. Many attempts were made
even upon their lives; and so severe was
the persecution to which they were exposed,
that, at one time, all but three,
who remained faithful, drew back; but
around those three, forty others soon
gathered. After consultation, they agreed
that it was best to disperse, and quitted
Hâsbeiya to take up their residence
at Abeyh, or elsewhere in Lebanon. In
this attempt, however, they failed; the
means of earning their bread were wanting,
and, after a few months, they were
compelled to return to Hâsbeiya. Then
arose, in the silent night, from their closed
dwellings, many a heartfelt and united
prayer to the Lord of the Church; eagerly
and trustfully His promises were sought
out from His holy Word; and, like the
phœnix rising from the flames, the youthful
Christian congregation lifted its head
anew. Persecution had no longer any
terrors for them. At the request of the
Patriarch, the Emir ordered his janissaries
to drive them with scourges to the
church; but his wrath was unable to
compel them to kiss or worship the
images. A certain Chalîl-Chouri, himself
the son of a priest, but now converted to
Christ, was sent by his family to Constantinople;
here, by the help of the
American consul, he obtained a firman
from the Sultan, granting freedom to the
Protestants of Hâsbeiya. Some amelioration
in their lot was the happy result,
but only to a certain degree; for the
artful Mathodios managed, during five
weary years, to bribe the Pasha of Damascus
to assail them with all kinds of
secret social persecutions.”</p>

<p class='c010'>While this is the state of the Greek
Church, and these the difficulties
which all the labours of a purer faith
<span class='pageno' id='Page_249'>249</span>must encounter among our so-called
Christian brethren in the East, Lieutenant
Van de Velde does not share
in the popular idea of the greater
liberality of the dominant religion.
“Mahommedans,” he says, “have been
hitherto, by the very laws of the
Koran, inaccessible to the gospel.
The Sultan is the faithful assertor of
these laws, and punishes with decapitation
every Mussulman who abandons
the doctrines of the Prophet. It
is not three years since a respectable
young man was beheaded in the
streets of Constantinople for having
abjured Islamism. Think, then, what
is implied in a Mahommedan’s even
giving an attentive ear to the gospel.”
If this statement is correct, as we presume
it to be, it throws rather a singular
romance of disinterestedness
upon the present services of the most
prominent nations in Christendom to
this empire of heathenesse.</p>

<p class='c011'>Notwithstanding the discouragements,
almost amounting to impossibilities,
which beset him on every hand,
M. Van de Velde’s friend and travelling
companion, Dr Kalley, does not
fail, with unceasing devotion, to proclaim
to the thronging hosts of invalids
who surround the Hakim at every
resting-place, the unchanged faith
which, eighteen hundred years ago,
proceeded from this very soil. The
scene is thoroughly Oriental, and
strangely reminds us of many a sacred
scene. Crowds of the sick and helpless
throng to the door where the
wandering physician sits with his medicine-chest.
A high compliment to the
beneficent science of healing is in the
eagerness of these mendicant patients.
They believe in a man who goes from
village to village for no other purpose
than to alleviate their pains and heal
their distresses, but they find it extremely
hard to believe in one who
comes with no medicine-chest, but
only with outlandish instruments of
science, and have no faith in topography.
It may be that the popular imagination
has a far-off traditionary remembrance
of that sublime Traveller,
under whose touch and at whose voice
the very dead arose; but it is certain,
that while they do not understand
travelling for pleasure, nor travelling
for discovery, nor any other kind of
expeditionary enterprise, the wandering
hakim has but to disclose his
errand to secure their perfect faith
and most respectful welcome. Poor
children of Ishmael, materialism is
too strong for spirituality with them.
They may gape at the antiquary with
the scorn of ignorance, but the physician,
to those who have so much need
of him, is half divine.</p>

<p class='c011'>At Hâsbeiya an untoward accident
arrests our traveller. During a short
excursion, the house which he had
taken there is robbed, and all his valuables
lost. Appeal to the Emir proves
fruitless, and M. Van de Velde almost
resigns himself to returning
home. This, however, is fortunately
prevented by letters of encouragement
and promises of help; and with a less
ambitious retinue he sets forth again
undismayed, keeping his way along
the coast of the Mediterranean from
the Lebanon towards Carmel, from
which place he strikes farther inland
through the fallen remains of royal
Samaria to Jerusalem.</p>

<p class='c011'>It is not possible to follow our
author through his course—this unknown
country, sprinkled with names
that are familiar to us as household
words—nor can we pause to point out
how many pictures he makes by the
way, how fine an eye this unostentatious
artist has for colour, and how even
these pale pen-and-ink sketches
brighten and glow with the rich tints
of Oriental landscape; neither can we
do justice to his interiors, with their
smoky haze, and wild Arab figures,
and primitive hospitality. These are
by the way—but as he comes into a
country which is distinctly historical,
and not only hazy, like one of these
same desert castles, with a mist of
antiquity, the results of his careful
examination become more apparent.
Your charlatan is your most universal
cosmopolitan, and with an indefatigable
hand has he dotted over this
sacred territory. Not disposed, however,
to receive with blind faith the
spot pointed out by the Carmelites
(whose monastic order was instituted
by Elijah!) as the true scene of
Elijah’s sacrifice, M. Van de Velde
and Dr Kalley set about examining
for themselves, and the very interesting
result of their examination, guided
by the traditions of the Arabs and not
of the Church, is as follows:—</p>

<p class='c013'><span class='pageno' id='Page_250'>250</span>“Here, then, are the details of what
we observed on ‘the burnt place.’</p>

<p class='c014'>“Having seated ourselves beneath the
shade of a huge oak, we once more opened
our Bibles at chap. xviii. of 1st Kings,
and examined what was required in the
place of sacrifice, in order to its agreement
with the account given in the Bible. According
to verses 18th and 19th, it must
have been ample enough in size to contain
a very numerous multitude. El-Mohhraka
must at that time have been quite
fitted for this, although now covered with
a rough dense jungle. Indeed, one can
scarcely imagine a spot better adapted for
the thousands of Israel to have stood
drawn up on than the gentle slopes. The
rock shoots up in an almost perpendicular
wall of more than two hundred feet in
height on the side of the plain of Esdraelon.
On this side, therefore, there was
no room for the gazing multitude; but, on
the other hand, this wall made it visible
over the whole plain, and from all the
surrounding heights, so that even those
left behind, and who had not ascended
Carmel, would still have been able to witness,
at no great distance, the fire from
heaven that descended upon the altar.
According to verse 30th, there must have
been an altar there before, for Elijah repaired
‘the altar of the Lord that was
broken down.’ It is well known that
such altars were uniformly built on very
conspicuous eminences. Now, there is
not a more conspicuous spot on all Carmel
than the abrupt rocky height of
Mohhraka, shooting up so suddenly on the
east. Verses 31st and 32d point to a rocky
soil, in which stones were to be found to
serve for the construction of the altar, and
yet where the stones must have been so
loose or so covered with a thick bed of
earth, that ‘a trench’ could have been
made round the altar, whilst not of so
loose a composition of sand and earth as
that the water poured into it would have
been absorbed. The place we were examining
met these requisitions in every
respect; it showed a rocky surface, with
a sufficiency of large fragments of rock
lying around, and, besides, well fitted for
the rapid digging of a trench. But now
comes the grand difficulty of both believers
and unbelievers, who have not seen
this place: Whence could Elijah have
procured so much water as to have it to
pour over the offering and the altar in
barrelfuls, so that he filled the trench also
with water, at a time when, after three
years of drought, all the rivers and brooks
were dried up, and the king in person,
and the governor of his house, divided
the land between them to pass through
it, to see if, peradventure, any fountains
of water might be found, and grass to
save the horses and mules alive?—(Verses
1–6). To get rid of this difficulty, some
pious travellers, with imaginations
stronger than their judgments, have said,
‘O, as for that water, the thing speaks
for itself; it must evidently have been
got from the sea.’ But less religious persons,
who were sharp enough to perceive
that the place where Elijah made the
offering could not have been at the seaside,
have rightly remarked, that it must
have been impossible, from every other
point of Carmel lying more inland, on account
of the great distance from the sea,
to go thither and return on an afternoon,
much more to do this three several times,
as is expressly stated in the 34th verse.
Such persons, therefore, have rejected
altogether this absurd explanation, without,
however, themselves arriving at any
better solution of the difficulty; and this
has led unbelievers, in their prejudiced
haste, to assert that the Bible narrative
is a mere fiction, that being the view which,
best suited their purpose. Dr Kalley and
I felt our mouths shut in the presence of
this difficulty. We saw no spring, yet
here we were certain the place must have
been; for it is the only point of all Carmel
where Elijah could have been so close to
the brook Kishon, then dried up, as to
take down thither the priests of Baal and
slay them, return again to the mountain
and pray for rain, all in the short space
of the same afternoon after the Lord
had shown, by His fire from heaven, that
He, and He alone, was God (see verses
40–44). El-Mohhraka is 1635 feet above
the sea, and perhaps 1000 feet above
the Kishon. This height can be gone up
and down in the short time allowed by
the Scripture. But the farther one goes
towards the middle of the mountain, the
higher he ascends above the Kishon, because
Carmel rises higher then, and the
plain through which the river flows runs
lower down. Add to this that the Kishon
takes a course more and more diverging
from the mountain, and the ravine
by which people descend to the river’s
bed is exceedingly difficult to pass
through, so that three full hours are
thought necessary for traversing the distance
from Esfiëh to the stream. Nowhere
does the Kishon run so close to
Mount Carmel as just beneath El-Mohhraka.
Pious expositors, who would
transfer the scene to the seaward side of
the mountain, seem quite to have left out
of sight the required condition—that it
must be near the brook Kishon.</p>

<p class='c014'>“Well, then, we went down to the Kishon
through a steep ravine, and, behold, right
below the steep rocky walls of the height
<span class='pageno' id='Page_251'>251</span>on which we stood—250 feet, it might be,
beneath the altar plateau—a vaulted and
very abundant fountain, built in the form
of a tank, with a few steps leading down
into it, just as one finds elsewhere in the
old walls or springs of the Jewish times.
Possibly the neighbourhood of this spring
may have been the inducement that led to
that altar which Elijah repaired, having
been built to the Lord in former times.
Possibly, too, the water of this spring
may have been consecrated to the Lord,
so as not to be generally accessible to the
people, even in times of fearful drought.
In such springs the water remains always
cool, under the shade of a vaulted roof,
and with no hot atmosphere to evaporate
it. While all other fountains were dried
up, I can well understand that there
might have been found here that superabundance
of water which Elijah poured
so profusely over the altar. Yes, the
more I consider the matter, the more am
I convinced, that from <em>such</em> a fountain
alone could Elijah have procured so much
water <em>at that time</em>. And as for the distance
between this spring and the supposed
site of the altar, it was every way
possible for men to go thrice thither and
back to obtain the necessary supply.</p>

<p class='c014'>“Further, the place of Elijah’s offering—the
same, probably, where he cast himself
down upon the earth, and put his face
between his knees, in offering thanks to
the Lord for the divine power He had
hitherto displayed, to beseech Him for
the further fulfilment of His promises,
that of rain for the parched-up ground—the
place of Elijah’s offering, I say,
behoves to have been so screened by a
rising ground on the west or north-west
side as to intercept a view of the sea; for
he said to his servant, ‘Go up now, and
look toward the sea.’ Moreover, the
distance to that height must not have
been great; for the passage runs—‘Go
again seven times,’ (verses 42–44). Now,
such is the position of El-Mohhraka, that
these circumstances might all quite well
have been united there. On its west and
north-west side the view of the sea is
quite intercepted by an adjacent height.
That height may be ascended, however,
in a few minutes, and a full view of the
sea obtained from the top.”</p>

<p class='c010'>There is nothing we hear of more
frequently than of the great additional
light thrown upon the Bible by modern
researches; and with Scripture geography
and Scripture botany, with
Eastern usages and ancient customs,
this modern time professes a much
clearer apprehension of the Bible
than did the elder age, which was
ignorant of all this minutiæ of illustration.
But the science is overdone.
The illustration smothers the text,
and we become suspicious of every
new attempt of that over-explanatory
teaching which toils to bring the
material and framework of the sacred
record down to “the meanest capacity,”
almost wearying us into incredulity
where, if left alone, we could
not choose but believe. Holy Writ,
by far the truest and most life-like
picture of its own time, explains
itself with small assistance—but we
are glad always to light on such an
illustration as this, which brings
before us, in all its striking features,
the locality of one of the most striking
scenes of the old dispensation.</p>

<p class='c011'>Like every other traveller in this
singular country, M. Van de Velde is
struck by the evident tokens everywhere
of long-restrained and dormant
fertility. The land is still a land of
milk and honey. Folded into the unseen
recesses of Carmel, where there is
scarcely an eye to look on it, the soil
is lavish of the richest vegetation,
matted with plants and flowers;
and everywhere the same teeming
fruitfulness peers through the uncultivated
waste, which notwithstanding
is a barren waste bound with the
visible restrictions of Providence, forbidden
and interdicted to spread forth
its riches, and waiting solemnly, with
the life pent up in its great bosom,
till the call of God shall wake it into
the luxuriance of old.</p>

<p class='c011'>A grand romance is in the position
of this desolate but unexhausted land—ruled
by strangers, inhabited by an
alien race, and desecrated by an idolatrous
worship, yet with all its rich
faculties hidden in its heart, and its
heirs, scattered yet indestructible,
waiting for return to it as it waits for
them. M. Van de Velde cannot
restrain his impatience with Turkish
rule in Palestine. Disgusted with
the universal corruption, universal
mismanagement and oppression, he
chafes at the idea of the Christian
Powers upholding the <i><span lang="la">effete</span></i> and tyrannical
government of the Porte,
under whose sway, he says, everything
withers, from commercial enterprise
to family comfort, and in whose
hands everything becomes a failure.
Setting political motives aside, it is
<span class='pageno' id='Page_252'>252</span>indisputably a singular position which
England and France hold in this contest.
A few hundred years ago,
Christendom resisted with desperation
on these very boundaries the invasion
of the Turk, and it is strange to see
the leading powers of Christendom
crossing the very same line in these
days to fight under the banner of the
Crescent, and mingle the knightly
symbols, whose fame has been dearly
won in the battles of the faith, with
the ensigns of the unbeliever. Well,
letting alone the balance of power
and such imperial considerations,
show us the Englishman who will
stand by and see the poor heathen
Hindoo, whose pathetic silence craves
alms upon our streets, fall into the
hands of some big Saxon bully, without
lifting hand or voice for the rescue
of the weak, and we will say that
such a man, but no other, has a right
to stigmatise this crusade of right
against might, and condemn the
Christian nation for defence of the
Infidel. But for our ally, with his
magnificent indifference, his passive
fatalism, his misgovernment, and all
his sins, let us be thankful that we
do not need to adopt his faults when
we vindicate his right—rather that
our vindication of his rights, our association
with himself, our help and
brotherliness, are better modes of
vanquishing the Oriental, who has
proved his mettle in these days, than
a new crusade, such as M. Van de
Velde longs for, to restore to the
Hebrews their old inheritance. With
God, and not with us, does it remain
to decide when the Jew is ready for
his new existence—when the time of
prophecy shall be accomplished, and
that revolution begun which is to call
out of all lands and places the wandering
nation, the great pilgrim of
centuries, and bring Israel home. It
is not easy to realise the possibility
of such an event, and there is no wonder
in all past history equal to what this
will be—but the work is manifestly out
of man’s hands. At this moment, find
him where you will, the qualities for
which the Jew is distinguished are
not those which win the respect or
admiration of his neighbours—he is
barren and desolate like his country,
and has no beauty in him. Harsh
sounds and unmelodious—at the best,
a wail of blind inquiry, and long suspense—are
all the harp of Judah is
capable of now; and till the hand of
the Divine musician touch the strings,
it is a vain hope that any human
finger can wake them to the measure
of David or of Solomon, the lofty
strains of old.</p>

<p class='c011'>One thing these modern times, with
all their fairy works of science and
mighty rush of “progress,” ought to
do for both Mahommedan and Jew—to
convince them that there is but one
faith, which never becomes obsolete—one
religion, which, all independent
of climate or temperature, is from
God, and embraces all mankind—which
is abashed by no discovery, and
thrown into the shade by no improvement.
The creed of Mahomet is antiquated,
and in its dotage. To live
a Jew in these days is to live among
the tombs. Paganism is dead and
gone long centuries ago. Only Christianity,
in its sublime unfailing youth,
is never out of date, but works as
handily with the instruments of to-day
as with those of a thousand years
ago, and, knowing neither culmination
nor decadence, is perpetually the
same.</p>

<p class='c011'>But to M. Van de Velde, the charm
of attraction which binds the devout
mind to the children of Abraham, the
chosen people, is very strong. He
cannot sufficiently execrate the Turkish
occupancy, which gives this historic
country to the race of all others
most indifferent to its holiest memories,
and when he sees the soil itself
indicating, by many evidences, its inherent
riches, yet lying scorched and
barren under the eye of heaven—when
he sees a government which discourages
every exertion, a people who
have no heart to make any, conscious,
as he says, of the usurpation of these
lands, which are not their own—our
fervent pilgrim burns with natural
impatience to accelerate the slow
course of events, and can scarcely
bring himself to tolerate the support
given to this “Empire of Turkey,”
which he apostrophises, with all
its tyranny at home and impotence
abroad. Far better service, as he
thinks, these same victorious European
arms would render, if they expelled
the Crescent from Palestine,
and established the Hebrew in his
<span class='pageno' id='Page_253'>253</span>immemorial fatherland; but it is a
hard thing for a man to set about accomplishing
prophecy—the work is
above his hand. M. Van de Velde
mentions, however, almost with enthusiasm,
the enterprise of a small
American colony which, established
at Bethlehem, professed an intention
to prepare the soil, to “break up the
fallow-ground,” in preparation for the
return of the banished Israelites.
The idea gratifies his eager mind;
but the colonists, after all, turn out
but indifferently, and the enterprise
is found to fail.</p>

<p class='c011'>The present <i><span lang="la">questio vexata</span></i> of these
sacred localities occupies some space
in the journals of M. Van de Velde.
This controversy, originating in the
real or alleged discoveries of M. de
Saulcy, calls up one of the most
remote and mysterious events ever
brought under human discussion—the
destruction of the cities of the plain,
Sodom, Gomorrah, Admah, and Zeboim.
The original idea, touching
these guilty objects of the Divine
wrath, wrapt in awe and mystery as
their fate was, seems to have been,
that the Dead Sea, itself the gloomiest
and most appalling object in creation,
had been called into existence
by the same miracle which annihilated
the condemned cities, and that its
deadly waters swept every trace of
them out of sight for ever. But modern
travel has taken from the Dead
Sea much of its mysterious desolation;
it is found that sweet fountains spring,
and luxuriant vegetation flourishes,
within sight of its waters, and that
itself bears no evident trace of its
deadly qualities, but appears, as one
and another of its visitors say, only a
“splendid lake,” an inland sea, mirroring
clear skies and picturesque
mountains, sublime, but not terrible.
Traces of the most frightful convulsions
of nature surround it on every
side; extinct volcanoes and tremendous
chasms, mountains dislocated
and shattered in pieces, and tracts of
unparalleled desolation; but still it is
impossible to regard the lake itself as
the fatal object which former ideas
held it to be. As the subject clears
from the superstitious veneration of
less informed times, a new theory is
propounded. Near the end of the
present Dead Sea, a peninsula strikes
into the water, almost cutting off into
a separate lake the southmost portion
of the sea. This portion, beyond the
promontory El-Lisan, is found to be
extremely shallow, and in more than
one spot fordable, presenting a striking
contrast, in this particular, to the
main body of the water, which reaches
the depth of 1300 feet. This shallow
end of the lake, guarded by its broad
peninsula, Dr Robinson, the eminent
American traveller, takes to be an
inundated plain; in other words, the
vale of Siddim, the ancient site of the
condemned cities. According to the
Scripture narrative, the soil of this
fertile valley was “full of slime-pits,”
a bituminous underground to the surface
of tropical luxuriance; and Dr
Robinson’s theory holds, that the fire
which destroyed Sodom and Gomorrah
broke up the superficial soil, ignited
the bitumen, and lowered the
surface of the plain below the level of
the lake, which immediately flooded
over the sunken valley, and formed
the shallow piece of water at the
south end of the Dead Sea. A glance
at the map will show how the form of
the lake justifies this theory, in which
many travellers, and among them
Lieutenant Van de Velde, fully concur.</p>

<p class='c011'>On the other hand, M. de Saulcy
affirms positively to finding extensive
ruins at a place called Kharbet Sdoum
(ruins of Sodom), at the foot of Djebel
Sdoum, or Mountain of Sodom; and
on the edge of this submerged plain he
finds also other ruins bearing the
name of Sebaan, which he concludes
to be Zeboim, and still others called
by the Arabs Zouera, or Zuweirah,
which he reckons Zoar. These consist
of walls, of now and then a distinct
building, and of masses of fallen
stones, to such extent as to merit the
term “stupendous ruins.” Here the
reader, who can only compare testimony,
is put completely at fault; for,
as confidently as M. de Saulcy affirms
his discovery of these ruins, does M.
Van de Velde deny the existence of
any such. No former traveller has
lighted upon them; no after traveller
has confirmed the story; but what
shall we make of the distinct assertion
of M. de Saulcy, with his little band
of companions, who declared themselves
to have twice visited and examined
these extraordinary remains,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_254'>254</span>and to be perfectly convinced of their
authenticity? Limestone rocks, corrugated
and channelled by winter
torrents, and worn into the resemblance
of layers of building, explains
M. Van de Velde—stupendous ruins,
veritable remains of the cities of the
Pentapolis, says his adversary: both
produce battalions of testimony—which
is right?</p>

<p class='c011'>In real locality, we apprehend, the
controversy makes little difference,
since both sides of the question mutually
agree in choosing this southern
end of the Asphaltic Lake for the
position of the destroyed cities. M.
De Saulcy places Zoar on the western
side; Dr Robinson and M. Van de
Velde, and all preceding travellers,
settle its position on the eastern coast,
upon the peninsula. The Frenchman
finds his tangible memorials of Sodom,
and the wonderful event which destroyed
it, his large burned stones,
and destroyed buildings, recognised
by Arab tradition, on the still remaining
soil; the American and the Netherlander
cover these awful remnants
of Almighty vengeance with the bitter
waters wherein no life can be. The
former proposition may admit of proof
palpable to the senses, since “stupendous
ruins” are not things to be
ignored by an honest examination;
but the waters of the lake, if they
contain it, will not open to disclose
<em>their</em> secret;—so all the advantages of
proof are on M. de Saulcy’s side. As
it is, however, the question does not
seem to us a question for ordinary
discussion, but simply one of comparative
credibility of testimony—are
there ruins, or are there not? Has
there been glamour in M. de Saulcy’s
eyes, or has obstinate scepticism obscured
the vision of M. Van de Velde?
The question is not one on which we
are prepared to give a judgment. Our
impetuous Gallic champion stands
alone, defying the civilised Bedouin
Criticism, as he defied the Ishmael of
the desert; but an army of heavy
artillery fights on the side espoused
by M. Van de Velde. What shall we
say?—in prospect of a magnificent
duel pending between the head of the
one party and the sole and indivisible
representative of the other, only that
our present author boldly throws himself
into the discussion, flings his glove
manfully in the face of the Frenchman,
denies his premises, scouts his
conclusions, and is thoroughly convinced
in his own mind that not a
vestige remains above ground of the
submerged cities of the plain.</p>

<p class='c011'>M. Van de Velde, who travels
economically, without thinking it necessary
to secure the attendance of
sheikhs of half a dozen tribes, seems
to meet with a very much less degree
of annoyance and obstruction than is
common to travellers in Palestine.
We cannot fail to observe, in the
midst of many complaints of the rapacity
and perpetual exactions imposed
by the tribes of the desert upon
wandering pilgrims, that every traveller
has at least one faithful Arab,
who, if not entirely superior to baksheesh,
does yet deport himself with
exemplary conscientiousness, and gain
the entire confidence and friendship
of the party he conducts. A good
omen this, for a race so completely
beyond the rules of ordinary law.
There are some cases, too, where, cast
almost upon their charity, sick, exhausted,
and undefended, with no
greater retinue than two unwarlike
servants and one Bedouin guide, M.
Van de Velde meets with unexpected
kindness and hospitality from these
children of Ishmael, and in his experience
the Bedouins seem to contrast
rather favourably with the resident
villagers through whose domains his
former course had been. Notwithstanding,
though the unobtrusive traveller,
who trusts himself without a
guard among them, may meet with
less annoyance than the richly-equipped
expedition, prodigal of piastres,
one does not see how controversies,
historical or geographical, touching this
mysterious territory, can ever be rightly
determined so long as the investigators
are compelled to hurry from
point to point, and are kept in terror
of the least divergence from their projected
course, lest an enemy pounce
upon them in the wilds where no help
is. A railway to the shores of the
Dead Sea is scarcely to be feared or
hoped for these few centuries, but
there surely might be an expeditionary
band, strong enough to disregard the
wild inhabitants of this land, which
piques and tantalises with imperfect
revelations the curiosity of science.
<span class='pageno' id='Page_255'>255</span>An expedition which should dare to
take time, which should venture into
deliberate and careful examinations,
and which was sufficiently strong to
overawe the lawless lords of the soil,
might do much to settle the jars of
opinion, and reveal to the general
knowledge this terrible country,
scarred and marked for ages by the
chastising hand of God.</p>

<p class='c011'>A minor difficulty in the way of
reconciling one traveller’s experience
with another’s, is the perpetual variation
of proper names. Taken down
as these must be from the guide of
the moment, it is easy to account for
the orthographical vicissitudes through
which they pass; but it were surely
well even to sacrifice a point and take
our predecessor’s spelling instead of
our own, rather than throw this mist
of perplexity over the whole scene.
Many a learned puzzle has come out
of this peculiarity in the sacred records
themselves, the shifting of
names, and subtracting of syllables;
and we are like, as it seems, to find
the same difficulty continuing with us.
But it is not necessary, surely, that
every new traveller should set up an
orthography of his own: with submission,
it appears to us that accuracy
of place is of much more importance
than originality of name, and that he
is to be the most commended who
enables you at once, and without perplexity,
to recognise the spot where,
in his predecessor’s company, you have
been before.</p>

<p class='c011'>In taking leave of these pleasant
volumes, we cannot help regretting
once more that the sketches to which
such frequent reference is made are
not added to the text. Lieut. Van de
Velde’s friend to whom his book is
addressed, seems to have rather an
unfair advantage over the public in
this respect; and without detracting
anything from the value of the pen-and-ink
sketches, which are admirable
of their kind, it is impossible not to feel
a degree of injury, or to resist being
provoked and tantalised by such a
sentence as this—“If my short description
of the vale of Shechem, with
its mountains of Blessing and Curse,
can in any way elucidate to you the
narratives of Scripture, I shall be very
glad. I hope my sketch will come in
aid of my pen.”</p>

<p class='c011'>And why, then, does not the sketch
come in aid of the pen? The worshipful
public who read his book claims
to be the dearest of dear friends to an
author, and suffers no such successful
rivalry of its pretensions. We trust
to see M. Van de Velde rectify this
mistake in his second edition. A very
animated book, full of life and motion,
atmosphere and reality, he has added
to our store—a <em>good</em> book, which the
best of us may read “of Sundays,”
but which the gayest of us will not
find too dry for every day; and we
will be glad to see Lieut. Van de
Velde complete, by the addition of his
sketches, so worthy a contribution to
the little library of science, speculation,
and adventure, which treats of
the Holy Land.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_256'>256</span>
  <h2 class='c002'>BELLEROPHON.</h2>
</div>
<div class='lg-container-b c015'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line in12'>A CLASSICAL BALLAD.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“<span lang="grc">Ὄς τᾶς ὀφίωδεος υιὸν ποτε Γόργονος</span></div>
      <div class='line in8'><span lang="grc">ἦ πολλ ἀμφὶ κρουνοῖς</span></div>
      <div class='line'><span lang="grc">Πάγασον ζευξαι ποθέων ἔπαθεν</span></div>
      <div class='line'><span lang="grc">Πρίν γέ οἱ χρυσάμπυκα κοῦρα χαλινὸν</span></div>
      <div class='line'><span lang="grc">Παλλὰς ἤνεγκε.</span>”—<span class='sc'>Pindar.</span></div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“<span lang="grc">Αλλ ὅτε δῆ καὶ κεῖνος ἀπήχθετο πᾶσι θεοῖσιν</span></div>
      <div class='line'><span lang="grc">ἤτοι ὁ κὰπ πεδίον τὸ Αλήιον οἶος ἀλᾶτο</span></div>
      <div class='line'><span lang="grc">ὅν θυμὸν κατέδων πἀτον ἀνθρώπων ἀλεείνων.</span>”—<span class='sc'>Homer.</span></div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c011'>[The beautiful Corinthian legend of Bellerophon is narrated by Homer in
the well-known episode of Glaucus and Diomede, in the sixth book of the
<cite>Iliad</cite>. In that episode the strong-lunged son of Tydeus meets in the fight a
face that was new to him, and before engaging in battle desires to know the
name of his noble adversary. The courteous request is courteously complied
with; and it appears that Glaucus—for such is the champion’s name, though
now serving in Priam’s army as a Lycian auxiliary—was by descent a Grecian,
the grandson of the famous Bellerophon of Corinth, between whose
family and that of Diomede a sacred bond of hospitality had existed. This
discovery leads to an interchange of friendly tokens between the intending
combatants; the weapons of war are sheathed, and a bright gleam of human
kindness is thrown across the dark tempestuous cloud of international conflict.</p>

<p class='c011'>The story of Bellerophon, as told in this passage of the most ancient Greek
poet, is a remarkable instance of how popular legend, proceeding from the
germ of some famous and striking fact, is gradually worked up into a form
where the actual is altogether subordinated to the miraculous. In Homer
there is not a single word said of the winged horse, which is the constant
companion of Bellerophon’s exploits, in the current form of the legend afterwards
revived, and which appears regularly on the coins of Corinth. The
reason, also, of the hero’s fall, from the loftiest prosperity to the saddest
humiliation, is only dimly indicated by the poet, when he says that Bellerophon,
towards the close of his life, “was hated by all the gods,” and,
“avoiding the path of men, ate his own heart” (<span lang="grc">ὅν θυμὸν κατέδων</span>); but whether
it was that Homer, knowing the sin of Bellerophon, with a delicate sense
of propriety, refused to set it forth distinctly in the mouth of his grandson, or
whether the simplicity of the oldest form of the legend knew nothing more
than what Homer tells, certain it is that the ever-active Greek imagination
could not content itself with the obscurity of the Homeric indication, and the
moral that “pride must have a fall” was distinctly brought out in the later
form of the myth. For the rest, the writer has taken the topographical
notices in the following verses, not from his own conceit, but from the authority
of Pausanias in his Corinthian antiquities.</p>

<p class='c011'>It needs scarcely be added that the legend of Bellerophon—in ancient times
equally the property of Corinth in Europe, and Lycia in Asia—has now become
in a peculiar manner the possession of Great Britain by the labours of
Sir Charles Fellowes, and the Xanthian Chamber of the British Museum.]</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c012'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line in20'>I.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>The sun shines bright on Ephyré’s height,<a id='r2'></a><a href='#f2' class='c009'><sup>[2]</sup></a></div>
      <div class='line'>And right and left with billowy might</div>
      <div class='line in4'>Poseidon rules the sea;</div>
      <div class='line'>But not the sun that rules above,</div>
      <div class='line'>Nor strong Poseidon, nor great Jove,</div>
      <div class='line'>Can look with looks of favouring love,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>Bellerophon, on thee.</div>
      <div class='line'>There’s blood upon thy hands; the hounds</div>
      <div class='line in4'>Of hell pursue thy path;</div>
      <div class='line'>Nor they within rich Corinth’s bounds</div>
      <div class='line in4'>Shall slack their vengeful wrath.</div>
      <div class='line'>Black broods the sky above thy head,</div>
      <div class='line'>The Earth breeds serpents at thy tread,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>The Furies’ foot hath found thee;</div>
      <div class='line'>A baleful pest their presence brings,</div>
      <div class='line'>A curse to peasants and to kings;</div>
      <div class='line'>The horrid shadow of their wings</div>
      <div class='line in4'>Turns day to darkness round thee.</div>
      <div class='line'>Flee o’er the Argive hills, and there,</div>
      <div class='line'>With suppliant branch and pious prayer,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>Thou shalt not crave in vain</div>
      <div class='line'>Some prince whose hands not worthless hold</div>
      <div class='line'>The sceptre of Phoroneus old,</div>
      <div class='line'>To wash thee clean, and make thee bold</div>
      <div class='line in4'>To look on men again.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
 <div class='line in20 c005'>II.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Darkly the Nemean forests frown,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>Where Apesantian Jove</div>
      <div class='line'>From his broad altar-seat looks down</div>
      <div class='line in4'>On the Ogygian grove.<a id='r3'></a><a href='#f3' class='c009'><sup>[3]</sup></a></div>
      <div class='line'>Fierce roars the lion from his den</div>
      <div class='line'>In Tretus’ long and narrow glen;</div>
      <div class='line in4'>And many a lawless man</div>
      <div class='line'>Here by the stony water-bed</div>
      <div class='line'>Lists the lone traveller’s errant tread,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>And wakes the plundering clan.</div>
      <div class='line'>Here be thy flight, Bellerophon,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>But danger fear thou none;</div>
      <div class='line'>For she, the warlike and the wise,</div>
      <div class='line'>Jove’s blue-eyed daughter from surprise</div>
      <div class='line in4'>Secure shall lead thee on.</div>
      <div class='line'>He flees: and where the priestess bears</div>
      <div class='line in4'>To Hera on the hill<a id='r4'></a><a href='#f4' class='c009'><sup>[4]</sup></a></div>
      <div class='line'>The sacred keys, he pours his prayers,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>And drinks the scanty rill.</div>
      <div class='line'>He flees: and now before his eye,</div>
      <div class='line'>With wall and gate and bulwark high,</div>
      <div class='line'>And many a tower that fronts the sky,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>And many a covered way,</div>
      <div class='line'>Strong Tiryns stands, whose massy blocks</div>
      <div class='line'>Were torn by Cyclops from the rocks,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>And piled in vast array.<a id='r5'></a><a href='#f5' class='c009'><sup>[5]</sup></a></div>
      <div class='line'><span class='pageno' id='Page_257'>257</span>Here Prœtus reigns; and here at length</div>
      <div class='line'>The suppliant throws his jaded strength</div>
      <div class='line in4'>Before a friendly door;</div>
      <div class='line'>And now from hot pursuit secure,</div>
      <div class='line'>And from blood-guiltiness made pure,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>His heart shall fear no more.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
 <div class='line in20 c005'>III.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>The princely Prœtus opes his gate,</div>
      <div class='line'>And on the fugitive’s dark fate</div>
      <div class='line in4'>Smiles gracious; him from fear,</div>
      <div class='line'>And terror of the scourge divine,</div>
      <div class='line'>He purifies with blood of swine</div>
      <div class='line in4'>And sprinkled water clear.</div>
      <div class='line'>O blessed was the calm that now</div>
      <div class='line'>Lulled his racked brain, and smoothed his brow!</div>
      <div class='line in4'>Nor wildly now did roll</div>
      <div class='line'>His sleepless eyes; from gracious Jove</div>
      <div class='line'>Came down the gentle dew of love</div>
      <div class='line in4'>That soothed his wounded soul.</div>
      <div class='line'>And grateful was blithe face of man</div>
      <div class='line'>To heart now free from Furies’ ban,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>And sweet the festive lyre.</div>
      <div class='line'>Fair was each sight that gorgeous day,</div>
      <div class='line'>Spread forth in beautiful array</div>
      <div class='line in4'>To move the heart’s desire.</div>
      <div class='line'>Each manly sport and social game</div>
      <div class='line'>Thrilled with new joy his re-strung frame,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>And waked the living fire.</div>
      <div class='line'>Antéa saw him poise the dart,</div>
      <div class='line'>In the fleet race the foremost start,</div>
      <div class='line'>And lawless Venus smote her heart—</div>
      <div class='line in4'>She loved her lord no more:</div>
      <div class='line'>As no chaste woman sues she sued,</div>
      <div class='line'>Her guest the partial hostess wooed,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>And lavished beauty’s store</div>
      <div class='line'>Of looks and smiles, and pleading tears,</div>
      <div class='line'>And silvery words; but he reveres</div>
      <div class='line'>The rights of hospitable Jove,</div>
      <div class='line'>Chastely repels her perilous love,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>Nor hears her parley more.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
 <div class='line in20 c005'>IV.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Who slights a woman’s love cuts deep,</div>
      <div class='line'>And wakes a brood of snakes that sleep</div>
      <div class='line in4'>Beneath a bed of roses.</div>
      <div class='line'>The lustful wife of Prœtus now</div>
      <div class='line'>To earthly Venus vows a vow,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>And in her heart proposes</div>
      <div class='line'>A fiendish thing. She, with the pin</div>
      <div class='line'>That bound her peplos, pierced the skin</div>
      <div class='line in4'>Of her smooth-rounded arm;</div>
      <div class='line'>And when the crimson stream began</div>
      <div class='line'>To trickle down, she instant ran,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>And with a feigned alarm</div>
      <div class='line'>Roused all her maids, and in the ear</div>
      <div class='line'>Of the fond Prœtus, quick to hear,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>She poured the piteous lie,</div>
      <div class='line'>That the false guest had sought to move</div>
      <div class='line'>Her loyal-mated heart with love,</div>
      <div class='line'>And with rude hands had dared assail</div>
      <div class='line'>Her virtue, cased in surer mail</div>
      <div class='line in4'>Than Dian’s panoply:</div>
      <div class='line'>Then, more to stir his wrathful mood,</div>
      <div class='line'>She bared her arm that streamed with blood,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>And scared his jealous eye.</div>
      <div class='line'>Hot boiled his Argive heart; his eyes</div>
      <div class='line'>Flash vengeance; but himself denies</div>
      <div class='line in4'>The reins to his own spleen.</div>
      <div class='line'>His public face in smiles is dressed,</div>
      <div class='line'>He joins the banquet with the rest,</div>
      <div class='line'>And tells the tale, and plies the jest</div>
      <div class='line in4'>With easy social mien;</div>
      <div class='line'>And to his high Corinthian guest</div>
      <div class='line in4'>Lets not a thought be seen.</div>
      <div class='line'>“Take here,” quoth he, “thou high-souled knight,</div>
      <div class='line'>To Iobates the Lycian wight,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>The brother of my queen,</div>
      <div class='line'>These tablets; he will honour thee</div>
      <div class='line'>Even more than I; and thou shalt see</div>
      <div class='line'>A famous and a fruitful land,</div>
      <div class='line'>With all Apollo’s beauty bland,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>And various verdure green.”</div>
      <div class='line'>Uprose the knight with willing feet,</div>
      <div class='line'>His heart was light, his pace was fleet;</div>
      <div class='line'>Girt for the road and venture bold</div>
      <div class='line'>He left the strong Tirynhian hold,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>And gaily wends his way</div>
      <div class='line'>O’er steep Arachne’s ridge, till he</div>
      <div class='line'>Passed Æsculapius’ sacred fane,</div>
      <div class='line'>That sendeth health, and healeth pain,</div>
      <div class='line'>And reached, with foot untired, the sea</div>
      <div class='line'>That beats with billows bounding free</div>
      <div class='line in4'>The Epidaurian bay.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
 <div class='line in20 c005'>V.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Thoughtful a moment here he stood</div>
      <div class='line'>And watched the never-sleeping flood,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>The ever-changing wave;</div>
      <div class='line'>He knew no danger, feared no foes,</div>
      <div class='line'>But from his heart a prayer uprose</div>
      <div class='line in4'>To her that guards the brave.</div>
      <div class='line'>Wise prayer; for scarce the words are gone</div>
      <div class='line'>From thy free mouth, Bellerophon,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>When, struck with holy awe,</div>
      <div class='line'>Even at thy side in light arrayed,</div>
      <div class='line'>Serene with placid power displayed,</div>
      <div class='line'>The chaste Athenian Jove-born maid</div>
      <div class='line in4'>Thy wondering vision saw;</div>
      <div class='line'>And in her hand—O strangest sight!—</div>
      <div class='line in4'>A wingèd steed she led,</div>
      <div class='line'>That bent the knee before the knight</div>
      <div class='line in4'>And bowed its lofty head.</div>
      <div class='line'>“Fear not, thou son of Æolus’ race,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>Dear to the gods art thou;</div>
      <div class='line'><span class='pageno' id='Page_258'>258</span>This steed, by strong Poseidon’s mace</div>
      <div class='line'>That leapt to life, through airy space</div>
      <div class='line in4'>Shall safely waft thee now.”</div>
      <div class='line'>Thus spake the goddess, wise as fair;</div>
      <div class='line'>And with the word, dissolved in air,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>Was seen no more. The knight</div>
      <div class='line'>Brushed from his eyes the dazzling glare,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>And scarce believed his sight.</div>
      <div class='line'>But when he saw the steed was there,</div>
      <div class='line'>He winged to Heaven a rapid prayer,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>And for the airy flight</div>
      <div class='line'>Buckled his purpose. Mounted now</div>
      <div class='line in4'>With rapid wheel he soars,</div>
      <div class='line'>O’er creek and crag, and rocky brow,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>And swift-receding shores.</div>
      <div class='line'>A lovely sight was there, I trow,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>Where high on wingèd oars</div>
      <div class='line'>He clove the pathless air. The sea,</div>
      <div class='line'>With various-twinkling brilliancy,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>Immense before him lay,</div>
      <div class='line'>With many a coast far-stretching seen,</div>
      <div class='line'>And many a high-cliffed isle between,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>And many a winding bay.</div>
      <div class='line'>High o’er Œnone’s isle he sails,<a id='r6'></a><a href='#f6' class='c009'><sup>[6]</sup></a></div>
      <div class='line'>Where Æacus’ justest law prevails,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>And masted armies ride;</div>
      <div class='line'>O’er famous Sunium’s rocky steep,</div>
      <div class='line'>Where Pallas guards the Attic deep,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>He swept with airy pride.</div>
      <div class='line'>Ceos and Syros wondering saw</div>
      <div class='line'>His meteor-steed with humble awe;</div>
      <div class='line in4'>And sacred Delos deemed</div>
      <div class='line'>Apollo’s self, the fervid god</div>
      <div class='line'>His own ethereal regions trod,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>And with such brightness gleamed.</div>
      <div class='line'>Swift o’er the Bacchic isle he glides,<a id='r7'></a><a href='#f7' class='c009'><sup>[7]</sup></a></div>
      <div class='line'>Where music mingles with the tides</div>
      <div class='line in4'>From many a Mænad throat.</div>
      <div class='line'>And nigh to Caria’s craggy shore,</div>
      <div class='line'>Cos with her blushing winy store</div>
      <div class='line in4'>His sweeping view can note.</div>
      <div class='line'>Anon, sublime he soars above</div>
      <div class='line'>Thy temple, Atabyrian Jove,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>The lord of cloudless Rhodes,<a id='r8'></a><a href='#f8' class='c009'><sup>[8]</sup></a></div>
      <div class='line'>Where Telchins wise, with busy clamour,</div>
      <div class='line'>Who shape the steel beneath the hammer,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>Possess their famed abodes:</div>
      <div class='line'>And swiftly then he swoops, I ween,</div>
      <div class='line'>Down on the steeps of Cragus green</div>
      <div class='line in4'>Into the pleasant plain,</div>
      <div class='line'>Where Xanthus rolls his yellow stream,</div>
      <div class='line'>And Phœbus lights with glorious gleam</div>
      <div class='line in4'>The Patarean plain.</div>
      <div class='line'>Here he alights. His heavenly steed,</div>
      <div class='line'>With instant eye out-stripping speed</div>
      <div class='line in4'>Scorning the earthly loam,</div>
      <div class='line'>Wheels eastward far with vans sonorous,</div>
      <div class='line'>And o’er the rosy peaks of Taurus</div>
      <div class='line in4'>Sails to his starry home.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
 <div class='line in20 c005'>VI.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>The Xanthian gate is wide and free;<a id='r9'></a><a href='#f9' class='c009'><sup>[9]</sup></a></div>
      <div class='line in4'>The Xanthian towers are high;</div>
      <div class='line'>The Xanthian streets are fair to see;</div>
      <div class='line in4'>The knight, with wondering eye,</div>
      <div class='line'>Beholds and enters. To the king</div>
      <div class='line'>A ready troop the stranger bring,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>And scan him o’er and o’er;</div>
      <div class='line'>Carious that one so spruce and trim,</div>
      <div class='line'>And with such light unwearied limb,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>Had reached the Lycian shore.</div>
      <div class='line'>With kindly heart the Xanthian lord</div>
      <div class='line'>Opes his high hall and spreads his board,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>And pours the Coan wine;</div>
      <div class='line'>Nor question asked (for Jove gives free</div>
      <div class='line'>To all a questless courtesy)</div>
      <div class='line in4'>Till days were numbered nine.</div>
      <div class='line'>His tablets then the knight presents;</div>
      <div class='line'>The monarch scans their dire contents,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>For here ’twas written plainly,</div>
      <div class='line'>“If thou dost hate who works amiss</div>
      <div class='line'>Let not his hand that beareth this</div>
      <div class='line in4'>Have sinned against me vainly;</div>
      <div class='line'>Thy Prœtus.” Sore vexed was the king</div>
      <div class='line'>That he must do a bloody thing</div>
      <div class='line in4'>Against so brave a guest;</div>
      <div class='line'>But vows were strong, and family bonds;</div>
      <div class='line'>Therefore, composed, he thus responds—</div>
      <div class='line in4'>“Brave knight, a fearful pest</div>
      <div class='line'>Afflicts this land: a monster dire,</div>
      <div class='line'>With, terror armed, and breathing fire,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>In Cragus holds her den,</div>
      <div class='line'>Chimera named: with savage jaw</div>
      <div class='line'>She bites, and with voracious maw</div>
      <div class='line in4'>Consumes both beasts and men.</div>
      <div class='line'>This hideous form its birth did take</div>
      <div class='line'>From hoar Echidna, virgin-snake;</div>
      <div class='line in4'>She to that fiery blaster,</div>
      <div class='line'>Typhon, Cilicia’s curse of yore</div>
      <div class='line'>A triform goatish portent bore,</div>
      <div class='line'>With serpent’s sting and lion’s roar,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>This Lycian land’s disaster.</div>
      <div class='line'>Harmless at first, for sport ’twas bred</div>
      <div class='line in4'>By Caria’s thoughtless king,</div>
      <div class='line'>And by his innocent children led</div>
      <div class='line in4'>Obedient to a string.</div>
      <div class='line'>Anon its hellish blood grew hot;</div>
      <div class='line in4'>It breathed a breath of fire,</div>
      <div class='line'><span class='pageno' id='Page_259'>259</span>And tainted every household spot</div>
      <div class='line in4'>With gouts of poison dire.</div>
      <div class='line'>Full grown at length, and fierce and bold,</div>
      <div class='line'>She ranges freely through each fold,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>And licks the fleecy slaughter;</div>
      <div class='line'>And, when her humour waxes wild,</div>
      <div class='line'>No flesh she spares of man or child,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>Echidna’s gory daughter.</div>
      <div class='line'>Now hear me, noble Glaucus’ son,</div>
      <div class='line'>Most valiant knight, Bellerophon;</div>
      <div class='line'>Thou hast a face that seems to court</div>
      <div class='line'>A dangerous business as a sport—</div>
      <div class='line in4'>This thing I ask thee then;</div>
      <div class='line'>Wilt thou go forth, and dare to tame</div>
      <div class='line'>This murtherous monster breathing flame,</div>
      <div class='line'>And win thyself a deathless name</div>
      <div class='line in4'>Among the Xanthian men?”</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
 <div class='line in20 c005'>VII.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Thus he—(for in his heart he thought</div>
      <div class='line'>Such venture must with life be bought).</div>
      <div class='line in4'>But brave Bellerophon</div>
      <div class='line'>Guileless received the guileful plan,</div>
      <div class='line'>And, as an eager-purposed man,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>Buckled his armour on.</div>
      <div class='line'>Alone he went: of such emprise</div>
      <div class='line in4'>With this bold-breasted stranger</div>
      <div class='line'>No one shall share, a herald cries,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>The glory or the danger.</div>
      <div class='line'>By Xanthus’ stream he wends him then,</div>
      <div class='line'>And leftward up the hollow glen</div>
      <div class='line'>Where Pandarus’ city, like a tower,</div>
      <div class='line'>Rises begirt with rocky power;</div>
      <div class='line in4'>Then upward, still he goes,</div>
      <div class='line'>Where black-browed mountains round him lower,</div>
      <div class='line'>And ‘neath chill winter’s grisly bower</div>
      <div class='line in4'>The sunless water flows.</div>
      <div class='line'>Upon a steep rock hoar with eld</div>
      <div class='line'>A yawning cave his eye beheld,</div>
      <div class='line'>High-perched; and to that cave no trace</div>
      <div class='line'>Of road upon the mountain’s face,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>But, like an eagle’s nest,</div>
      <div class='line'>Sublime it hung. He looked again,</div>
      <div class='line'>And from the cave a tawny mane</div>
      <div class='line in4'>Shook o’er the rocky crest;</div>
      <div class='line'>And now a lion’s head forth came,</div>
      <div class='line'>And now, O Heaven! long tongues of flame</div>
      <div class='line in4'>Ran wreathing round the hill.</div>
      <div class='line'>No fear the son of Glaucus knew,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>But pricked his forward will</div>
      <div class='line'>The rock-perched monster to pursue:</div>
      <div class='line'>On right, on left, he sought a clue</div>
      <div class='line in4'>To thread that steep-faced hill;</div>
      <div class='line'>But though the day had much ado,</div>
      <div class='line'>When night came down with sable hue</div>
      <div class='line in4'>It found him searching still.</div>
      <div class='line'>Hid in the tangled brakes around</div>
      <div class='line'>Next morn a rugged chasm he found,</div>
      <div class='line'>That oped into an archway wide</div>
      <div class='line'>Right through the hollow mountain-side;</div>
      <div class='line in4'>Here plunged the knight; and then</div>
      <div class='line'>With eager foot emerging speeds</div>
      <div class='line'>Along a rocky ledge that leads</div>
      <div class='line in4'>To dire Chimera’s den.</div>
      <div class='line'>The monster hears his coming tread,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>And with a hideous roar</div>
      <div class='line'>Trails forth its length, and shows its head</div>
      <div class='line in4'>And mouth all daubed with gore.</div>
      <div class='line'>The brave knight drew his sword, and flew</div>
      <div class='line in4'>Like lightning on the foe,</div>
      <div class='line'>And on its hide of horny pride</div>
      <div class='line in4'>Dealt ringing blow on blow.</div>
      <div class='line'>In vain; that hide, Bellerophon,</div>
      <div class='line'>Dipt in the flood of Acheron,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>Is proof at every pore;</div>
      <div class='line'>And where thy steel doth vainly hack,</div>
      <div class='line'>A goat’s head rising on its back</div>
      <div class='line in4'>With living fire streams o’er;</div>
      <div class='line'>And from behind, a serpent’s tail,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>With many mouths that hisses,</div>
      <div class='line'>Rears round about thee like a flail,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>To give thee poisoned kisses.</div>
      <div class='line'>The flame, the smoke, the sulphurous breath</div>
      <div class='line in4'>Doth choke thy mortal life;</div>
      <div class='line'>Spare that dear life, for only death</div>
      <div class='line in4'>Can grow from such a strife.</div>
      <div class='line'>Backward the flame-scorched hero sped,</div>
      <div class='line'>And as he went, upon his tread</div>
      <div class='line in4'>The roaring Terror came.</div>
      <div class='line'>Along the ridge, so sharp and jaggy,</div>
      <div class='line'>Huge-limb’d it strode, horrid and shaggy,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>And swathed with sevenfold flame.</div>
      <div class='line'>Down through the archway opening wide,</div>
      <div class='line'>Far through the hollow mountain-side,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>It drove him wrathful on;</div>
      <div class='line'>Then through the black jaws of the rock</div>
      <div class='line'>It hurled him with a furious shock,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>And with a huge-heaved stone</div>
      <div class='line'>Blocked up the rift. There in the vale,</div>
      <div class='line'>Scarcely with life, all scorched and pale,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>Was left Bellerophon.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
 <div class='line in20 c005'>VIII.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>The evening dew was clear and cold:</div>
      <div class='line'>Upon the harsh ungrateful mould</div>
      <div class='line'>All stiffly lay the hero bold</div>
      <div class='line in4'>Thorough the dreamless night;</div>
      <div class='line'>But when the face of peering day</div>
      <div class='line'>Shot o’er the cliff its crimson ray,</div>
      <div class='line'>All stiff and aching as he lay,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>Sleep seized the weary knight—</div>
      <div class='line'>A blissful sleep; for when the sense</div>
      <div class='line'>Was bound with blindness most intense,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>With sharp-eyed soul he saw,</div>
      <div class='line'>Ev’n at his side, in light arrayed,</div>
      <div class='line'>Serene with placid power displayed,</div>
      <div class='line'>The chaste Athenian Jove-born maid,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>And worshipped her with awe;</div>
      <div class='line'>And in her hand—a well-known sight—</div>
      <div class='line in4'>The wingèd steed she led,</div>
      <div class='line'><span class='pageno' id='Page_260'>260</span>That bent the knee before the knight,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>And bowed its lofty head.</div>
      <div class='line'>Raptured he woke; with sense now clear</div>
      <div class='line in4'>He saw the heavenly maid,</div>
      <div class='line'>And in her hand a massive spear,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>Firm-planted, she displayed;</div>
      <div class='line'>And thus she spake: “Ephyrian knight,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>Dear to the gods art thou,</div>
      <div class='line'>Not vainly did thy prayer invite</div>
      <div class='line'>My aid to wing thy airy flight</div>
      <div class='line in4'>To Cragus’ rocky brow.</div>
      <div class='line'>A friendly god is thy provider;</div>
      <div class='line in4'>If thou hast wisely planned,</div>
      <div class='line'>Fear not; the steed doth wait the rider,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>The spear doth claim the hand.</div>
      <div class='line'>That snake-born monster’s horny hide,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>That was not made to feel,</div>
      <div class='line'>May never yield life’s crimson tide</div>
      <div class='line in4'>To sharpest Rhodian steel;</div>
      <div class='line'>But with this spear from Vulcan’s forge,</div>
      <div class='line'>Right through the mouth in the deep gorge</div>
      <div class='line in4'>If thou shalt pierce it, then</div>
      <div class='line'>This dire Chimera, breathing flame,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>Thou with a hero’s hand shalt tame,</div>
      <div class='line'>And win thyself a glorious name</div>
      <div class='line in4'>Among the Xanthian men.”</div>
      <div class='line'>Upstood the knight, with hope elate,</div>
      <div class='line'>And felt the aching pain abate</div>
      <div class='line in4'>From all his sore-bruised limbs;</div>
      <div class='line'>The wingèd steed he straight bestrode,</div>
      <div class='line'>And to Chimera’s black abode</div>
      <div class='line in4'>Through liquid air he swims.</div>
      <div class='line'>The deep-mouthed Terror ’gan to bray,</div>
      <div class='line'>The forky fire-tongues ’gan to play,</div>
      <div class='line'>The fretful serpents hissed dismay</div>
      <div class='line in4'>Round all the rocky wall;</div>
      <div class='line'>But with direct and eager speed</div>
      <div class='line'>The rider and the heavenly steed</div>
      <div class='line'>Rushed to achieve the fearless deed</div>
      <div class='line in4'>At glorious danger’s call.</div>
      <div class='line'>The knight, with curious eye, did note</div>
      <div class='line'>The centre of the roaring throat,</div>
      <div class='line'>And while it gaped with gory jaws</div>
      <div class='line in4'>To thunder fear around,</div>
      <div class='line'>Forward he rode—nor any pause,</div>
      <div class='line'>But right into Chimera’s gorge</div>
      <div class='line'>He drove the spear from Vulcan’s forge,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>And fixed it in the ground.</div>
      <div class='line'>Up from the back the fell goat’s head</div>
      <div class='line in4'>Rose rough with swelling ire,</div>
      <div class='line'>And right and left long tongues were spread</div>
      <div class='line in4'>Of forky-flaming fire;</div>
      <div class='line'>But with immortal strength the steed</div>
      <div class='line in4'>Flaps his huge vans around,</div>
      <div class='line'>And straight the eager spires recede,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>And harmless lick the ground.</div>
      <div class='line'>Cowed lie the snakes, and with quick eye</div>
      <div class='line'>A tender place the knight did spy</div>
      <div class='line in4'>Where the neck joined the back;</div>
      <div class='line'>There with a fatal swoop he came,</div>
      <div class='line'>And through the fount of living flame</div>
      <div class='line in4'>He cuts with fierce attack.</div>
      <div class='line'>Down dropt the goat’s head in its gore,</div>
      <div class='line'>And with a sharp and brazen roar</div>
      <div class='line in4'>The writhing lion dies.</div>
      <div class='line'>The palsied snakes, with stiffened fang,</div>
      <div class='line'>Like lifeless leaves unconscious hang,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>And lose all strength to rise;</div>
      <div class='line'>And belching rivers of black gore</div>
      <div class='line'>Upon the clotted rocky floor</div>
      <div class='line in4'>The smoking carcass lies.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
 <div class='line in20 c005'>IX.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>A famous man was Glaucus’ son</div>
      <div class='line in4'>Then when Chimera died;</div>
      <div class='line'>In Lycian land like him was none</div>
      <div class='line in4'>In glory and in pride.</div>
      <div class='line'>At public feast beside the king</div>
      <div class='line'>He sate; him did the minstrel sing</div>
      <div class='line in4'>With various-woven lays;</div>
      <div class='line'>And old men in the halls were gay,</div>
      <div class='line'>And maidens smiled, and mothers grey,</div>
      <div class='line'>And eager boys would cease their play</div>
      <div class='line in4'>To sound the hero’s praise.</div>
      <div class='line'>The Xanthian burghers, wealthy men,</div>
      <div class='line'>Chose the best acres in the glen</div>
      <div class='line in4'>Beside the fattening river—</div>
      <div class='line'>Acres where best or corn would grow,</div>
      <div class='line'>Or vines with clustered purple glow,</div>
      <div class='line'>These, free from burden, they bestow</div>
      <div class='line in4'>On Glaucus’ son for ever.</div>
      <div class='line'>The Xanthian king, to Prœtus bound,</div>
      <div class='line'>For other dangers looks around,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>And finds, but finds in vain.</div>
      <div class='line'>’Gainst the stout Solymi to fight<a id='r10'></a><a href='#f10' class='c009'><sup>[10]</sup></a></div>
      <div class='line'>He set the brave Ephyrian knight,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>And hoped he might be slain;</div>
      <div class='line'>But from the stiff embrace of Mars</div>
      <div class='line'>He soon returned, and showed his scars,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>To glad the Xanthian plain.</div>
      <div class='line'>A Lycian army then he led</div>
      <div class='line'>Against the maids unhusbanded,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>Where surly Pontus roars.</div>
      <div class='line'>Before his spear the Amazon yields;</div>
      <div class='line'>The breastless host, with moonèd shields,</div>
      <div class='line'>Far o’er Thermodon’s famous fields</div>
      <div class='line in4'>He drove to Colchian shores.</div>
      <div class='line'>The Xanthian king despairs the strife—</div>
      <div class='line'>“Let Prœtus fight for Prœtus’ wife;</div>
      <div class='line'>I will not tempt the charmèd life</div>
      <div class='line in4'>Of valiant Glaucus’ son!”</div>
      <div class='line'>Nor more against the gods he strives,</div>
      <div class='line'>But with his hand his daughter gives</div>
      <div class='line in4'>To brave Bellerophon.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
 <div class='line in20 c005'>X.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>A prosperous man was Glaucus’ son</div>
      <div class='line'>Then when the queenly maid he won,</div>
      <div class='line in4'><span class='pageno' id='Page_261'>261</span>The pride of Lycian land:</div>
      <div class='line'>The Lycian lords obey his nod,</div>
      <div class='line'>The people hail him as a god,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>And own his high command.</div>
      <div class='line'>Fearless he lived without annoy,</div>
      <div class='line'>Plucking the bloom of every joy;</div>
      <div class='line in4'>For still, to help his need,</div>
      <div class='line'>Jove’s blue-eyed daughter, when he prayed,</div>
      <div class='line'>Was present with her heavenly aid,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>And lent the wingèd steed.</div>
      <div class='line'>His heart with pride was lifted high;</div>
      <div class='line'>Beyond the bounds of earth to fly</div>
      <div class='line'>Impious he weened, and scale the sky,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>And sit with Jove sublime.</div>
      <div class='line'>Upward and northward far he sails,</div>
      <div class='line'>O’er Carian crags and Phrygian vales,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>And blest Mæonia’s clime.</div>
      <div class='line'>The orient breezes round him blowing</div>
      <div class='line'>He feels; with light the ether glowing;</div>
      <div class='line'>And from the planets in their going</div>
      <div class='line in4'>He lists the sphery chime.</div>
      <div class='line'>Bursts far Olympus on his view</div>
      <div class='line'>Snowy, with gleams of rosy hue;</div>
      <div class='line in4'>And round the heavenly halls,</div>
      <div class='line'>All radiant with immortal blue,</div>
      <div class='line'>The golden battlements he knew,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>And adamantine walls.</div>
      <div class='line'>And on the walls, with dizzy awe,</div>
      <div class='line'>Full many a shapely form he saw</div>
      <div class='line in4'>Of stately grace divine:</div>
      <div class='line'>The furious Mars with terror crested,</div>
      <div class='line'>Poseidon’s power the mighty-breasted,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>That rules the billowy brine;</div>
      <div class='line'>And, linked with golden Aphrodite,</div>
      <div class='line'>The heavenly smith, in labour mighty,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>Grace matched with skill he sees;</div>
      <div class='line'>And one that in his airy hand</div>
      <div class='line'>Displayed a serpent-twisted wand,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>And floated on the breeze,</div>
      <div class='line'>Both capped and shod with wings; and one</div>
      <div class='line in4'>That lay in sumptuous ease</div>
      <div class='line'>On pillowed clouds, fair Semele’s son,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>And quaffed the nectar’d bowl;</div>
      <div class='line'>And one from whom the locks unshorn</div>
      <div class='line'>Flowed like ripe fields of April corn,</div>
      <div class='line'>And beaming brightness, like the morn,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>Shower’d radiance on the pole;</div>
      <div class='line'>And matron Juno’s awful face;</div>
      <div class='line'>And Dian, mistress of the chase;</div>
      <div class='line'>And Pallas, that with eye of blue</div>
      <div class='line'>Now sternly meets the hero’s view,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>Whom erst she met with love;</div>
      <div class='line'>And, like a star of purer ray,</div>
      <div class='line'>Apart, whom all the gods obey,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>The thunder-launching Jove.</div>
      <div class='line'>The ravishment of such fair sight</div>
      <div class='line'>Thrilled sense and soul with quick delight</div>
      <div class='line in4'>To bold Bellerophon;</div>
      <div class='line'>Entranced he looked; his wingèd steed,</div>
      <div class='line'>Struck with the brightness, checked its speed,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>Nor more would venture on.</div>
      <div class='line'>Deaf to the eager rider’s call,</div>
      <div class='line'>Who spurred to mount the Olympian wall,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>It stood like lifeless stone</div>
      <div class='line'>A moment—then, with sudden wheel,</div>
      <div class='line'>Earthward its flight it ’gan to reel;</div>
      <div class='line'>For awful now were heard to peal</div>
      <div class='line in4'>Sharp thunders from the pole,</div>
      <div class='line'>And lightnings flashed, and darkly spread</div>
      <div class='line'>O’er that rash rider’s impious head</div>
      <div class='line in4'>The sulphurous clouds did roll.</div>
      <div class='line'>With eager gust the fiery storm</div>
      <div class='line'>Resistless whirled his quaking form</div>
      <div class='line in4'>Down through the choking air.</div>
      <div class='line'>Loud and more loud the thunders swell—</div>
      <div class='line'>Him with blind speed the winds impel;</div>
      <div class='line'>Three times three days and nights he fell</div>
      <div class='line in4'>Down through the choking air.</div>
      <div class='line'>At length, in mazy terror lost,</div>
      <div class='line'>Him the celestial courser tossed</div>
      <div class='line in4'>With fiercely-fretted mane;</div>
      <div class='line'>And, by the close-involving blast</div>
      <div class='line'>Impetuous hurried, he was cast</div>
      <div class='line in4'>On the Aleian<a id='r11'></a><a href='#f11' class='c009'><sup>[11]</sup></a> plain.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
 <div class='line in20 c005'>XI.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Senseless, but lifeless not, he lay.</div>
      <div class='line in4'>The gods had mercy shown</div>
      <div class='line'>If they had slain, on that black day,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>The blasted Glaucus’ son;</div>
      <div class='line'>But all the gods conspired to hate</div>
      <div class='line'>The man, with impious pride elate,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>Who dared to scale the sky.</div>
      <div class='line'>Year after year, from that black day,</div>
      <div class='line'>He pined his meagre life away,</div>
      <div class='line'>Weak as a cloud or vapour grey,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>And vainly wished to die.</div>
      <div class='line'>On a wide waste, without a tree,</div>
      <div class='line'>The unfrequent traveller there might see</div>
      <div class='line in4'>The once great Glaucus’ son.</div>
      <div class='line'>Far from the haunts and from the tread</div>
      <div class='line'>Of men, a joyless life he led;</div>
      <div class='line'>On folly’s fruitage there he fed,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>Dejected and alone;</div>
      <div class='line'>Even as a witless boy at school,</div>
      <div class='line'>Would sit and gaze into a pool</div>
      <div class='line in4'>The blank Bellerophon;</div>
      <div class='line'>Or to bring forth the blindworm red</div>
      <div class='line'>That, creeping, loves a lightless bed,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>Would turn the old grey stone.</div>
      <div class='line'>And thus he lived, and thus he died,</div>
      <div class='line'>And ended to the brute allied,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>Who like a god began;</div>
      <div class='line'>And he hath gained a painful fame,</div>
      <div class='line'>And marred immortal praise with blame,</div>
      <div class='line'>And taught to whoso names his name,</div>
      <div class='line in4'><span class='sc'>Pride was not made for man!</span>      J. S. B.</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_268'>268</span>
  <h2 class='c002'>THE COMING FORTUNES OF OUR COLONIES IN THE PACIFIC.</h2>
</div>

<p class='c010'>From the earliest records of what
has been termed profane history,
down to the present day, we have
been accustomed to regard Europe
as the centre of civilisation and of
wealth. From Asia, Greece and
Rome in early times, and the commerce
of European nations more recently,
exacted tribute and rich products.
Two centuries ago the precious
metals and tropical yield of
South America and the West Indies
excited the rapacity of adventurers
from this and other countries; and
towards the close of last century we
had to recognise the germs of a great
Anglo-Saxon power occupying the
Atlantic shores and territory of North
America, which we now see competing
actively with us for a share in influencing
the affairs of the world.
Still both Asia and the American
continent were regarded as merely
the feeders of the commercial and
political greatness of Europe. Africa
was and remains comparatively an
unknown continent, whilst the inhospitable
regions of the north are
shunned by all, save the hardy mariners
engaged in the pursuit of the
whale and the seal, the former for its
industrial usefulness, and the latter
as affording us articles of comfort
and luxury. The extreme southern
hemisphere had, indeed, been explored
by Cook, Vancouver, Fourneaux,
and others; and its clusters
of islands were laid down in our
charts, and some of them claimed as
calling-stations for the shipping employed
in our commerce with India,
whilst others were appropriated for
their valuable tropical productions.
But beyond this the Southern Pacific
and Antarctic Oceans were comparatively
unknown and unvalued. Below
the latitude of Cape Horn, the Cape of
Good Hope, and the Indian Ocean,
their waters were an unbroken solitude,
save that occasionally a ship
bearing the British flag might be seen
steering for our penal settlement of
Australia, there to deposit its living
freight of criminal outcasts beyond
reach of contact with the populations
of the civilised world; and more recently
with a few adventurous colonisers
going out to cultivate its untrodden
wilds, and, amidst privations
and arduous toil, to wring from its
soil the means of living, which they
had been jostled out of on that of
their own densely peopled fatherland.</p>

<p class='c011'>A mighty change, however, has
come over us—unlooked for and undreamt
of—the issue of which the
wisest can scarcely imagine for himself;
for it is plainly not the unaided
work of man which has brought
about that change, but an overruling
Providence, carrying out a preordained
decree that one of the fairest
portions of the globe shall be a solitude
no longer. In most of the ordinary
revolutions which have taken
place in the world, human agency is
directly traceable. We have witnessed
in Europe the hardy tribes of
the north over-running the fertile soils,
and subjecting to their rule the degenerate
populations, of the south.
We have seen similar changes in
Asia; and one of these is now progressing
in Africa, the northern provinces
of which are being subjected
to the Gaul. Colonisation and emigration
are rapidly peopling the western
states of the northern continent
of America. But to produce such a
change in the condition of those far-distant
countries, whose shores are
washed by the Pacific Ocean, and
which are comparatively inaccessible
to the ordinary movements of migratory
populations, whilst they held
out little to invite conquest, an extraordinary
stimulus was required. That
stimulus has been lately afforded in
abundant and overpowering measure.
A popular outburst, excited by the
love of territorial aggrandisement,
which is inherent in the nature of the
people of the United States, and
which, indeed, is inseparable from
the very character of their institutions,
led to the seizure by them of
a portion of the territory of Mexico
on the shores of the North Pacific
Ocean. Under ordinary circumstances
the acquisition was almost
valueless. By land it was well-nigh
<span class='pageno' id='Page_269'>269</span>unapproachable. A wild and mountainous
territory, occupied by various
Indian tribes, intervened between
California and the settled States of
the Union. Commercially it was
unimportant, and likely to remain
so for years, if not for centuries,
whilst, as an agricultural territory, it
was inferior in fertility to those States.
It had certainly the advantage of
nearer proximity to India and China;
but there was scarcely along any portion
of the west coast of either the
United States or South America sufficient
population to render that advantage
of value. But in 1848, only
a few months after its acquisition by
the model Republic, the world was
startled with the news that gold had
been discovered upon the Sacramento
River, within a short distance from
the port and bay of San Francisco;
and further advices informed us that
the deposits of that mineral extended
over a territory five hundred miles in
length by forty to fifty miles in
width; and that, in fact, it promised
to be inexhaustible in amount, as it
was unrivalled in fineness. A population
immediately began to flock to
San Francisco by every possible route
from the United States, from the west
coast of South America, and from the
islands of the Pacific. Even China
was attracted by the flattering accounts
promulgated of the richness
of the mines, and began to pour forth
its population towards the scene.
The emigrating population of Great
Britain swelled the tide; and, within
twelve months of the first discovery
of gold, we heard of nearly three hundred
sail of shipping being assembled
in San Francisco bay, deserted by
their officers and crews, who had
joined their cargoes of passengers,
and run off to partake of the rich
harvest provided for them. The
sufferings and privations endured
by some of the early adventurers—the
crime, the outrage, and utter
lawlessness, which spread over the
entire territory—were recorded in
vain. No warning was heeded.
The passion for gain is one of
the strongest in our nature. Men
heard of fortunes being earned in
a day; of the poorest becoming
suddenly rich; of revelry and wild
enjoyment ensuing after severe toil
and privation; and the tide of adventurers
flowed on with increased
volume as every day added to the
assurance that the attracting cause
was a permanent one. It cannot
be forgotten by the commercial people
of this country how vast was
the impulse given to the industry,
and the agricultural, manufacturing,
and maritime interests of the American
Republic, by this state of things.
Her people almost ceased to care
about supplying Europe with farm
products. The wealthy settlers in
her golden territory could now afford
to consume what had formerly been
exported as a disposable surplus.
Their monetary circulation was being
largely expanded; and to a corresponding
extent they were enabled to
extend their commercial operations
to every country. Their shipping,
having earned large freights by the
transport of passengers from the
Atlantic ports round Cape Horn to
California, could afford to make the
run across the Pacific in ballast to
India and China, whence they competed
with us in homeward freights
on terms almost ruinous to the
British shipowner. And although
they became, and have since continued
to be, larger consumers than
formerly of our products of every
kind, it is very questionable whether,
in the long run, this increased consumption
would have compensated
us as a nation for the advantages
which America had obtained over us,
through the possession of this new
territory, with its mineral riches, in
carrying on the traffic between our
eastern possessions and China and
the various markets of Europe.</p>

<p class='c011'>The route westward, by the North
Pacific to the Indian Ocean, was
thus for the first time established as
a great maritime highway by the enterprising
mercantile community of
the United States. We had ourselves
long previously used the route
<em>via</em> Cape Horn and the South
Pacific in our trade with Chili, Peru,
and other countries on the west
coast of South America. It was
reserved for us for the first time to
open out for the commerce of the
world an eastern route from the
Atlantic and from Europe across
the South Pacific Ocean; in fact,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_270'>270</span>to bring into practical use the voyages
of Cook, Vancouver, and other circumnavigators
of the globe, whose
achievements during the past century
had hitherto been regarded as
interesting only in a geographical
point of view. Here, again, it was
an all-wise Providence which directed
our path. On the 6th May 1851, it
was first announced that gold had
been discovered in our convict settlement
of New South Wales. The
news spread like wildfire throughout
the colony; and in a very short
space of time there were upwards of
four thousand “diggers” at Ophir,
near Bathurst, where the discovery
was first made, whose success fully
equalled that of the early adventurers
at the Californian mines.
Additional gold-fields were found
shortly afterwards both in New
South Wales and the province of
Victoria; and before the end of July
the arrivals of gold at Sydney,
Geelong, and Melbourne were sufficiently
abundant to create a perfect
revolution in the labour market, not
only in those towns, but in the
agricultural districts of the entire
colony of Australia. The ordinary
pursuits of the population were everywhere
abandoned. Men of all classes,
capable of wielding a pick or a spade,
and many to whom such instruments
had been previously unknown, were
seen abandoning their farms, their
shops, or their counting-houses, to
swell the throng which rushed forth
from every quarter to “prospect”
for gold in the gullies and creeks
whose appearance or geological formation
promised a yield of the
precious metal. At the first announcement
of so startling a discovery,
a large portion of the public
in this country were indisposed to
credit it.  Would-be-wise people
shook their heads, and hinted that a
mania had seized upon the Australian
colonists, which in its issue must
be productive of their utter ruin.
We had black pictures painted of
the effect of a neglected agriculture;
and some wiser people than their
fellows—journalists and statisticians—indulged
in laboured arguments to
show that picking up “nuggets”
or dust must in a very short period
become an unprofitable avocation,
and absorb more labour than would
yield a paying return, in comparison
with the ordinary pursuits of industry.
But each fresh arrival from
the colony showed the fallacy of
these anticipations and prophecies.
Gold continued to be picked up in
abundance, sufficient to remunerate
every person engaged in its search,
although the number of the searchers
had been multiplied twenty-fold; and
a vast emigration began to flow from
this and other countries towards
the new El Dorado. In 1851—the
year when the discovery was first
made—there were despatched from
the United Kingdom alone 272 ships,
with an aggregate tonnage of 145,164
tons, having on board 21,532 passengers.
In 1852, the number of
ships despatched was 568, with an
aggregate tonnage of 335,717 tons,
having on board 87,881 passengers.
When using this term, by the by, it
ought to be borne in mind that <em>adult</em>
passengers are meant, children of
tender years being counted as nothing,
whilst of young persons under fourteen
years of age, two are counted
as a passenger. The emigration of
1852 would thus be at least a
hundred thousand souls. During the
past year the number of ships despatched
was 1201, with an aggregate
tonnage of 553,088 tons, being
an increase on the year of 633 vessels
and 217,371 tons over the amount
of 1852. We have not before us
accurate data for determining the
precise number of passengers taken
out by them; but it would certainly
be equal to that of the corresponding
period of the previous year. Great
Britain, however, was not the only
country which was adding to the
population of Australia. The United
States of America were sending us
practised gold-diggers from California,
which shortly began to be regarded
as affording a less profitable
field for their labour. Germany
had begun to pour forth her emigrant
classes to the colony; and even China
was joining in the movement. In the
summary of the <cite>Melbourne Argus</cite>,
written for the mail of the 25th March,
we find the following statement: “In
the course of the last month several
separate ship-loads of Chinese have
landed on our shores.... Numbers
<span class='pageno' id='Page_271'>271</span>of these people, strangers as they are
to our customs and religion, have been
sought for and engaged at good wages
by employers, with whom they can
only communicate by signs. They
have shown themselves, on the whole,
one of the most inoffensive races of
the motley group who seek our golden
land; and a colony of them, that have
been for some time established at the
diggings, are remarkable for the
quietness of their demeanour, and the
propriety of their behaviour.” The
growth of the colony is, however, best
shown by comparing the aggregate
number of the population now, with
what it was at the period when gold
was first discovered. In the commencement
of 1851, it was ascertained
that the province of Victoria,
which contains the most productive
mines, was 77,360. The same journal
from which we have quoted estimates
it to be now 250,000; and adds, that
it is being increased by the arrival of
about 1000 immigrants per week. It
is doubtful whether the other provinces—New
South Wales and South
and West Australia—are progressing
at the same rate. The “diggers”
are a migratory race. The report
of a new “find” attracts them from
all directions. In February last, the
Tarrengower gold-field was opened
out, and discovered to be most productive;
and the following is a description
of the state of things which
followed, from one who had visited
the locality: “In leaving Bendigo,
the comparatively deserted state of
the diggings along Kangaroo Flat, in
Adelaide Gully, and the Robinson
Crusoe, is very apparent. The vast
extent of the yellow mounds, where
so much bustle and activity formerly
prevailed, is now in many cases unenlivened
by the presence even of a
solitary digger. The want of water,
in the first instance, but chiefly the
attractions of Tarrengower, have almost
depopulated this portion of the
Bendigo. Many stores have been
removed, and a large number are
closed up for the present; yet there
is a vitality about the place which
shows that the glory has not altogether
departed. Some business is
being done, and those who still remain
have infinite faith in the recuperative
energies of Bendigo.  ‘When
the winter sets in,’ they say, ‘we
shall have the diggers back.’” Similar
migrations are continually occurring;
and hence it is most difficult to
arrive at the actual population of any
particular province or district. It is
most probable, indeed, that the
numbers of souls in the entire colony
are considerably understated. This,
we think, will be apparent when we
come to examine the consuming
powers of Australia, as tested by its
imports. From a return, moved for in
the House of Commons by Mr Archibald
Hastie, and ordered to be printed
on the 1st of May last, the following
were the exports from the United
Kingdom to the colony in each of the
three years ending the 5th January
1854:—</p>

<table class='table2'>
  <tr>
    <th class='c003'></th>
    <th class='c004'>Declared value exported.</th>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c003'>1851,</td>
    <td class='c004'>£2,807,356</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c003'>1852,</td>
    <td class='c004'>4,222,205</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c003'>1853,</td>
    <td class='c004'>14,506,532.</td>
  </tr>
</table>

<p class='c016'>There is certainly evidence here,
either of a most wasteful consumption,
or of the existence of a population
greater than it is generally supposed
to be. But this return does not convey
the full extent of that consumption.
From what appears to be a
carefully compiled statement in the
<cite>Melbourne Argus</cite> of the 25th of March
last, the imports into the province of
Victoria alone, in 1853, amounted to
the enormous sum of £15,842,637, received
from the following countries:—</p>

<table class='table2'>
  <tr>
    <td class='c003'>Great Britain,</td>
    <td class='c004'>£8,288,226</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c003'>West Indies (British),</td>
    <td class='c004'>14,973</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c003'>North America (British),</td>
    <td class='c004'>13,560</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c003'>Other British colonies,</td>
    <td class='c004'>5,036,311</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c003'>United States of America,</td>
    <td class='c004'>1,668,606</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c003'>Foreign States,</td>
    <td class='c004'>820,961</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c003'>&#160;</td>
    <td class='c004'><hr></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c017'>Total Imports,</td>
    <td class='c004'>£15,842,637</td>
  </tr>
</table>

<p class='c016'>If the same proportionate amount
has been taken by the other provinces
from colonial and foreign
markets, the total imports for the
year would reach the vast amount of
<em>twenty-three millions sterling</em>!</p>

<p class='c011'>It is certainly true that, with respect
to many articles, these imports
have been in excess of the requirements
of the colony. Its markets
have been drugged with Manchester
goods, with hardware, and slops, or
“haberdashery,” as our parliamentary
returns rather absurdly call hats,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_272'>272</span>shoes, boots, ready-made clothing, &#38;c.
Serious  losses will have to be encountered
by those parties who are
unable to hold over their consignments,
and in part from the want of
storage-room. But this state of things
is merely temporary, and applies to
articles which are not strictly necessaries.
The arrival of the overland
mail, with dates to the end of May,
brings us the assurance that business
is improving, as indeed might have
been expected in a country whose
population increases at the rate of a
thousand persons a week, each of
whom is, on landing upon its shores,
placed at once in possession of an
income never previously enjoyed.
We have the material fact, too, before
us, establishing the capability of the
Australian colonist to consume largely
the products of foreign industry, that
during the past year the province of
Victoria exported to the amount of
£11,061,543, of which £8,644,529
was gold, and £1,651,543 was wool.
The difference between the amount
of imports and exports may be accounted
for without concluding that
the population has been running itself
into debt beyond their means of paying
it with tolerable promptitude.
We may reasonably hope, too, that
one of the causes of such excessive
importations as those of last year will
shortly be removed. We have had
thus far no efficient and regular mail communication
with the colony. Up
to the 20th of July, our latest advices
from Melbourne were dated the 25th
of March; and it was to American
enterprise that we were indebted for
intelligence up to May 11, brought
by the steamer “Golden Age” to Panama,
and thence by the West India
Company’s boats to Southampton.
Close upon four months had thus
elapsed, during which our merchants
had been operating in the dark, making
shipments to a colony the consuming
powers of which had not been
fairly tested, and which might, for
anything we knew, have supplied its
wants from the nearer markets of India
and China, or taken a portion of
the surplus shipments to California.
It is clear that such has been the case.
We have shown above, that of the
total imports into Victoria in 1853,
£5,036,311 were derived from “other
British colonies,” and £1,668,606
from the United States of America.
Our East Indian markets, no doubt,
supplied the former amount, and the
bulk of the latter crossed the Pacific
from California. On the 27th July
we had a regular mail by the overland
route, <em>via</em> India and the Mediterranean,
bringing advices up to the 29th
May, which confirmed those brought
by the “Golden Age.” It is clear
that a country, which takes from the
United Kingdom upwards of fourteen
millions sterling per annum, ought to
have permanently established for it a
postal communication as rapid as possible.
It is unreasonable and suicidal
to torture a great mercantile nation
with a system, or arrangements, which
leave us for four months consecutively
without advices of the wants of one
of our most valuable customers, and
exchange of sentiments with nearly
half a million of our own fellow-countrymen.
Before concluding our remarks,
we shall endeavour to point
out how such improved postal communication
can be best established.</p>

<p class='c011'>Returning to the immediate question
of the increase of population in
Australia, and its probable future
rate, we may state, unhesitatingly,
that it must be vastly beyond what is
generally anticipated. In fact, the
increase is self-creative—“<i><span lang="la">vires acquirit
eundo</span></i>.” Every newly-arrived
immigrant, who purchases land from
the colonial government, and every
digger who pays for a gold license,
becomes, in so doing, an importer
of labour. Writing on the 25th of
March last, <em>The Melbourne Argus</em>
says:—</p>

<p class='c013'>“The following is a statement of the
arrivals and departures of passengers by
sea since our last summary:—</p>

<table class='table2'>
  <tr>
    <th class='c017' colspan='3'>1854.</th>
    <th class='c017'>Arrived.</th>
    <th class='c018'>Departed.</th>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c017'>Week ending</td>
    <td class='c017'>Jan.</td>
    <td class='c019'>28,</td>
    <td class='c019'>2,619</td>
    <td class='c004'>739</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c017'>„</td>
    <td class='c017'>Feb.</td>
    <td class='c019'>4,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1,561</td>
    <td class='c004'>632</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c017'>„</td>
    <td class='c017'>„</td>
    <td class='c019'>11,</td>
    <td class='c019'>970</td>
    <td class='c004'>512</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c017'>„</td>
    <td class='c017'>„</td>
    <td class='c019'>18,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1,475</td>
    <td class='c004'>557</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c017'>„</td>
    <td class='c017'>„</td>
    <td class='c019'>25,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1,438</td>
    <td class='c004'>607</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c017'>„</td>
    <td class='c017'>Mar.</td>
    <td class='c019'>4,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1,576</td>
    <td class='c004'>434</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c017'>„</td>
    <td class='c017'>„</td>
    <td class='c019'>11,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1,336</td>
    <td class='c004'>670</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c017'>„</td>
    <td class='c017'>„</td>
    <td class='c019'>18,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1,494</td>
    <td class='c004'>332</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c017'>&#160;</td>
    <td class='c017'>&#160;</td>
    <td class='c019'>&#160;</td>
    <td class='c019'><hr></td>
    <td class='c004'><hr></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c017'>&#160;</td>
    <td class='c017'>&#160;</td>
    <td class='c019'>&#160;</td>
    <td class='c019'>12,469</td>
    <td class='c004'>4,483</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c017'>&#160;</td>
    <td class='c017'>&#160;</td>
    <td class='c019'>&#160;</td>
    <td class='c019'>4,483</td>
    <td class='c004'>&#160;</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c017'>&#160;</td>
    <td class='c017'>&#160;</td>
    <td class='c019'>&#160;</td>
    <td class='c019'><hr></td>
    <td class='c004'>&#160;</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c017' colspan='3'>Increase to population,</td>
    <td class='c019'>7,986</td>
    <td class='c004'>&#160;</td>
  </tr>
</table>

<p class='c010'><span class='pageno' id='Page_273'>273</span>“In the same number of weeks previously,
as stated in our last summary,
the increase was 6281. The immigration
is, therefore, again on the increase. It is
now proceeding at the rate of about 1000
per week; but we ought not to omit mentioning,
that a very large increase over
this may be speedily expected. We lately
stated, on the authority of public documents,
that our land-fund available for
promoting emigration from the United
Kingdom amounted in the last quarter to
upwards of £250,000, and if that rate is
maintained during the present year, at
the cost of £6000 per ship, as estimated
by the Land and Emigration Commissioners,
and an average of little more than
400 persons to each ship, there will be a
fund sufficient to convey free to these
shores no less than 70,000 souls in one
year. This, of course, is altogether independent
of the emigration of persons paying
their own passages, which, we have
noticed, always increases with an increased
Government emigration. Within
the last few weeks we have been invaded
by what seems likely to be the advanced
guard of a large army of Chinese. Several
ships have arrived crowded with Chinese
passengers, and many more are reported
to be on their way. The same
spirit of enterprise is doubtless gradually
extending itself amongst the people of
other countries; and the natural effects
will be exhibited in the inflow of a vast
wave of population, to a colony which
affords such a field to the labouring man
as is presented in no other country upon
earth.”</p>

<p class='c011'>It may appear singular that there
should be so large a number of departures
as 4483 to set against 12,469
arrivals. We have already remarked,
however, that the gold-diggers are
migratory in their habits. Many of
them, who have amassed a few thousand
pounds, return to their own
countries to settle. The state of society
in Australia is not such at present
as to attach parties to the colony.
There is unfortunately there a want
of home comforts. The wealth in the
colony, suddenly acquired, is in the
hands of people unprepared, by education
or early pursuits, for spending
it in a sensible manner, or investing
it profitably. Many are coming
thence only for a season, as visitors
to their native land, or to return with
relatives and friends; and some are
going away in quest of gold, reported
to exist, in more than Australian
abundance, elsewhere. For example,
there has been recently a rumour of
the Peruvian mines reassuming their
original fertility; and we observe, in
recent Australian papers, announcements
of numerous ships about to sail
with passengers for Callao, on the
west coast of South America, in the
neighbourhood of which port it is said
that gold has been recently discovered
in large quantities. The real gold,
however, will most assuredly be Peruvian
guano, with which such ships
will load for this country and the
United States. Such re-emigration
is natural amongst a population like
that of Australia, and will continue
for a while. But the arrivals in the
colony are becoming more and more
composed of the class likely to be settlers.
The Germans have been lately
extensive purchasers of land, and are
<i><span lang="fr">habitués</span></i> in the colony. A report of
a Hamburg society gives the following
as the German population in
1852:—</p>

<table class='table2'>
  <tr>
    <td class='c003'>New South Wales,</td>
    <td class='c004'>13,500</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c003'>South Australia,</td>
    <td class='c004'>8,000</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c003'>Victoria,</td>
    <td class='c004'>1,320</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c003'>&#160;</td>
    <td class='c004'>____________</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c003'>&#160;</td>
    <td class='c004'>24,820</td>
  </tr>
</table>

<p class='c011'>The German emigration to Australia
last year will have greatly swelled
these numbers; and the description
of emigrants from that country may
be estimated from the fact that, of
nearly 6000 persons who applied to
the Berlin Emigration Society in
1852 for advice and assistance, 4444
possessed property amounting in the
whole to 977,635 dollars, or, upon
an average, 218 dollars (£32, 14s.)
per head.<a id='r12'></a><a href='#f12' class='c009'><sup>[12]</sup></a> We have also yet to
experience the effect which will be
produced by remittances home by
emigrants for the purpose of enabling
their friends to join them in
the colony. The impetus given to
the efflux of population from Ireland
by such remittances was strikingly
shown by the Colonial Land and
Emigration Commissioners in their
Report of last year. The remittances
from the United States, as ascertained
through leading mercantile and
<span class='pageno' id='Page_274'>274</span>banking firms, were as follows in the
years mentioned:—</p>

<table class='table2'>
  <tr>
    <td class='c003'>1848</td>
    <td class='c004'>£460,000</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c003'>1849</td>
    <td class='c004'>540,000</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c003'>1850</td>
    <td class='c004'>957,000</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c003'>1851</td>
    <td class='c004'>990,000</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c003'>1852</td>
    <td class='c004'>1,404,000</td>
  </tr>
</table>

<p class='c011'>We observe at present that several
of the leading emigration firms in
London and Liverpool are making
arrangements in Australia for the
purpose of enabling settlers to pay
the passage of their friends out to the
colony.</p>

<p class='c011'>Independently of the attractions
offered by the gold-fields, of remittances
from friends in Australia, or
of Government aid, there is abundant
certainty that emigration to that
colony must increase very rapidly.
In fact, scarcity of shipping is the
only bar to it which is likely to be
felt. There is a positive want of
labour in Australia, which mocks at
the childish efforts of such parliamentary
committees as that of which
Mr John O’Connell was recently
the chairman, to prevent its supply.
Notwithstanding its vast agricultural
resources, the demand for their development
created by a rapidly augmenting
population, and the ample,
and, in fact, extravagant remuneration
afforded in the colony for every
description of industry, the entire
world, whose attention has been for
the last two years attracted by its
display of wealth, and which is assured
of the genuine and permanent
character of its claims to notice, appears
unable to supply labour in sufficient
abundance. Whether we turn
to its imports or its exports, furnished
us in the valuable report moved for
by Mr Hastie, the great want of labour
forces itself upon us. We shall
take at random a few of the articles
exported from Great Britain to the
colony during the past three years:—</p>

<table class='table2'>
  <tr><td class='c020' colspan='4'><span class='pageno' id='Page_275'>275</span></td></tr>
  <tr>
    <th class='c003'></th>
    <th class='c019'>1851.</th>
    <th class='c019'>1852.</th>
    <th class='c004'>1853.</th>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c003'>Apparel, Slops, and Haberdashery,</td>
    <td class='c019'>£591,516</td>
    <td class='c019'>£959,687</td>
    <td class='c004'>£3,633,908</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c003'>Beer and Ale,</td>
    <td class='c019'>135,674</td>
    <td class='c019'>245,657</td>
    <td class='c004'>635,870</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c003'>Butter and Cheese,</td>
    <td class='c019'>4,142</td>
    <td class='c019'>50,583</td>
    <td class='c004'>207,094</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c003'>Soap and Candles,</td>
    <td class='c019'>14,812</td>
    <td class='c019'>45,924</td>
    <td class='c004'>121,774</td>
  </tr>
</table>

<p class='c011'>The last two items certainly would
not occupy a place in the list of our
exports to Australia if that fine
agricultural country had even a moderate
supply of labour. The anomaly
is monstrous that butter and
cheese, soap and candles, should be
wanting in a country whose live stock
are so abundant that they have actually
to be boiled down for their
tallow and hides! Our imports from
Australia, however, exhibit most
strongly its deficient supply of labour.
We select a few items:—</p>

<table class='table2'>
  <tr>
    <th class='c003'></th>
    <th class='c019'>1851.</th>
    <th class='c019'>1852.</th>
    <th class='c004'>1853.</th>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c003'>Regulus of Copper, tons,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1,115</td>
    <td class='c019'>660</td>
    <td class='c004'>41</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c003'>Unwrought Copper, &#8196;&#8196; „</td>
    <td class='c019'>773</td>
    <td class='c019'>632</td>
    <td class='c004'>473</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c003'>Flax, undressed, cwt.</td>
    <td class='c019'>1,259</td>
    <td class='c019'>904</td>
    <td class='c004'>664</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c003'>Hides, tanned or dressed, lb.</td>
    <td class='c019'>931,600</td>
    <td class='c019'>642,198</td>
    <td class='c004'>9,842</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c003'>Oil, Spermaceti, tuns,</td>
    <td class='c019'>1,911</td>
    <td class='c019'>1,609</td>
    <td class='c004'>940</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c003'>Tallow, cwt.</td>
    <td class='c019'>174,471</td>
    <td class='c019'>159,333</td>
    <td class='c004'>125,206</td>
  </tr>
</table>

<p class='c011'>The above articles the colony can
supply to almost any extent; yet it
will be observed that their export is
falling off every year. Its mines of
copper, especially, are amongst the
richest in the world; yet they are
comparatively unworked for the want
of hands, whilst the world holds so
many human beings who would
gladly toil for one-fourth of the remuneration
which Australia could so
well afford them. To the people of
Great Britain it is a very material
object that the agricultural and mineral
resources of the colony should
be more largely developed than at
present; for if, almost exclusively
by the produce of her gold-fields, her
population of little, if at all, over
half a million souls can afford to import
our productions to the amount
of above fourteen millions sterling per
annum, what may be expected when it
becomes enabled to export freely the
raw material, the agricultural products,
and the valuable minerals—copper,
tin, &#38;c.—which its soil will
yield to an extent almost beyond the
power of calculation?</p>

<p class='c011'>We have already stated that the
increase of the population of Australia
is self-creative; and we can very
briefly show how that principle is
likely to operate. We have a large
amount of tonnage at present employed
in the passenger trade from
Great Britain to that colony; but we
have not as yet sufficient homeward
freight to employ one-fourth of that
tonnage. Since the discovery of the
gold-fields the ordinary agricultural
and other pursuits of the colonists
have been neglected; and, as we
might have expected, the exports of
bulky raw materials and produce,
which constitute freight, have diminished
in quantity. Hence our emigrant
ships, except in the case of
those of the established lines from
Liverpool and London, which now return
direct from that colony, have
had to go in ballast to the Eastern
Seas, or to the guano islands of Peru,
to seek cargoes. Where such a
course has to be pursued, the passage-money
outwards must range
high—far above the means of the most
valuable emigrants, who are agricultural
labourers, practical miners, and
artisans. But this state of things cannot
continue to exist long. The gold-fields
are sufficiently tempting, no
doubt; yet there are blanks there as
well as prizes. The disappointed
must resort to agricultural and other
walks of industry. The flocks and
herds of the squatters in the bush are
increasing at a most rapid rate—far
beyond the consumptive demand of
the colony—and the supplies for
export of hides, tallow, oil, and wool
must very largely increase. Of the
latter most important raw material
the following were the shipments to
this country during the past three
years:—</p>

<table class='table2'>
  <tr>
    <td class='c003' rowspan='3'>Wool—Sheep and Lambs’</td>
    <td class='c019'>1851,</td>
    <td class='c004'>41,810,117 lb.</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    
    <td class='c019'>1852,</td>
    <td class='c004'>43,197,301  „</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    
    <td class='c019'>1853,</td>
    <td class='c004'>47,075,963  „</td>
  </tr>
</table>

<p class='c011'>In bales the total exports of last
year were 153,000, of an average of
about 300 lb. weight each. This
article alone would afford return cargoes
for from thirty to forty thousand
tons of shipping. The yield both of
wool and tallow must increase enormously
in a few years; and when an
ample supply of homeward freight is
afforded, our emigration houses will
<span class='pageno' id='Page_276'>276</span>be enabled to reduce considerably the
outward passage-money for emigrants
to the colony, and thus add to the
numbers of its population.</p>

<p class='c011'>But we cannot regard the discoveries
which have been made in the
countries of the Pacific as merely
tending to give an impulse to our commerce,
and to afford increased employment
to our shipping and to industry
at home. We must regard them in a
much more extended light. The important
change which is taking place
may fairly be termed the opening out
of a new quarter of the globe, rich beyond
measure in all the products
which are valuable and useful to man,
and the establishment, in its centre,
of an Anglo-Saxon empire, whose
future destiny and greatness it is
almost impossible to predict rightly.
A glance at the position of Australia
will be sufficient to show its great
commercial importance. To the north-westward
it has the fertile islands of
Java, Sumatra, Borneo, the Philippines,
Ceylon, with the vast continent
containing China and Hindostan. The
extreme portions of these are at less
than half the distance which lies between
them and Great Britain. From
Melbourne to Madras is little more
than 5700 miles, whilst the nearer
islands in the Indian Ocean are only
distant from 3000 to 3500 miles. From
Melbourne to any portion of the west
coast of North and South America the
distance, by the eastward Pacific route,
is 8000 miles, or little over that from
Great Britain to Cape Horn. It is
thus in closer proximity than the
mother country to San Francisco, New
Granada, Ecuador, Peru, Bolivia,
Chili, and La Plata. There can no
want occur of any of the products
of the tropics, at all events, to a
country occupying a central position
as regards such markets as we have
named, rich in all that conduces to the
comfort and the luxuries of life;
whilst of those products which are
raised in the temperate zone, Australia
has soils of her own capable of
providing her with food in abundance,
and raw materials amply sufficient to
pay for all that she will require to import,
without drawing upon her vast
stores of the precious metals. These
must rapidly become available to create
for her population a capital for the
purposes of commerce, a mercantile
marine, railways, and other improved
communications, well-built towns,
substantial public works, and the
usual accompaniments enjoyed by
settled and prosperous communities.
There can be no doubt that the absence
of these are amongst the main causes
which retard emigration to the colony
of families belonging to the middle and
superior classes, and the absence there
so generally regretted of what may be
called a “home circle.” Such a want
keeps back the influx of a female
population, especially of the class required
to make a home comfortable;
but it will be supplied in time, and, in
fact, is being rapidly supplied now.
Not much more than six months ago,
Melbourne, the capital of Victoria,
and the seat of the government of the
colony, was in a most deplorable state,
and without anything like the accommodation
required for its population
or its commerce. Stores and warehouses
there were almost none; and
we heard, by every arrival, of merchandise
being sacrificed on this account.
But more recent advices report
that—</p>

<p class='c013'>“Melbourne is branching out upon
every side. Townships spring up in localities
where a short time ago there was
not a single dwelling of any description;
houses seem, in fact, to swarm like mushrooms
from the ground in a single night.
A little more than twelve months since,
and North Melbourne was merely the site
of a few scattered tents; it now contains
a population of several thousands, with comfortable
homes, shops, hotels, and schools
to meet the wants of its inhabitants. The
suburbs, that are being formed in the opposite
direction, offer a still stronger
proof of the growth of a taste that has
always been peculiarly English, and one
that will do more than anything else to
place the prosperity of this colony upon a
secure foundation—namely, a desire for
home comfort. In former times the pursuit
of money was the whole, the engrossing
passion of the community; so long
as this object was attained, the feverish
seeker cast not a thought upon the manner
in which he lived; he appeared to
have an utter disregard of the comforts of
home. If he happened to have a run of
luck, and was successful, what benefit did
he reap from his success! He would run
riot for a time, and spend the hard earnings
of a month in the dearly-bought pleasure
of a few hours’ debauchery. The
<span class='pageno' id='Page_277'>277</span>principal reason for this, next to our
abominable land-system, was, that the
colony could not offer the swarming mass
of new-comers any domestic comforts.
Now, however, the case is becoming far
different: at Richmond, Prahran, St Kilda,
and Brighton, the passer-by can gaze
everywhere with pleasure upon pretty
cottages enclosed in their own little gardens,
cheerful, trim-built English-looking
villas, and some dwelling-houses that may
fairly lay claim to the high-sounding appellation
of mansions. Each of these
suburbs, hemming Melbourne in on every
side, constitutes a town of some size; and
we have no doubt that, in a very short
space of time, they will form part of
Melbourne itself, much in the same manner
that Chelsea and Putney do of London;
indeed, St Kilda, Windsor, and Prahran
are already connected by a line of
houses almost the whole of the way with
the town.”</p>

<p class='c010'>A similar state of progressive improvement
exists at Sydney, Geelong,
Adelaide, and other towns. The population
in them is becoming a more
settled one; business goes on in more
regular channels, and domestic comforts
are more studied. Substantial
stores for merchandise are also rising
up on every side; and importers are
now enabled to hold back their goods
for a more profitable market than the
previous system of selling them on
landing, whatever might be the state
of the demand, would admit of.</p>

<p class='c011'>The colony, too, is assuming more
and more the character, which it is
destined to possess, of an important
mercantile community; and its commercial
firms are actively preparing
for extensive transactions with the
rich countries with which they have
communication in every direction.
The first step towards forwarding
such object has naturally been to
connect with each other the various
ports along the coast, and the
towns on the principal rivers; and
accordingly we find established lines of
steamers running from Sydney to the
leading ports in the other provinces,
and to the interior at every point
where river navigation is practicable,
and a working community and trade
exist. The same accommodation is
provided from Melbourne, Geelong,
and Adelaide, to other ports and
towns. Several lines of sailing
packets also offer themselves to the
public between the principal ports. In
fact, a large coasting-trade is carried
on, both in passengers and merchandise,
the route by sea being preferred
to travelling by land over badly-formed,
and frequently unsafe, roads.
In the first instance, some difficulty
existed in procuring vessels, especially
for the navigation of the rivers, where
a light draught of water was necessary,
as such vessels could not be trusted to
make the voyage out from Europe or
America. They are now, however,
being gradually supplied by builders
in the colony. A somewhat larger
class of vessels is regularly employed
in the trade between New South
Wales, Victoria, and South Australia,
and New Zealand, Van Diemen’s
Land, and the government settlement
in West Australia, with a few for San
Francisco, Callao, Manilla, and the
near East Indian ports. The enterprise
of the mercantile community in
the colony is being gradually drawn
towards this trade; and shipping of
the class suitable for it is in active
demand, both for purchase and charter.
Attention is also being re-directed to
the staple business of the colony—the
export of its wool, tallow, hides, &#38;c.,
which will be more cultivated as the
fever for dealing in gold abates. At
present, indeed, gold, as an article of
merchandise, scarcely yields a profit,
so numerous are the buyers of it, competing
with each other, belonging to
the Jewish persuasion. Employment
for capital must be sought for in another
direction, and it is to be hoped
a legitimate one, otherwise the large
sums now lying idle in the colony may
be squandered in rash speculations.
At the close of the last quarter, the
Bank of Australia held deposits, not
bearing interest, to the amount of
£1,998,730 sterling; the Bank of
Australasia held at the same period
£2,358,390; the Victoria Branch of
the Bank of New South Wales held
£760,731; the Bank of Victoria,
£988,244; and the London Chartered
Bank of Australia £133,200, making
an aggregate of deposits, not bearing
interest, of £6,239,297 sterling. As
might have been expected, these establishments
are dividing amongst their
shareholders, forty, fifteen, and twenty
per cent respectively. The last mentioned
has only been established nine
<span class='pageno' id='Page_278'>278</span>months, and as yet has made no
dividend. A large portion of this
money must be employed either in
commerce or in improvements, as the
colonists begin to see their way more
clearly. It can never be allowed to
lie thus unproductively; yet from the
habits of the diggers, and their want
of opportunities for investment, there
must always be a large amount at
their credit in the banks.</p>

<p class='c011'>The increased employment given by
Australia to the shipping of all nations
is not, perhaps, sufficiently estimated
by the public, and certainly
goes far to account for the prosperity
of the British shipowner, and for
the high rates of freight prevailing
throughout the world. From the 20th
of January last to the 23d of March,
the number of vessels cleared out from
the port of Melbourne, exclusive of
coasters and colonial traders, were
198, and the number of entries inwards
163, making 261 ships arriving
and departing in the short period of
sixty days. The bulk of these were
large ships, of from 500 to 1000 tons,
with some even of more than that tonnage.
The arrivals and departures
from Sydney, Geelong, and Adelaide
would no doubt be greater in number,
although of a less size than those of
Melbourne. It is probably not unfair
to estimate the entire number of arrivals
and departures in the colony at
400 ships; and taking the tonnage at
the low average of 400 tons each ship,
we have the quantity employed in the
two months, 160,000 tons, or 960,000
tons per annum, by this noble colony.</p>

<p class='c011'>We must not, however, confine ourselves
to Australia, although we might
be excused for dwelling upon it as our
own possession. It is a portion, indeed,
and the most important one, as
being the centre, and probably the
seat, of the great Pacific empire which
is to be; but still it is only a portion.
We have a young and enterprising
competitor for sway in the southern
hemisphere, and one who is even now
making vast efforts to assert that sway;
a competitor who regards lightly the
geographical formation of the globe
itself, if it offers a barrier to his ambition.
The acquisition, by the United
States, of the territory of California,
with its great mineral resources, has
given their people a footing in the
Pacific, and opened out for them a
trade not only with the fertile countries
of South America, but also with
Australia itself. They outstrip us in
their knowledge of the wants of those
countries, and in the ample provision
which they have been making for their
profitable supply. Nay, they have
even been enabled to bring their own
gold-fields, notwithstanding geographical
impediments, actually nearer to
Great Britain than its own gold-yielding
colony. On the first discovery
of the mineral riches of California,
it became an object with the
United States people to bring to their
Atlantic ports, as expeditiously as
possible, return remittances in gold
for the large shipments of provisions,
merchandise, and necessaries, sent by
them round Cape Horn for the increasing
population of California engaged
in mining operations, and by
whom agricultural and other pursuits
were almost entirely neglected. In
the first instance this was endeavoured
to be effected by the employment of a
line of steamers to make the passage
round Cape Horn to New Orleans,
whence mails and specie were conveyed
by another line of steamers to
New York. But our quick-sighted
and energetic brethren soon discovered
that this natural route was too
long for their purposes. The time
occupied by the voyage round the
South American continent could be
saved, if the means could be found of
crossing the Isthmus of Panama,
which, from Panama on the Pacific
side, to Chagres, or Navy Bay, on the
Atlantic, was only fifty miles in width;
and notwithstanding the passage over
the isthmus was at first a difficult and
even an unhealthy one, it was adopted;
and the mails and specie, having
been transported across from Panama
to Chagres, were taken on to New
York <em>via</em> Jamaica, by the United
States Mail Steam-ship Company.
By the adoption of this route, the distance
from San Francisco to New
York was reduced to 5450 miles, of
which 2100 miles was accomplished
by steaming on the Atlantic, 3300
miles on the Pacific, and 50 miles by
overland conveyance across the isthmus,
and the time reduced to about
three weeks. In September last, we
find from an article in the <cite>New York
<span class='pageno' id='Page_279'>279</span>Merchant’s Magazine</cite>, republished in
the <cite>Sydney Herald</cite> of February 23d,
that the following was the provision
made by the United States for their
traffic with California and the countries
of the west coast of South
America:—</p>

<p class='c013'>“Of the American steamers sailing between
New York and the West Indies,
one of the most important communications
between the former port and Havanna is
established by the United States Steam-ship
Company. By virtue of the law of
Congress, contracting for carrying the
mails, the steamers of this company are
commanded by officers of the United
States navy. Of the steamers of this line
plying between New York and New Orleans,
embracing the alternate voyages of
those ships, the aggregate tonnage is
4800. The steam-ship ‘United States,’
in her trips from New York to Aspinwall,
touches at Kingston, Jamaica. The Pacific
Mail Steam-ship Company, which, in
connection with the United States Mail
Steam-ship Company, carries the American
mails to California and Oregon, was established
in 1848. It numbers at present
fourteen steamers, built at New York,
with an aggregate of 15,536 tons.</p>

<p class='c014'> “In the transportation of the mails, the
United States Mail Steam-ship Company
on the Atlantic side connects with the
Pacific Company. This line, established
in 1848 by Mr Law of New York, comprises
nine ships now on the service, with
one recently launched, and not yet placed
on the line. They register in the aggregate
19,600 tons. The steamers of this line
are despatched from New York and New
Orleans for Aspinwall twice a month.</p>

<p class='c014'>“The Nicaragua Accessory Transit
Company was established in 1850, by Mr
Vanderbilt, of New York, and he receives
twenty per cent of the profits of the company.
This line, forming a communication
between New York and San Juan
del Norte on the Atlantic, and between
San Juan del Sud and San Francisco on
the Pacific, is composed of ten steamers,
with an aggregate of 18,000 tons. Of
these, two sail from New York twice
a month for San Juan del Norte, and five
are plying on the Pacific side.</p>

<p class='c014'>“The New York and San Francisco
Steam-ship Company comprises four steamers,
with an aggregate of 7400 tons; the
‘United States,’ 1500 tons; and another,
the ‘Winfield Scott,’ 2100 tons; and the
‘Cortes,’ 1500 tons, plying between Panama
and San Francisco. They are equally
divided upon the Pacific and the Atlantic
sides. All of these vessels were built in
New York.</p>

<p class='c014'>“The Empire City Line was established
in 1848, and is composed of three steamers,
of an aggregate of 6800 tons. The
‘Empire City’ and the ‘Crescent City’
were the pioneers of this line, and were
two of the first steamers engaged in the
California trade.</p>

<p class='c014'>“From the foregoing estimate of the
California steam-ships in connection with
the port of New York, it will be seen that
the number of steamers engaged in that
trade is forty-one, including four ships of
Law’s Line, which were formerly engaged
in the California trade, but which now run
between New York, New Orleans, and
Havanna—viz., the ‘Empire City,’ ‘Crescent
City,’ ‘Cherokee,’ and ‘Falcon.’ The
aggregate tonnage of these forty-one ships
is 67,336. But this is not all. There are
ten American steamers plying between
San Francisco and Stockton; there are
ten also plying between San Francisco
and Sacramento. The latter are for the
most part of a larger size than those on
the San Joaquin river, and make the trip
of a hundred and twenty miles in from
seven to eight hours. In the elegance of
their accommodations, and the luxuries
of their larders, they might compare favourably
with any passenger vessels in
the world. There are ten other steamers
plying from Sacramento to different places
above that city. One year ago, there was
but one steamboat in Oregon, the ‘Columbia;’
now there are eleven steamboats
of different kinds running in the Columbia
and Willamette rivers, not including the
Pacific steamers,’Sea Gull’ and ‘Columbia,’
running between Oregon and California.
At this rate of progress the
United States will soon be mistress of the
Pacific. American steam-ship lines will,
in a few years, be running from San Francisco
to Australia, China, and the East
Indies.”</p>

<p class='c010'>There can be little doubt of the truth
of one of the prophecies with which
our extract concludes, that American
steam-ship lines “will, in a few years,
be running from San Francisco to Australia,
China, and the East Indies;”
but what a great future for Australia
does this suggest! There must spring
up a vast trade between her population
and the entire Pacific seaboard of
South America. When her agriculture
is more fully developed, it is not
at all doubtful that, whilst supplying
even California with breadstuffs, &#38;c.,
she may also supply the west coast of
South America with the products of
the temperate zone, and with the
copper and other minerals abounding
<span class='pageno' id='Page_280'>280</span>in her soil. We doubt, however, the
truth of the prophecy that the United
States is likely to be soon “the mistress
of the Pacific;” to prevent, in
fact, the trade between Australia,
China, the East Indies, &#38;c., and San
Francisco, being carried on by Australian
enterprise, aided by British
capital. Fortunately the same enterprise,
aided by the capital of this
country, might be so directed as to
confer a vast boon upon Great Britain
herself. One of the leading sources
of her present influence in the Pacific
is evidently considered by the writer,
from whom we have quoted above, to
be the adoption by America of the
short route to the Pacific <em>via</em> Panama.
That route, however, is equally as
available to the commerce of Great
Britain and Australia as it is to
that of the United States; and
the fact leads us to the consideration
of one of the greatest wants of Australia,
which has very materially retarded
its progress, whilst it has also
been severely felt by the mercantile
community of this country—viz., the
want of a regular, frequent, and expeditious
mail communication between
Great Britain and her southern colonial
empire. We have already stated
that during the past spring serious
commercial losses have been occasioned
by the want in question, no Government
mail having been received in this
country from Australia during a period
of four months, up to the 27th July
last, whilst we have been exporting
actually at random. The colony and
this country have been mocked by
postal arrangements, proposed, but
never efficiently carried out. The
“Peninsular and Oriental Company”
have been subsidised for the purpose
of conveying mails once a month; but
their efforts have been a failure. Not
once in three times have we had a
mail without a mistake occurring at
some point of the route. Sometimes
the steamers employed from Australia
have arrived at Singapore or Point
de Galle a day or two after the
steamers for England have started.
Occasionally a few letters have come,
whilst the newspapers, containing the
most important news for the public—shipping
and market intelligence—have
been left behind. A while ago,
we heard of the “Chusan” steamer
arriving at Sydney a day or two earlier
than her previous performances led
her to be expected; and it was with
difficulty that the colonists were
enabled to induce her commander to
stay above twelve hours to enable a
mail for Great Britain to be made up.
Any one who has read the excellent
digests of Australian news contained in
the <cite>Melbourne Argus</cite> and the <cite>Sydney
Morning Herald</cite>, sent by every Government
mail, may imagine that
some time is required for writing them,
irrespective of printing. The General
Screw Steam Company also attempted
the carrying of the mails, and subsequently
the Australian Royal Mail
Steam Company, both subsidised by
Government, made the same attempt.
They failed in the performance of their
engagements. The latter had contracted
to perform the voyage from
England to Sydney in 64 days, and
homewards in 68 days. The “Chusan”
was 79 days on the passage from England
to Sydney; the “Formosa” 76
days; the “Cleopatra” 120 days. In
fact, the Company’s ships were laughed
at by ordinary sailing vessels. Then
sailing vessels were tried; and we
were told that mails were to be forwarded
by this or that “clipper,”
the Post-Office guaranteeing its sailing
on a particular day. But first-rate
ships would not accept the terms
offered; and accordingly, we had continual
instances of those who had
undertaken the work failing in its
performance. There has hitherto been
no certainty as to the mail communication
between this country and the
colony. We never could tell, within
two or three months, at what date
we might expect to receive the reply
to a letter to Australia, or when one
from Great Britain would arrive out
in the colony. The merchant who
had shipped, or made advances upon
goods, had no certainty as to the time
when he must make arrangements to
meet the demands upon him out of
his own resources. The want of certainty
imparted an additional amount
of hazard to the trade between the
two countries. But this is not all the
evil resulting from inadequate postal
communication. It has tended very
greatly, combined with bad post-office
management in the colony, to prevent
emigration. People accustomed to
<span class='pageno' id='Page_281'>281</span>daily intercourse with their friends
are unwilling to embark for a country
from which they can rarely assure
them of their safe arrival, or inform
them as to how the world goes with
them, in less than eight or nine
months. A brother, a sister, or a
friend, with whom we can correspond,
is not as one lost to us. We do not
regard them as quite beyond our social
circle. But an emigrant to Australia
has thus far been practically rendered
an outcast. We may hear of him, or
her, if fortune smiles, or dire adversity
occurs; but the ordinary kindliness
of brotherhood, or sisterhood,
becomes neglected when the means of
epistolary intercourse are denied. The
rudest amongst us feel this as a bar to
adventuring into a new country. The
emigrant would be glad to communicate
the tidings of his good or evil
lot to sympathising friends at home;
and there are few who do not know
with what delight even the merest
scrap of home news is received by
those who are separated by far less
than half the circumference of the
globe from that home. What would
not any Australian digger give at the
present moment if he could hear his
parent’s clock tick in its old familiar
place? What would any parent at
home not give for a glimpse of the
present features of a child now located
at the antipodes?</p>

<p class='c011'>It is humiliating to us as Britons,
to contrast the niggardly conduct of
our own Post-Office authorities, and of
the Colonial Office, with that which
we have already shown was adopted
by the Government of the United
States towards the population of its
new territory of California. Unfortunately,
we are governed in this
country upon “economical” principles.
The spirit of the trader is carried into
every department of the public service.
When we ask for any comprehensive
and perfect scheme of improvement,
we are mocked by some petty expedient,
because every successive administration,
and every public official,
are ambitious of doing their work more
<em>cheaply</em> than their predecessors. This
is especially the case with respect to
the postal arrangements of the country.
When an extension or an improvement
of the system is suggested, the
first question asked is not, “Is it
wanted?” but, “Will it pay?” Our
American brethren have always dealt
with the business of their post-office
in a different spirit. They felt that
those who are maintaining the commercial
greatness of the country by
their toil in California are worthy of
being enabled to communicate cheaply
with their friends at home. Our own
postal authorities, however, appear
disposed to treat that colony, which is
similarly promoting the commerce of
Great Britain, rather as an unreasonably
intruding suppliant than an important
community asking for what is
fairly due to them. Our colonists feel
deeply the injustice of their position,
that, whilst a portion of the colonial
revenue is contributed to the Home
Government, to be expended in securing
steam facilities for their mails, the
object for which they are paying is
not accomplished.</p>

<p class='c011'>We feel perfectly assured that we
never shall have an effective postal
communication with Australia, until
we cease to regard that important
colony as a mere calling-station for
our East Indian mails. Its increasing
commerce with the mother country
demands that it should have a mail service
distinctly its own, conducted with
no other view than to promote the convenience
of that commerce, and of
the people of the colony. How then
is this to be provided most economically,
and, at the same time, most
effectively? The latter is the main
question. We ought scarcely to think
about cost in the effort to improve
the postal facilities of a possession
which, we have seen, took from us
last year upwards of fourteen millions
sterling of British produce and manufactures.
Past experience has, we
think, shown sufficiently that the object
in view can never be obtained by
steaming round the Cape of Good
Hope. The shortest passages as yet
attained by that route were performed
by the “Golden Age” in 61
days, and by the “Argo” in 64
days. The noble steam-ship “Great
Britain,” in the last trip made the
distance to Melbourne in 65 days.
The Australian Steam Navigation
Company, which promised so largely,
failed most unequivocally. The first
of their ships, the “Australian,” took
44 days to reach the Cape; the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_282'>282</span>“Sydney” took 54 days; the “Melbourne”
took 75 days; and the “Adelaide”
took 77 days. Of the two
last vessels’ voyages the <cite>Melbourne
Argus</cite> remarked at the time:—</p>

<p class='c013'>“The preposterous length of the voyage
is a minor evil in comparison with
the anxiety which haunted this community
for weeks in the case of the last
two steamers. We were almost on the
point of giving up the ‘Adelaide’ for lost,
when the lumbering old hulk was reported
at last to have rolled into Adelaide....
The mischiefs inflicted
upon the mercantile community here, by
the detention of the ‘Adelaide,’ and the
fears for her safety, have been intolerable.
Mails have been postponed—goods have
arrived before the advices or bills of
lading had come to hand—correspondence
has been confused, and business
transactions have been utterly deranged.
It is most provoking to think that a
steamer holding the Government mail
contract, and for which the mails have
been kept back for several weeks, should
leave London on the 11th of December,
and arrive in Port Philip on the 11th of
May following—a period of five months
precisely!”</p>

<p class='c010'>Undoubtedly the Company must
have mismanaged its business, and its
vessels been unfit for the service.
But it is the opinion of all nautical
men, that mails, conveyed in even
the most superior steamers by way of
the Cape of Good Hope, can never
be depended upon either for speed or
regularity. The most efficient mode
which we have seen proposed for
performing the service, is that of the
Australian Direct Steam Navigation
Company <em>via</em> Panama. It is intended
that this Company’s vessels, which
are to be powerful paddle-wheel
steamers of 3000 tons, shall proceed
at stated periods from Milford Haven
to Aspinwall (Navy Bay), on the Atlantic
side of the Isthmus; from
whence passengers and cargo will be
conveyed by railway to Panama, on
the Pacific side, and there re-embarked
for Australia, accomplishing
the whole distance, to or from, <em>in
about fifty-five days</em>. That the power
of fulfilling this promise is within the
reach of an energetic Company, has
recently been proved by the experiment
made by the United States
steamer, “Golden Age.” America, by
the by, is still our pioneer in steam
enterprise.</p>

<p class='c013'>“The ‘Golden Age’—(we quote from
an ably-conducted Liverpool paper, the
<cite>Journal</cite>)—steaming only slowly, and
under unfavourable circumstances, made
the run from Sydney to Tahiti in 13½
days, and from Tahiti to Panama in 18
days 12 hours. A more powerful vessel
would have performed the distances in
about 11 and 15 days respectively, and
surmounted effectually the only difficulty
to be experienced in crossing the Pacific,
namely, carrying coals sufficient for the
voyage from station to station. The detention,
which in this case was nearly
15 days between Sydney and Southampton,
might be shortened to about 4 days,
by proper arrangements being made
for prompt despatch; and the voyage
would thus be performed in from 50 to 53
days.”</p>

<p class='c010'>A portion of the journey across
the Isthmus, we may remark, was
performed on mules, only thirty-one
miles of the railway being as yet
completed. The whole line, however,
is expected to be opened in the
course of the present year.</p>

<p class='c011'>Many circumstances concur to render
the Panama route infinitely preferable
to any other. In the first
place, the shortest distance has to
be traversed. From Milford Haven to
Sydney by this route is only 12,440
miles, the whole of which, with the
exception of 45 miles, is by sea. By
the present Peninsular and Oriental
Company’s route, <em>via</em> Swan River and
Cape Leeuwin, from Southampton the
distance is 12,855 miles, of which 238
have to be performed between Alexandria
and Suez by canal, by the Nile,
and across the desert. By the same
Company’s route <em>via</em> Torres Straits,
the distance is 13,095 miles, with the
same overland journey to make from
Alexandria to Suez. We can only get
our mails from Australia by either of
these routes in sixty days, by the
very costly express from Marseilles.
The General Screw Company’s route,
by way of the Cape of Good Hope,
Madras, and Point de Galle, is
enormously circuitous; and the same
Company’s new route, without touching
at the Cape, is 12,837 miles.
There is another serious disadvantage
connected with the eastward voyage.
From the Cape to Australia the
weather is generally boisterous, with
variable winds; and in passing the
equinoctial line, ships have to encounter
<span class='pageno' id='Page_283'>283</span>calms, and can derive no aid
from carrying canvass. The loss of
that aid is a serious matter to screw
steamers, in a voyage where economy
in the article of fuel is so desirable.
From Great Britain to Navy Bay, on
the other hand, is usually a run in
which canvass can be advantageously
used, whilst the run from Panama to
Australia is through pleasant weather
for the entire distance, the Pacific fully
justifying the propriety of its appellation.</p>

<p class='c011'>Of course, a company working the
Panama route effectively, with superior
vessels, and carrying regular
mails, must be subsidised by the British
Government. Our colonists themselves
would gladly lend their aid by
grants out of their own public revenue.
In fact, the province of New South
Wales has recently advertised its
willingness to give a bonus of £6000
sterling to any company which will
bring the postal distance between
England and Melbourne to sixty
days each way. The Australian Direct
Company, however, anticipate a
good profit on their undertaking, irrespective
of remuneration in the form
of a subsidy for carrying the mails, as
will be perceived from the following
extract from their prospectus, published
last year:—</p>

<p class='c013'>“It is thought unnecessary to dwell on
the great extension of general traffic
wherever proper facilities of intercourse
by steam have been afforded: it may,
however, be briefly stated, that the produce
of gold during the year 1852, in the
colony of Victoria alone, amounted to
over £18,000,000, with every prospect of
a continuous increase, exclusive of the
produce of New South Wales, which
forms a large addition to this vast amount;
that, during the months January, February,
March, and April last, the specie
transmitted across the Isthmus—from
Peru and Chili, from the western coast
of Mexico, and from California—amounted
to 20,410,796 dollars, exceeding
£4,000,000 sterling,—and that the passenger
traffic, by the same route and for
the same period, amounted to 10,568
persons, irrespective of those conveyed
by the San Juan de Nicaragua line. It
may be, moreover, observed that this extent
of traffic, however great, affords no
adequate idea of the vast trade which
will arise to feed this line, when in full
operation,—with all the important advantages
of a completed railway, and of a
systematic conduct of business.</p>

<p class='c014'>“Large additions to this vast traffic
must necessarily flow from the increasing
intercourse between North America
and the Australian colonies, facilitated
as such intercourse is by the powerful
lines of steamers already established between
the United States and the Isthmus
of Panama in the North Atlantic, and
between California and Panama in the
North Pacific. The augmented line of
steamers, also, employed by the Pacific
Steam Navigation Company between Valparaiso
and Panama, must considerably
swell the stream. These great results
stand in perfect independence of a line
projected, which will in all probability,
at no distant period, connect California
and China; and likewise of traffic, the
natural result of conveyance of passengers
and valuable merchandise diverted from
old and circuitous routes.</p>

<p class='c014'>“The Directors derive great encouragement
from the knowledge that the objects
of this Company are favoured with the
high approval of British merchants in
general. Many of the most eminent <em>London</em>
houses have strongly expressed their
approbation; and the following document
fully attests the spirit in which the
enterprise is regarded by several influential
and distinguished <em>Manchester</em> firms:</p>

<p class='c014'>“‘We, the undersigned, being desirous
of encouraging the establishment of a
line of first-class steam-packets, offering
increased facilities and advantages
for the transit of passengers and goods to
and from Australia and the different important
States in the Pacific Ocean, and
being deeply impressed with the advantages
of the route by the way of the
Isthmus of Panama, since the establishment
of the railroad at that place connecting
the two oceans,—hereby signify
our approval of the projected British and
Australian Direct Screw Steam Packet
Company, for the purpose of carrying
out the line of communication to those
parts in the most efficient manner.
(Signed)—<span class='sc'>R. Gladstone &#38; Co., Horrocks,
Jackson &#38; Co., Robert Smith
&#38; Co., Robert Gardner, Samuel Mendel,
Robt. Barbour &#38; Brothers, John Pender
&#38; Co., George Fraser, Son, &#38; Co.,
Henry B. Jackson, R. I. Farbridge &#38;
Co., B. Liebert, Prescott, Brothers, &#38;
Co., Thos. Cardwell &#38; Co., Oswald
Stevenson &#38; Co., J. A. Turner &#38; Co.</span>’”</p>

<p class='c010'>It is most desirable that whatever
line is selected for conveying the mails
should be as far as possible remunerative,
in order to enable Government
to fix the rates of postage as low as
<span class='pageno' id='Page_284'>284</span>possible. The present charges are
preposterously high. A letter by a
sailing ship, which may be from ninety
to one hundred days on the passage,
costs eightpence, if under half an
ounce. By steam and overland mail,
it is from a shilling to twentypence,
if under a quarter of an ounce in
weight, for what to a man, whose
caligraphy is not of a diminutive
order, or who cannot command “bank”
or “foreign post” paper, must be only
half a letter. <em>Cheap</em> postage for the
newly settled population of Australia,
and for their friends in this country,
is as essential as regular and expeditious
mails are to the mercantile communities
in both countries. We must
remark, too, that newspapers and
trade circulars are as much required
to be conveyed expeditiously as mercantile
letters. By the last overland
mail a fortunate few received despatches
<em>via</em> Marseilles in sixty days.
The bulk of the mail, consisting of
newspapers and letters from emigrants,
&#38;c., was not delivered until
the arrival of the steamer at Southampton,
nearly seventy days from
her leaving the colony.</p>

<p class='c011'>We have certainly little hope of
our Government doing much to develop
the resources of Australia. The
Post-Office authorities may, indeed,
be induced to concede to the colony,
and to the mercantile community of
this country, a direct mail communication
<em>via</em> Panama, by the prospect—indeed,
almost certainty—that if they
fail in the performance of their duty,
the United States Government will
do it for them. The experiment
made by the American steam-ship
“Golden Age” is said to have been,
commercially, an unprofitable one.
But the application of steam power
to the performance of long voyages is
even as yet in its infancy. The chief
difficulty hitherto experienced in making
short and regular passages to a
distant port has been the large quantity
of coals required to be carried,
which diminishes the power of carrying
cargo in our mail steamers. It
is estimated that our Cunard Company’s
and the Collins’ boats would
have to diminish their speed, and to
forfeit some of their character for regularity
in the transmission of mails
to and from America, were the two
countries a thousand miles farther
apart. But at the present time an
improvement is making in the machinery
of one of the boats of the
latter Company by her owners in the
United States, which, it is stated, is
likely to economise very materially
her consumption of fuel, the saving
by which may either be applied to
increasing her speed or her carrying
capabilities. The same improvement
can be adopted in our Australian
steamers. But from the Colonial
Office we expect literally nothing.
The treatment of Australia by that
Office has been, from first to last,
most neglectful; and even since the
gold discoveries, and the recognition
by all thinking men of the vast importance
which the colony has assumed
as a feeder of the commerce
of England, our statesmen have
appeared incapable of appreciating
its claims to their consideration. A
glaring instance of this perverse or
ignorant blindness has recently occurred
in the filling up of the office of
Lieutenant-Governor of South Australia.
The first party appointed
was Mr Stonor, an Irish member, of
no great mark in Parliament or elsewhere.
This gentleman duly sailed
for the colony, but was shortly after
his departure unseated for bribery.
Such was the grossness of the
charges against him, brought to light
by a parliamentary inquiry, that the
Colonial Office were compelled to
despatch his recall. Another Lieutenant-Governor
was to be appointed;
and the choice fell upon the Hon.
F. Lawley, M.P. for Beverley. Mr
Lawley’s claims to hold an appointment,
so important at the present
crisis in a country which eminently
requires the supervising of a practical
statesman, experienced in the management
of colonial affairs, are not easy to
discover. He was a young man—young
at least in public life—twenty-eight
years of age; had passed rather a
distinguished course at the university,
and had held for a few months the
situation of private secretary to the
Chancellor of the Exchequer; but he
was chiefly known to the public as a
runner of race-horses, and a rather
unsuccessful speculator on the Turf.
The noble Lord at the head of the
Administration, it appears, had some
<span class='pageno' id='Page_285'>285</span>interest in the borough—Beverley—which
Mr Lawley represented, and
had also a son, who was ambitious of
parliamentary honours. Mr Lawley
was appointed Lieutenant-Governor
of South Australia; vacated his seat
for Beverley; and Lord Aberdeen’s
son was elected to fill his place. We
only mention this as a curious coincidence.
But Mr Lawley had some
sense of honour in his breast, as became
a young man of his rank and
birth, or he may have had merely a
correct appreciation of “the fitness
of things.” Subsequently to his ill-success
upon the Turf—it is not said
whether or not during his tenure of
his confidential office under the Chancellor
of the Exchequer—he had
speculated on the Stock Exchange—and
lost. His resolution—taken, no
doubt, after a due examination of the
state of his affairs—was promptly
notified to the Government. He resigned
the office to which he had
been appointed; and the colony was
spared the infliction of a Lieutenant-Governor
in whom the propensity
for gambling was so strongly developed,
and whose favourite sphere of
action would probably have been
upon the race-course of Adelaide.
What may be the effect upon the
minds of the population of this treatment
of South Australia by the Colonial
Office we are not to foretell. It
cannot, however, advance that Office
in their estimation.</p>

<p class='c011'>Failing the hope of efficient Government
aid to the growth of the
Australian colonies—as we think it
will fail—those colonies have within
their reach the means of aiding themselves
in one vitally important matter—the
securing of a larger supply of
labour. The funds accruing from the
sale of lands in the colony have, for
some years past, been devoted to the
purpose of assisting the emigration of
useful classes of labourers—principally
agricultural—to the various
colonies; the business being managed
in this country by the Colonial Land
and Emigration Commissioners. Of
course, a crotchety management was
to be anticipated from such a body,
composed of parties utterly unversed
in the business. We believe it will
be found by the colonists that the
management has not only been crotchety,
but extravagantly expensive,
and even destructive of the lives of
the intending emigrants. A few extracts
from the Report of the Committee
(1853) to the Colonial Secretary
will be sufficiently intelligible as
to the inefficient working of the present
system. In the first place, it
will be made clear that a great public
office, with already a multiplicity of
business to conduct, is incompetent,
from its very composition, of carrying
on a trade in which they have to
compete with experienced private
firms. After mentioning the utter
failure of an experiment made by
them of sending out a large number
of Highland emigrants on board
H.M.S. the “Hercules,” which was
proceeding to Hong-Kong as an hospital-ship,
and was offered them by
the Admiralty for the purpose, the
Commissioners report:—</p>

<p class='c013'>“Meanwhile applications for assistance
were made on behalf of Germans
and Swiss, and, by a very respectable
committee at Madras, of the half-caste
population of India. But the growing
eagerness to reach Australia soon rendered
it unnecessarily pressing for us
either to close with applications of this
kind, or to relax our ordinary rules in
regard to British emigrants. This eagerness
soon became excessive—so much so,
that, at one time, our office contained no
less than 18,000 applications for passages
to Australia. The number of letters received
in the month of June, which, in
1850, was 1564, and, in 1851, 2884,
amounted in 1852 to 18,910, being at an
average rate, excluding Sundays, of 727
a day. And when it is remembered that
a large number of these transmitted
small sums of money, requiring considerable
accuracy of treatment, and that a
far greater number respected the time
and manner in which poor emigrants
were to leave their country for ever—a
matter in which any inaccuracy, though
trifling in respect to the magnitude of
the whole service, was of the greatest
importance to the individuals—that a
great number of our correspondents
were persons who could not be counted
upon for expressing their own meaning
with clearness, or understanding correctly
what was written to them—and, finally,
that all this mass of details, by no means
capable of a cursory or careless treatment,
was to be disposed of by persons <em>partly
overtaxed and partly new to those details</em>,
it will be seen, we hope, that <em>we laboured
under no ordinary difficulty in meeting
the unusual pressure</em>.”</p>

<p class='c010'>Of course, such a business, attempted
to be carried on by an inexperienced
public board, sitting in a
central office in London, although
dealing with emigration from various
ports in the United Kingdom, was
likely to run into arrear and confusion.
Individual local firms, however,
feel no difficulty in carrying it on,
upon a scale fully equal to that of the
Board, when measured by the extent
of their establishments. Those individual
firms would have forwarded
promptly all the Government emigrants
which the Colonial Land and
Emigration Commissioners might have
thought proper to hand over to their
care, and managed all the details
and correspondence dwelt upon as
being so onerous upon them. But
the Commissioners must needs charter
ships of their own, throwing away
all the advantages which private merchants
possess, of procuring profitable
freight for a portion of each ship
sent out. And they had to “pay
dear for their whistle.” At page 18
of the Report, they say: “The
freights, which in June 1851 had
fallen as low as £10, and in one instance
to £9, 9s. 5d. per adult, rose
in June 1852 to upwards of £17; and
since that time they have actually
reached the enormous amount of £23
per adult.” Undoubtedly, they might
have reached this “enormous amount”
at the time named. But private and
most respectable and experienced
firms, at the dearest time mentioned,
taking advantage of their ability of
paying merchandise freight, would
have sent out emigrants, supplied to
them by the Commissioners, at an average
price of two-thirds the amount,
and furnished them with the ample
stores, the ventilation, and the other
conducives to health insisted upon by
the local Government Commissioners,
in the case of voluntary as well as
Government emigration. Taking from
one hundred to one hundred and fifty
passengers, paid for by the Commissioners,
in each ship, they might have
afforded to charge even lower.</p>

<p class='c011'>But the Commissioners had a model
system of their own to exhibit to the
world, and peculiar views as to the
fitting up of emigrant ships, more calculated,
they maintained, to secure
the health and comfort and safety of
poor persons going out at the expense
of the colony, a knowledge of the nature
of which was denied to the experienced
Government officers stationed
at the various ports, whose
duty it is to superintend the accommodation
and quality of provisions
afforded to persons going out at their
own expense. Let us see what was
the working of this model system!
They state that, in consequence of
the high rates for shipping, they were
compelled to adopt large ships, and
they add, page 18:—</p>

<p class='c013'>“We lament to say that in those despatched
from Liverpool the result was
unfortunate. Among the adults, indeed,
no bad consequence followed, but amongst
the infants and young children, whose
numbers had been increased by the then
recent relaxation of our rules, a great
mortality occurred. On the ‘Bourneuf,’
‘Marco Polo,’ and ‘Wanata,’ in which
the aggregate number of passengers was
2581, the number of deaths was 181, of
which no less than 152 were below four
years of age. On the ‘Ticonderago,’ 165
persons died on the voyage, or in quarantine
after arrival, of whom 65 were
below fourteen, and 18 were less than one
year old.”</p>

<p class='c010'>It is a somewhat singular fact, that
in not one of these vessels, since their
being sailed under private management,
has more than the ordinary
rate of mortality prevailed. After
this disastrous loss of human life, the
Commissioners came to the resolution
of diminishing the number of children
allowed to each passenger, and limited
the size of their ships. Private firms
allowed the same number, and <em>increased</em>
the size of their ships. Yet
the latter have had no increase in the
rate of mortality, whilst, only a few
weeks ago, a ship chartered by the
Commissioners lost at sea—having
only reached Cork—in putting back
to their depot at Birkenhead, and
after placing the sick in hospital, upwards
of sixty lives! The absurdity,
on the part of the Commissioners, in
employing exclusively small ships, is
thus apparent, even in a sanitary
point of view. The large clippers,
built expressly for the trade, have
at the same time had the advantage
over their competitors in quick sailing.
In proof of this fact, we quote a table,
extracted from a file of the London
<cite>Times</cite> of this year, showing the average
number of days occupied in the
passage by the vessels of different
tonnage, ranging from 200 tons upwards,
despatched from Liverpool to
Australia in the years 1852 and
1853.</p>

<table class='table2'>
  <tr>
    <th class='c017'></th>
    <th class='c019'>&#160;</th>
    <th class='c017'>&#160;</th>
    <th class='c019'>&#160;</th>
    <th class='c017'>&#160;</th>
    <th class='c017'>1852.<br>Average number of days.</th>
    <th class='c018'>1853.<br>Average number of days.</th>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c017'>Under</td>
    <td class='c019'>200</td>
    <td class='c017' colspan='3'>tons,</td>
    <td class='c019'>137</td>
    <td class='c004'>133</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c017'>From</td>
    <td class='c019'>200</td>
    <td class='c017'>to</td>
    <td class='c019'>300</td>
    <td class='c017'>tons</td>
    <td class='c019'>122</td>
    <td class='c004'>122</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c017'>„</td>
    <td class='c019'>300</td>
    <td class='c017'>„</td>
    <td class='c019'>400</td>
    <td class='c017'>„</td>
    <td class='c019'>123</td>
    <td class='c004'>113</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c017'>„</td>
    <td class='c019'>400</td>
    <td class='c017'>„</td>
    <td class='c019'>500</td>
    <td class='c017'>„</td>
    <td class='c019'>118</td>
    <td class='c004'>112</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c017'>„</td>
    <td class='c019'>500</td>
    <td class='c017'>„</td>
    <td class='c019'>600</td>
    <td class='c017'>„</td>
    <td class='c019'>113</td>
    <td class='c004'>112</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c017'>„</td>
    <td class='c019'>600</td>
    <td class='c017'>„</td>
    <td class='c019'>700</td>
    <td class='c017'>„</td>
    <td class='c019'>107</td>
    <td class='c004'>103</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c017'>„</td>
    <td class='c019'>700</td>
    <td class='c017'>„</td>
    <td class='c019'>800</td>
    <td class='c017'>„</td>
    <td class='c019'>108</td>
    <td class='c004'>101</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c017'>„</td>
    <td class='c019'>800</td>
    <td class='c017'>„</td>
    <td class='c019'>900</td>
    <td class='c017'>„</td>
    <td class='c019'>103</td>
    <td class='c004'>100</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c017'>„</td>
    <td class='c019'>900</td>
    <td class='c017'>„</td>
    <td class='c019'>1000</td>
    <td class='c017'>„</td>
    <td class='c019'>102</td>
    <td class='c004'>95</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c017'>„</td>
    <td class='c019'>1000</td>
    <td class='c017'>„</td>
    <td class='c019'>1200</td>
    <td class='c017'>„</td>
    <td class='c019'>96</td>
    <td class='c004'>91</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c017'>„</td>
    <td class='c019'>1200</td>
    <td class='c017'>&#38;</td>
    <td class='c008' colspan='2'>upwards,</td>
    <td class='c019'>91</td>
    <td class='c004'>90</td>
  </tr>
</table>

<p class='c011'>We entertain little doubt that, in a
short while, the provincial legislatures
and people of the various provinces of
Australia will protest loudly against
this mismanagement of their contributions
for the purpose of encouraging
emigration, and assert the right of
exercising a greater control than
they have at present over their own
funds.</p>

<p class='c011'>But it is, after all, to the honest
press, and to the enterprise of private
individuals, that these important colonies
must look chiefly for a relief
from their present temporary difficulties.
A large amount of misconception
has been spread abroad as to the
prospects which they hold out for
settlers and their social condition.
We have had too much information
from the Colonies themselves about
the state of trade in Melbourne and
the other large towns, and the yield of
the various gold mines, and much too
little of the progress making in agricultural
pursuits. With respect to
the latter, too, the sort of information
conveyed, and the picture which it
presents, have not been of a character
likely to attract the most useful classes
of settlers—our small farmers and
farm-labourers. Sheep-farming and
stock-farming in “the bush,” as it is
still absurdly termed, is naturally
associated in their minds with ideas
of solitary and half-savage life, to
adventure upon which most men, and
especially those who have been accustomed
to quiet domestic life, and have
no pressing necessity for taking such
a step, will hardly be induced to leave
their native land. In the large towns
society is gradually assuming a settled
character, and their population, the
old and the newly arrived as well,
are directing their attention to the ordinary
avocations of industry. Dwellings,
as we have shown, are being
erected almost with sufficient rapidity
to meet the demand for them, and
proper sanitary and other arrangements
will follow. The most congratulatory
movement which has recently,
and is now more rapidly than ever
taking place, is the conversion of the
soil, hitherto in a wild state, or forming
portions of sheep-runs, into farms
of various sizes, cultivated in the best
manner by British and other farmers.
Little communities, the germs of future
towns and villages, are springing up
on every side; and before many
seasons are over, the population,
however largely augmented, will have
no occasion to depend upon extraneous
supply for any of the leading
necessaries of life. Whether as a
merchant, a tradesman, or to engage
in other legitimate and useful occupations,
the emigrant may now safely
leave his home to settle for life in
Australia in the entire confidence that
his industry will meet its full reward.
To bring about the future greatness
which we have predicted for the
colony, as the centre of a wealthy
and powerful Anglo-Saxon empire
in the Pacific, whose population are
governed by British laws, and are in
the enjoyment of British institutions,
it is most important that the British
element should be as largely as possible
infused amongst them. Society
in Australia calls especially for the
presence of an educated middle class,
capable of ameliorating, by its example,
the rudeness of character and
manners which may be expected from
amongst her successful gold-diggers,
bush-farmers, and traders. The spread
of truthful information respecting the
climate, capabilities, &#38;c., of the country,
will effect much in supplying that
want, and inducing such a class to
emigrate thither as to a permanent
home. The time may come—be it
far distant!—when the colonists may
demand to be an independent people.
Such an infusion amongst them of
right-hearted and loyal British men
and women—the fathers and mothers
of another generation—may do much
to postpone such an event. And
when it does arrive—when a people
grown great and wealthy under the
protecting arm of British sway refuses
to be governed from the antipodes—the
breaking of the link may be rendered
a kindly one; and it may to no
slight extent operate upon our future
relations with the grown-up child, who
has cast us off, and decided to walk
by himself, that his heart still clings
to the home of his parents, and feels an
interest in maintaining the prosperity
of the land which gave them birth.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_288'>288</span>
  <h2 class='c002'>SPECULATORS AMONG THE STARS.</h2>
</div>
<h3 class='c021'>PART I.<a id='r13'></a><a href='#f13' class='c009'><sup>[13]</sup></a></h3>

<p class='c022'>Let us imagine one of our species,
at an early period of its history, destitute
of any artificial aid to the sense
of sight, contemplating the aspect of
things around him. He perceives
that, somehow or other, he lives upon
a Something—apparently a flat surface,
of indefinite extent in all directions
from the spot where he stands—consisting
of land and water,
alternately visited with light and
darkness, heat and cold; with a regular
succession of seasons, somehow or
other connected with the growth of
vegetables of various kinds, suitable
and unsuitable for his purposes, with
beautiful flowers and magnificent
forests: while the air, water, and
earth, teem with insects, birds, fishes,
and animals, which seem almost altogether
at his command. There are also
winds, dews, showers, mists, frost,
snow, hail, thunderstorms, volcanoes,
and earthquakes. He himself, equally
with the vegetables and animals,
passes through divers gradations, from
birth to decay—from life to death:
but during life, alike alternately sleeping
and waking, subject to vicissitudes
of pain and pleasure, of health and
disease.</p>

<p class='c011'>If he look beyond the locality on
which all this takes place, he beholds
a blazing body alternately visible and
invisible, at regular intervals, and to
which he attributes both light and
heat; another luminous body visible
only at night, which it gently illuminates;
and both these objects are
occasionally subject to brief but portentous
obscurations. During the
night there also appear a great number
of glittering white specks in the
blue distance, which he calls stars; all
he knows of them being, that they are
beautiful objects in the dark; even contributing
a little light, in the absence of
the moon. Why all these things
came to be as they are, he knows no
more than the bird that is blithely singing
on the branch above him, but for a
certain Book, which tells him that God
made him, and everything he sees about
him; the sun, the moon, the stars,
the earth, with all the arrangements
securing night and day, light and
darkness, seasons, days, and years;
forming <em>him</em>, in <span class='sc'>His Image</span>; giving
him the earth for a dwelling, and
dominion over everything that lives
and breathes in it; and commanding
him to be obedient to the will of his
Maker. That the first man and woman
placed on the earth became, nevertheless,
almost immediately disobedient;
whereby they incurred the anger
of God, and their position on earth
became woefully changed for the
worse. That God, nevertheless, loved
man, formed in His own image, after
His likeness, with such tenderness,
that He devised means for his restoration,
if he chose, to the favour which
he had forfeited; and Himself visited
the earth, in the form of man; submitted
to mockery, suffering, and
death, on his behalf; rose again, and
returned to Heaven with the body
which He had assumed on earth. That
though man’s body must die and
decay, equally with that of every
animal, his shall rise again, and be
rejoined by its spirit, to stand before
the judgment-seat of God, to be judged
in respect of the deeds done in the
body, and be eternally miserable or
happy, according to the righteous
judgment then pronounced. Moreover,
this Book tells him, with reference to
the locality in which he exists, that all
things shall not always remain as they
are; but that the earth, and all that
is in it, shall be burned up; that it,
and the Heaven, shall pass away with
<span class='pageno' id='Page_289'>289</span>a great noise; that the elements shall
melt with fervent heat; and for those
on whom a favourable doom shall have
been pronounced in the day of judgment,
there shall be a new heaven,
and a new earth, wherein dwelleth
righteousness. Believing all this, and
his inner nature telling him that the
law of action laid down in the Book is
righteous, and conformable to that
nature, he endeavours to regulate
his conduct by it, and dies, as dies
generation after generation, in calm
and happy reliance on the Truth of
that Book.</p>

<p class='c011'>Ages pass away, and great discoveries
appear to be made, by the
exercise of man’s own thought and
ingenuity, and quite independently of
any revelations contained in his Great
Book. Whereas he had thought the
earth stationary, he finds it, the sun,
and the moon, to be round bodies,
each turning round on its own axis,
the earth once in twenty-four hours;
that the earth also goes round the sun
once in every year, the moon accompanying
it, and at the same time
turning round it once in every month;
and that these are the means by which
are caused light and darkness, night
and day, heat and cold, and the
various changes of the seasons. The
stars remain twinkling, the mere
bright specks they ever appeared.</p>

<p class='c011'>Let us now, however, suppose our
thoughtful observer’s sight assisted by
the aid of glass, in two ways—so as
to place him on the one hand, nearer
to distant objects, and on the other,
reveal objects close to him, which he
had never suspected. In the latter
case, his microscope exhibits an astounding
spectacle—almost every
atom turned, as it were, into a world,
peopled with exquisitely-organised animal
forms, adapted perfectly to the
elements in which they are seen disporting
themselves. In the former case,
his telescope makes equally astounding
revelations in an opposite direction.
The Heavens are swarming with
splendid structures unseen to the
naked eye: new planets are visible,
with rings, belts, and moons, and
the stars prove to be resplendent suns;
the centres of so many systems
peopling infinitude; and these, moreover,
obeying laws of motion the same
as those which exist in the system of
which the earth forms part!</p>

<p class='c011'>“Well,” says our overwhelmed observer,
“it is certainly late in the
day to make these sublime and awful
discoveries; but here they are, unless
my instruments play me false, so
that I am the victim of mere optical
delusion; the boundless, numberless
realms of insect life being only imaginary;
and the stars really no suns
or worlds at all, but simply the glittering
spots which alone mankind has
hitherto believed them. But if my
telescope tell me truly, the little
speck on which I live is in fact but a
grain of dark dust in the heavens,
circling obscurely round a sun, itself a
mere star, perhaps eclipsed in splendour
by every other star in existence;
each probably containing many more
and greater planets circling about it
than has our sun! And about these
matters <span class='sc'>The Book</span> is silent.”</p>

<p class='c011'>Pondering these discoveries, and assuming
them to be real, our observer
echoes the inquiry of our greatest living
astronomer—“Now, <em>for what
purpose</em> are we to suppose such magnificent
bodies scattered through the
abyss of space?”<a id='r14'></a><a href='#f14' class='c009'><sup>[14]</sup></a> And at length the
grander one occurs—Are there human
beings, or beings similar to myself,
anywhere else than on this earth?
On the sun, moon, planets, and their
satellites? Nay, on all the other
inconceivably numerous suns, planets,
and satellites in existence?
He pauses, as though in a spasm of
awe. But he may next, and very
rationally, ask, If it be so, <em>how does
all this affect me</em>? Has it any practical
bearing on the condition of a
denizen of this earth?</p>

<p class='c011'>If our bewildered inquirer unfortunately
had at his elbow Thomas Paine,
he would hear this blasphemous
whisper: “The system of a plurality
of worlds renders <span class='sc'>the Christian
faith</span> at once little and ridiculous,
and scatters it in the mind,
like feathers in the air. The two
beliefs cannot be held together in the
same mind; and he who thinks he
believes both has thought but little of
<span class='pageno' id='Page_290'>290</span>either.”<a id='r15'></a><a href='#f15' class='c009'><sup>[15]</sup></a> By this impious drivel is
meant, that if this infinitude of systems
be made by one God, who has
peopled every orb as our own is
peopled, with rational and moral beings,
it is absurd to suppose that He
has such a special regard for us, as
the Scriptures assure us He has—that
<em>He was made flesh, and dwelt among
us</em>—lived with us, died for us, rose
again for us; us, the insignificant
occupants of this insignificant speck
amidst the resplendent magnificence
of the infinite universe. Now, that
such a notion is equally irreligious
and unphilosophical we trust no intelligent
reader of ours requires to be
persuaded; but that there are both
friends and enemies of the Christian
Faith, who fear or believe otherwise,
may be assumed; and hence the
unspeakable importance of viewing
the matter soberly, by such light
as we have,—as God has been pleased
to vouchsafe to us. If we have
little, we cannot help it, but must
gratefully and reverently make the
best use we can of it; assuring
ourselves that there must be wise
reasons for our omniscient Creator’s
having given us just as much as we
have, and no more. He might have
endowed us with faculties nearly akin
to His own; but He has thought
proper to act otherwise.</p>

<p class='c011'>The attention of scientific persons,
and those of a speculative character
in religion, physics, and morals, has
recently been recalled to the question,—whether
there are grounds for
believing the heavenly bodies to be
inhabited by rational beings,—by the
publication, eleven months ago, of a
thin octavo volume of 279 pages,
bearing no author’s name, and entitled,
<cite>Of the Plurality of Worlds,
an Essay</cite>. Internal evidence seemed
to point to a distinguished person at
Cambridge as the author—a gentleman
of great eminence as a mathematician,
a logician, a divine, and a
moralist—in short, to the Reverend
Dr Whewell, the Master of Trinity
College. The work was divided into
numbered paragraphs, as is usual
with that gentleman; peculiarities of
spelling—<em>e. g.</em>, “offense,” instead of
“offence”—and of style and expression,
are common to the <cite>Essay</cite> and
the other works of the suspected
author. We are not aware that up
to the present time he has repudiated
the work thus attributed to him. On
the contrary, he has just published
a <cite>Dialogue</cite>, by way of supplement
to it, in which he and various classes
of objectors are speakers; and on one
of them telling him that one of his
critics “repeatedly tries to connect
his speculations with those of the
author of <cite>Vestiges of Creation</cite>,” a wild
work of an infidel character, he answers,
“If he were to try to connect
me with an <em>answer</em> to that work,
which went through two editions,
under the title of <cite>Indications of the
Creator</cite>, he would be nearer the mark;
at least, I adopt the sentiments of
this latter book.” Now, this latter
book was published, certainly not
with Dr Whewell’s name on the title-page,
but by the publisher of all his
other works, and entitled <cite>Indications
of the Creator; Theological Extracts
from Dr Whewell’s History and Philosophy
of Inductive Science</cite>. But
whereas the <cite>Essay</cite> in question is
written by the present highly-gifted
Master of Trinity, with the design of
showing that “the belief of the planets
and stars being inhabited is ill-founded—a
notion taken up on insufficient
grounds, and that the most
recent astronomical discoveries point
the other way”—the author declaring
that these “views have long been in
his mind, the convictions which they
involve growing gradually deeper,
through the effect of various trains
of speculation;” it will be found, on
referring to Dr Whewell’s <cite>Bridgewater
Treatise</cite>, published in 1833, that
these views seem not then to have
been entertained by him. In book
iii. chap. 2, we find him speaking
thus: “The earth, the globular body
thus covered with life, is not the only
globe in the universe. There are circling
about our own sun six others, so
far as we can judge, perfectly analogous
in their nature, besides our
moon, and other bodies analogous to
it. No one can resist the temptation
to conjecture that these globes, some
<span class='pageno' id='Page_291'>291</span>of them much larger than our own,
are not dead and barren; that they
are, like ours, occupied with life, organisation,
intelligence. To conjecture
is all that we can do; yet even by
the perception of such a possibility,
our view of the domain of nature is
enlarged and elevated.” Speaking
again of the stars, and supposing them
suns, with planets revolving round
them, he adds, “And these may, like
our planet, be the seats of vegetable,
animal, and rational life. We may
thus have in the universe, worlds,
no one knows how many, no one can
guess how varied.” And, finally, in
the ensuing chapter, “On man’s place
in the Universe,” he says: “We
thus find that a few of the shining
spots which we see scattered on the
face of the sky in such profusion, appear
to be of the same nature as the
earth; and may, perhaps, as analogy
would suggest, be, like the earth,
the habitations of organised beings.”
Undoubtedly these remarks are penned
in a cautious and philosophic spirit;
and upwards of twenty years’ subsequent
reflection, by the light of various
splendid astronomical discoveries
during that interval, is now announced
to have so far shaken Dr Whewell’s
faith in such “conjectures,” as to induce
him, “in all sincerity and simplicity,”
to submit “to the public the
arguments, strong or weak,” which
had occurred to him on the subject;
“and which, when he proceeded to
write the <cite>Essay</cite>, assumed, by being
fully unfolded, greater strength than
he had expected.” He is now disposed
to regard a belief in the plurality
of worlds “to have been really
produced by a guess, lightly made at
first, quite unsupported by subsequent
discoveries, and discountenanced by
the most recent observations, though
too remote from knowledge to be
either proved or disproved.” And
further, he thus indicates the grand
scope of the entire inquiry: “I do
not attempt to disprove the plurality
of worlds, by taking for granted the
truths of Revealed Religion; but I
say that the teaching of Religion may,
to a candid inquirer, suggest the
wisdom of not taking for granted the
Plurality of Worlds. Religion seems,
at first sight at least, to represent
Man’s history and position as unique.
Astronomy, some think, suggests the
contrary. I examine the force of this
latter suggestion, and it seems to me
to amount to little or nothing.” In
the tenth and eleventh chapters of the
<cite>Essay</cite>, Dr Whewell thus speaks, in
two passages (§§ 12, 20), which appear
to us to indicate at once the
spirit in which he offers his speculations,
and his apprehension as to the
reception with which they might
meet. In the former, he owns that
his “views are so different from those
hitherto generally entertained, and
considered as having a sort of religious
dignity belonging to them, that
we may fear, at first at least, they
will appear to many rash and fanciful,
and almost, as we have said,
irreverent.” In the latter he speaks
thus:—</p>

<p class='c013'>“It is not to be denied that there may
be a regret and disturbance naturally
felt at having to give up our belief that
the planets and the stars probably contain
servants and worshippers of God.
It must always be a matter of pain and
trouble, to be urged with tenderness, and
to be performed in time, to untwine our
reverential religious sentiments from
erroneous views of the constitution of the
Universe with which they have been involved.
But the change once made, it is
found that religion is uninjured, and reverence
undiminished. And therefore
we trust that the reader will receive with
candour and patience the argument which
we have to offer with reference to this
view, or, rather, this sentiment.”</p>

<p class='c010'>In this tone of manly modesty is expressed
the whole of this really remarkable
work; but all competent
readers will also be struck by the
dignified consciousness of power associated
with that modesty. These
two characteristics have invested this
book with a certain charm, in our
eyes, which we cannot but thus avow,
after having given his <cite>Essay</cite>, and
the <cite>Dialogue</cite>, in which he deals
with various objectors to his <cite>Essay</cite>,
due consideration. A calm perusal of
that <cite>Dialogue</cite> may suggest to shrewd
opponents the necessity of approaching
the writer of it with caution.</p>

<p class='c011'>Here, then, we have a man of first-rate
intellectual power, a practised
and skilful dialectician, formidably
familiar with almost every department
of physical science, in its latest
<span class='pageno' id='Page_292'>292</span>and highest development; an eminent
moral writer and academical teacher,
and an orthodox clergyman in the
Church of England, coming forward
deliberately to commit himself to
opinions which he acknowledges he
does not publish “without some fear
of giving offense:”—opinions at variance
with those not only popularly
held, but maintained by perhaps
three-fourths of even scientific persons
who have bestowed attention on
the subject. Who can doubt his <em>right</em>
to do so, especially in a calm and
temperate spirit, as contradistinguished
to one of arrogance and dogmatism?
None but a fool would rush
angrily forward, to encounter such an
author with harsh and heated language,
or derogatory and uncharitable
insinuations and imputations.  A
philosophical and duly qualified opponent
would act differently.  He
would say, In this age of free inquiry,
no matter how bold and serious the
attack on preconceptions and long-established
opinion and belief, if it
be made in a grave and manly spirit
of inquiry and argument, and especially
by one whose eminent character,
qualifications, and position, entitle his
suggestions and speculations to deliberate
consideration, that deliberate
consideration they must have. “I
have presented,” says the writer of
the <cite>Essay</cite>, in the <cite>Dialogue</cite>, “gravely
and calmly, the views and arguments
which occurred to my mind, on a
question which many persons think
an interesting one; and if any one
will introduce any other temper into
the discussion of this question, with
him I will hold no argument; if he
write in a vehement and angry strain,
I will have nothing to say to him.”
The author is here alluding to Sir
David Brewster, the author of the
second of the three works placed at
the head of this article. If, on the
other hand, a man of great authority
and reputation be unwise enough to
run counter to opinions universally
received, and that by persons of high
scientific and literary reputation,
merely as a sort of gladiatorial exercise,
disturbing views rightly associated
with religion and science, and
with levity shaking the confidence of
mankind in conclusions arrived at by
the profoundest masters of science, he
must take the consequences of being
deemed presumptuous and trifling,
and encounter the stern rebuke of
those whom he is not entitled to treat
with disrespect.</p>

<p class='c011'>Now, a careful and unprejudiced
perusal of this <cite>Essay</cite> has satisfied
us concerning several things. It is
written with uncommon ability. The
author has an easy mastery of the
English language, and these pages
abound in vigorous and beautifully-exact
expressions. From beginning
to end, also, may be seen indications
of a subtle and guarded logic; a
felicitous and masterly disposition of
his subject; a thorough familiarity
with the heights and depths of physics,
divinity, and morals; and, above
and infinitely beyond all, a reverent
regard for the truths of revealed religion,
and an earnest desire to advance
its interests, by removing what,
in his opinion, many deem a serious
stumblingblock in the way of the devout
Christian. That stumblingblock
may be seen indicated in the audacious
language which we have quoted from
Thomas Paine. If this be the object
which Dr Whewell has had in view—and
who will doubt it?—his title to
respectful consideration is greatly
enhanced. He must be given credit
for having deliberately counted the
cost of what he was about to do—the
amount of censure, ridicule, and
contempt which he might provoke. It
seems that he has felt himself strong
enough to make the experiment;
and here he sees a distinguished
contemporary, Sir David Brewster,
quickly ascribing “his theories
and speculations to no better feeling
than a love of notoriety;”<a id='r16'></a><a href='#f16' class='c009'><sup>[16]</sup></a> who
again stigmatises an argument of the
Essayist as “the most ingenious
though shallow piece of sophistry
which we have ever encountered in
modern dialectics.”<a id='r17'></a><a href='#f17' class='c009'><sup>[17]</sup></a></p>

<p class='c011'>That Dr Whewell offers us, in his
<cite>Essay</cite> and <cite>Dialogue</cite>, his real views
and opinions, and that they have
been long and deeply considered, we
implicitly believe, on his own statement
that such is the case. It may
nevertheless be, that he is the unconscious
<span class='pageno' id='Page_293'>293</span>victim of an invincible love of
paradox; and indeed Sir David
Brewster unceremoniously characterises
the Essayist’s conjectures concerning
the fixed stars as “insulting
to Astronomy,” and “ascribable only
to some morbid condition of the mental
powers, which feeds upon paradox,
and delights in doing violence to sentiments
deeply cherished, and to
opinions universally believed;”<a id='r18'></a><a href='#f18' class='c009'><sup>[18]</sup></a> that
having once conceived what he regards
as a happy idea on a great
question, he dwells upon it with
such an eager fondness as warps his
judgment; that having committed
himself to what he has seen to be
a false position, he defends it desperately,
with consummate logical
skill. Or he may believe himself
entitled to the credit of having
demolished bold and vast theories,
and plucked up by the roots an
enormous fallacy. It may be so,
or it may not; but Dr Whewell’s is
certainly a very bold attempt to
swim against the splendid stream
of modern astronomical speculation.
He would say, however, Is it not
as bold <em>to people</em>, as to <em>depopulate</em>
the starry structures? It is on you
that the burthen of proof rests: you
cannot see, or hear, inhabitants in
other spheres; the Bible tells us
nothing about them; and where,
therefore, is the <span class='fss'>EVIDENCE</span> on which
you found your assertion, and would
coerce me into a concurrence in
your conclusions? I long for the
production of sufficient evidence of
so awful a fact as that God has
created all the starry bodies for the
purpose of placing upon them beings
in any degree like man—moral, intellectual,
accountable beings, of equal,
higher, or lower degree of intelligence—consisting
of that wondrous
combination of matter and mind,
body and soul, which constitutes
<em>man</em>, existing in similar relations to
the external world. The mere suggestion
startles me, both as a man of
science and a Christian believer, on
account of certain difficulties which
appear to me greater than perhaps
even you may have taken into
account. But, however this may be,
I call upon you for proofs of so vast
a fact as you allege to exist, or the
best kind and greatest degree of
evidence which may justify me in
assenting to the existence of such
a fact. We are dealing with facts,
probabilities, improbabilities; and I
repudiate any intrusion of sentiment
or fancy. If God has told me that
the fact exists, I receive it with reverence;
and wonder at finding myself
a member of so immense a family,
from all communication with which
He has been pleased to cut me off
in my present stage of existence.
But if God has not told me the fact
directly—and I feel no religious obligation
to hold the fact to exist or
not to exist—I will regard the question
as one both curious and interesting,
and weigh carefully the reasons
which you offer me in support of
your assertion. But will you, in
return, weigh carefully the reasons I
offer for asserting a fact which appears
to me, however you may think
erroneously, of incalculably greater
personal moment to me as a member
of the human family—namely, that
“man’s history and position are
unique;—that the earth is really the
largest planetary body in the solar
system—its domestic hearth, and the
only <span class='fss'>WORLD</span> in the universe?” I
am quite as much startled at having
to receive your notion, as you may
be to receive mine. My great engine
of proof, says his opponent, is
analogy: well, replies the other,
there I will meet you; and the first
grand point to settle is, whether
there is an analogy;<a id='r19'></a><a href='#f19' class='c009'><sup>[19]</sup></a> when that
shall have been settled in the affirmative,
we will, as carefully as possible,
weigh the <em>amount</em> of it.</p>

<p class='c011'>This is the point at issue between
Dr Whewell and Sir David Brewster;
who resolutely undertakes to demonstrate
“<cite>More Worlds than One</cite>” to
be “the <em>creed</em> of the philosopher, and
the <em>hope</em> of the Christian.” It is to
be seen whether this eminent member
of the scientific world, also a firm
believer in the Christian religion, has
undertaken a task to which he is equal.
He must present such an amount of
proof as will require the plurality of
worlds to be accepted as his <span class='fss'>CREED</span>,
by a <span class='sc'>Philosopher</span>; that is, by a
<span class='pageno' id='Page_294'>294</span>Baconian—one accustomed to exact
and patient investigation of facts, and
inferences deducible from them; who
rigorously rejects, as disturbing forces,
all appeals to our hopes or wishes, our
feelings or fancy.</p>

<p class='c011'>There are two questions before us;
to which we shall add, on our own
account, a third. The first is that
asked in 1686 by the gifted and
sprightly Fontenelle (whom Voltaire
pronounced the most universal genius
which the age of Louis XIV. produced),
and echoed in 1854 by Sir
David Brewster: <i><span lang="la">Pourquoi non?</span></i>
Why should there <em>not</em> be a plurality
of worlds? The second is that asked
by Dr Whewell: Why <em>should</em> there
be? “I do not pretend to disprove a
plurality of worlds; but I ask in vain
for any argument that makes the
doctrine probable.”<a id='r20'></a><a href='#f20' class='c009'><sup>[20]</sup></a> The third, is
our own. <em>And what if there be?</em>—a
question of a directly practical tendency.
We shall take the second
question first, because it will bring
Dr Whewell first on the field, as it was
he who has so suddenly mooted this
singular question. But we would at
the outset entreat our readers, at all
events our younger ones, to remember
that we are dealing with a purely speculative
subject, respecting which zealous
partisans are apt to draw on their
imaginations—to assert or deny the
existence of analogy, on insufficient
grounds; to overstrain or underrate
its force; and lend to bare probabilities,
or even pure possibilities, somewhat
of the air of facts, where <em>facts</em>
there are absolutely none.</p>

<p class='c011'>I. <em>Why should there be</em> more worlds
than one? “Astronomy,” says Dr
Whewell, “no more reveals to us
extra-terrestrial moral agents, than
religion reveals to us extra-terrestrial
plans of Divine government;” and to
remedy the assumption of moral
agents in other worlds, by the assumption
of some operation of the
Divine plan in other worlds, is unauthorised
and fanciful, and a violation
of the humility, submission of mind,
and spirit of reverence, which religion
requires.<a id='r21'></a><a href='#f21' class='c009'><sup>[21]</sup></a> He considers Dr Chalmers’s
allowance of astronomy’s offering
strong analogies in favour of such
opinions as “more than rash:” he
regards such “analogies” as, “to say
the least, greatly exaggerated; and
by taking into account what astronomy
really teaches us, and what we
learn also from other sciences, I shall
attempt to reduce such analogies to
their true value.” We have seen
Dr Whewell, in 1833, expressing an
opinion very doubtfully, with a “<em>perhaps</em>,
that, as analogy would suggest,
a few of the heavenly bodies
appearing to be of the same nature as
the earth, <em>may</em> be, like it, the seats of
organised beings.” He is now disposed
to annihilate those analogies,
so far as they are deemed sufficient
to warrant such an immense conclusion.
But that to which he is now
disposed to come is equally immense.
He says, “That the earth is inhabited,
is not a reason for believing that
the other planets are so, but for believing
that they are <em>not</em> so.”<a id='r22'></a><a href='#f22' class='c009'><sup>[22]</sup></a> Her
orbit “is the temperate zone of the
solar system, where only is the play
of hot and cold, moist and dry, possible....
The earth is really the
largest planetary body in the solar
system; its domestic hearth; adjusted
between the hot and fiery haze on
one side, the cold and watery vapour
on the other. This region only is fit
to be a domestic hearth, a seat of
habitation; in this region is placed
the largest <em>solid</em> globe of our system;
and on this globe, by a series of
<em>creative</em> operations, entirely different
from any of those which separated
the solid from the vaporous, the cold
from the hot, the moist from the dry,
have been established, in succession,
plants, and animals, and <span class='fss'>MAN</span>. So
that the habitations have been occupied;
the domestic hearth has been
surrounded by its family; the fitnesses
so wonderfully combined have
been employed; and the earth alone,
of all the parts of the frame which
revolve round the sun, has become
a <em>WORLD</em>.”<a id='r23'></a><a href='#f23' class='c009'><sup>[23]</sup></a> Now, let us here
cite two or three passages of Scripture,
one of them very remarkable.
“The heaven, even the heavens,
are the Lord’s; <em>but the earth hath he
given to the children of men</em>.”<a id='r24'></a><a href='#f24' class='c009'><sup>[24]</sup></a> “Thus
saith God the Lord, he that created
<span class='pageno' id='Page_295'>295</span>the heavens, and stretched them out;
he that spread forth the earth, and
that which cometh out of it; he that
giveth breath unto the people <em>upon it</em>,
and spirit to them that walk <em>therein</em>:<a id='r25'></a><a href='#f25' class='c009'><sup>[25]</sup></a>&#160;...
I have made the earth, and
created man <em>upon it</em>; I, even my
hands, have stretched out the heavens,
and all their host have I commanded....
Thus saith the Lord,
that created the heavens; God himself,
that formed the earth, and made
it; he hath established it, he created
it not in vain, he formed <span class='fss'>IT</span> <em>to be inhabited</em>:
I am the Lord; and there
is none else.”<a id='r26'></a><a href='#f26' class='c009'><sup>[26]</sup></a> Here the Psalmist
speaks of both the heaven and the
earth, saying of the latter that he has
<em>given it</em> to the children of men; while
the inspired prophet repeatedly speaks
of the heavens and the earth, saying
that God had given breath to the
people upon <em>it</em>, and spirit to them
that walk <em>therein</em>; that he had created
man upon <em>it</em>; that he had created
the earth not <em>in vain</em>, but formed
“<em>it</em>,” to be inhabited. It is not said
that he formed the heavens to be
inhabited, but the earth. This passage
Sir David Brewster has quoted
as “a distinct declaration from the inspired
prophet, that the earth would
have been created <span class='fss'>IN VAIN</span>, if it had
not been formed to be inhabited; and
hence we draw the conclusion, that as
the Creator cannot be supposed to
have made the worlds of our system,
and those in the sidereal universe, in
vain, <em>they</em> must have been formed <em>to
be inhabited</em>.”<a id='r27'></a><a href='#f27' class='c009'><sup>[27]</sup></a> Is not this a huge
“conclusion” to draw from these
premises? And do not the words tend
rather the other way—to show that
<em>the earth</em>, with its wondrous adaptations,
would have been created in
vain, if not to be inhabited; but
that the heavens may be created
for other purposes, of which man,
in the present stage of existence, has
not, nor can have, any conception?</p>

<p class='c011'>We have spoken of Sir David
Brewster’s drawing a huge conclusion
from a passage of Scripture in support
of his views of the question before
us; but we have to present a still
huger conclusion, drawn by him from
another glorious passage: “When I
consider the heavens, the work of thy
fingers, the moon and the stars, which
thou hast ordained; what is man, that
thou art mindful of him? and the son
of man, that thou visitest him?”
“This,” says Sir David, “is a positive
argument for a plurality of worlds!
We cannot doubt that inspiration revealed
to the Hebrew poet the magnitude,
the distances, and the final
cause of the glorious spheres which
fixed his admiration.... He doubtless
viewed these worlds as <em>teeming with
life, physical and intellectual</em>; as globes
which may have required millions of
years for their preparation, exhibiting
new forms of beings, <em>new powers of
mind</em>, new conditions in the past, and
new glories in the future!” In his
<cite>Dialogue</cite> Dr Whewell thus drily dismisses
this extraordinary flight of his
opponent: “That the Hebrew poet
knew, or thought about, the plurality
of worlds, is a fact hitherto unnoticed
by the historians of astronomy; to
their consideration I leave it.”</p>

<p class='c011'>Let us now, however, follow Dr
Whewell in the development of his
idea, bearing in mind his own impressive
statement, in his preface,
that, “while some of his philosophical
conclusions appear to him to fall
in very remarkably with certain
points of religious doctrine, he is well
aware that philosophy alone can do
little in providing man with the consolations,
hopes, supports, and convictions
which religion offers; and
he acknowledges it as a ground of
deep gratitude to the Author of All
Good, that man is not left to philosophy
for those blessings, but has a
fuller assurance of them by a more
direct communication from Him.”</p>

<p class='c011'>“The two doctrines which we have
here to weigh against each other,”
says Dr Whewell, “are the <em>plurality</em>
of worlds, and the <em>unity</em> of the world;”
and he “includes, as a necessary
part of the conception of a ‘<span class='fss'>WORLD</span>,’
a collection of intelligent creatures,
where reside intelligence, perception
of truth, recognition of moral law,
and reverence for a Divine Creator
and Governor.”<a id='r28'></a><a href='#f28' class='c009'><sup>[28]</sup></a> His <cite>Essay</cite> branches
into three great divisions, in disposing
of the conjectural plurality of worlds,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_296'>296</span>and suggesting the reality of the unity
of the world. First, he considers the
constitution of man: secondly, that of
the earth which he inhabits, its adaptation,
structure, and position: lastly,
its neighbours in the heavens—the
solar system to which it belongs, the
fixed stars, and the nebulæ; and as
to these, he declares that “a closer
inquiry, <em>with increased means of observation</em>,
gives no confirmation to the
conjecture which certain aspects of
the universe at first sight suggested
to man, that there may be other
bodies, like the earth, tenanted by
other creatures like man,—some characters
of whose nature seem to remove
or lessen the difficulties we may
at first feel in regarding the earth as,
in a <em>unique and special manner</em>, the
field of God’s providence and government.”<a id='r29'></a><a href='#f29' class='c009'><sup>[29]</sup></a>
This is not the order in
which Dr Whewell proceeds, but it is
that which we shall observe, in giving
our readers such a brief and intelligible
account as we can of this
singularly bold <cite>Essay</cite>.  He himself
commences with a beautiful sketch
of the state of “Astronomical Discoveries,”
with which Dr Chalmers
dealt in his celebrated Discourses; by
no means understating the amount of
them, with reference principally to
the number of the heavenly bodies—“a
countless host of worlds, arranged
in planetary systems, having years
and seasons, days and nights, as we
have;” as to which, “it is at least a
likely suggestion that they have also
inhabitants—intelligent beings, who
can reckon those days and years—who
subsist on the fruits which the seasons
bring forth, and have their daily and
yearly occupations, according to their
faculties.”<a id='r30'></a><a href='#f30' class='c009'><sup>[30]</sup></a> “<span class='sc'>If</span> this world be merely
one of innumerable other worlds, all,
like it, the workmanship of God,—all
the seats of life—like it, occupied by
intelligent creatures, capable of will,
law, obedience, disobedience, as man is,—to
hold that it alone should have been
the scene of God’s care and kindness,
and still more, of His special interposition,
communication, and personal
dealings with its individual inhabitants,
in the way which religion
teaches, is, the objector is conceived
to maintain, in the highest degree extravagant,
incredible, and absurd.”<a id='r31'></a><a href='#f31' class='c009'><sup>[31]</sup></a>
Such is, as we have seen, the assertion
of Thomas Paine; and Dr
Whewell proposes to discuss this vast
<em>speculative</em> question, “not as an objection
urged by an opponent, but
rather as a difficulty felt by a friend
of religion;”—“to examine rather
how we can quiet the troubled and
perplexed believer, than how we can
triumph over the dogmatical and self-satisfied
infidel.”<a id='r32'></a><a href='#f32' class='c009'><sup>[32]</sup></a> But let <em>our</em> reader
note well, at starting, the above
mighty “<span class='fss'>IF</span>:” which he may regard as
the comet’s nucleus, drawing after it
an enormous and dismaying train of
consequences, sweeping into annihilation
man’s hopes equally with his
fears.</p>

<p class='c011'>Dr Whewell gives a lucid and terse
account of the scope of Dr Chalmers’s
eloquent declamation, his ingenious
suggestions, and his <em>astronomical</em> or
<em>philosophical</em> arguments, which he
deems “of great weight; and, upon
the whole, such as we may both assent
to, as scientifically true, and
accept as rationally persuasive. I
think, however, that there are other
arguments, also drawn from scientific
discoveries, which bear in a very
important and striking manner upon
the opinions in question, and which
Chalmers has not referred to; and I
conceive that there are philosophical
views of another kind, which, for those
who desire and will venture to regard
the universe and its Creator in the
wider and deeper relations which appear
to be open to human speculation,
may be a source of satisfaction.”<a id='r33'></a><a href='#f33' class='c009'><sup>[33]</sup></a></p>

<p class='c011'>But “<span class='fss'>WHAT IS MAN?</span>” is the pregnant
question of the royal Psalmist;
and Dr Whewell gives an account of
man, at once ennobling and solemnising;
in strict accordance, moreover,
with revelation, and with those views
of his moral and intellectual nature
universally entertained by the believers
in revealed religion. We know
of no man living entitled to speak
with more authority on such subjects
than Dr Whewell; and we think it
impossible for any thoughtful person
to read the portions of his <cite>Essay</cite> relating
to this subject, without feelings
<span class='pageno' id='Page_297'>297</span>of awe and reverence towards our
Maker. Not that any new conditions
of human nature are suggested, or
any peculiarly original views of it
presented; but our knowledge on the
subject is, as it were, condensed into
a focus, and then brought to bear upon
the question, What is man, that his
Maker should be mindful of him, and
visit him? and thereby render the
earth, in a unique and special manner,
the field of God’s providence and government.
Lord Bolingbroke objected
to the Mosaic account of the creation,
and “that man is made by Moses as
the final end, if not of the whole creation,
yet at least of our system:” but
let us remember, that Moses also tells
us that God determined to “make <em>man
in Our image, after Our likeness</em>;” that
God did, accordingly, create man in
His own image—with special significance
twice asserting the fact that <em>in
the image of God created He him</em>; and
he tells us that, after the flood, God
assigned this as a reason for visiting
the crime of murder with death—Whoso
sheddeth man’s blood, by man
shall his blood be shed; for in the
image of God made He man. The full
import of that awful and mysterious
expression, the image and likeness of
God, man, in his fallen state, may
never know. Adam possibly knew
originally; and his descendants believe
that it consists in their Intellectual and
Moral nature. The former is, in some
measure, of the same nature as the
Divine mind of the Creator:<a id='r34'></a><a href='#f34' class='c009'><sup>[34]</sup></a> the laws
which man discovers in the creation
must be laws known to God; those
which man sees to be true—those of
geometry, for instance—God also must
see to be true. That there were, from
the beginning, in the Creator’s mind
creative thoughts, is a doctrine involved
in every intelligent view of
creation—a doctrine which has recently
received splendid illustration by a
living “great discoverer in the field
of natural knowledge.”<a id='r35'></a><a href='#f35' class='c009'><sup>[35]</sup></a> Law implies
a lawgiver, even when we do not see
the object of the law; even as design
implies a designer, when we do not
see the object of the design. The
laws of nature are the indications of
the operation of the Divine mind, and
are revealed to us, as such, by the
operations of our mind, by which we
come to discover them. They are the
utterances of the Creator, delivered
in language which we can understand;
and being thus <em>Language</em>, they are the
utterances of an Intelligent Spirit.<a id='r36'></a><a href='#f36' class='c009'><sup>[36]</sup></a></p>

<p class='c011'>“If man, when he attains to a knowledge
of such laws, is really admitted, in
some degree, to the view with which the
Creator himself beholds his creation; if
we can gather, from the conditions of such
knowledge, that his intellect partakes of
the nature of the Divine intellect; if his
mind, in its clearest and largest contemplation,
harmonises with the Divine mind,—we
have in this a reason which may well
seem to us very powerful, why, even if
the earth alone be the habitation of intelligent
beings, still the great work of
creation is not wasted. If God have
placed on the earth a creature who can
so far sympathise with Him (if we may
venture upon the expression), who can
raise his intellect into some accordance
with the creative intellect; and that not
once only, nor by few steps, but through
an indefinite gradation of discoveries more
and more comprehensive, more and more
profound, each an advance, however
slight, towards a Divine Insight; then,
so far as intellect alone, of which alone
we are here speaking, can make man a
worthy object of all the vast magnificence
of creative power, we can hardly shrink
from believing that he is so.”<a id='r37'></a><a href='#f37' class='c009'><sup>[37]</sup></a></p>

<p class='c011'>Again: The earth is a scene of
<span class='fss'>MORAL TRIAL</span>. Man is subject to a
moral law; and this moral law is a
law of which God is the legislator—a
law which man has the power of discovering,
by the use of the faculties
which God has given him. Now, the
existence of a body of creatures, capable
of such a law, of such a trial,
and of such an elevation, as man is the
subject and has the power of—that is,
of rising from one stage of virtue to
another, by a gradual and successive
purification and elevation of the desires,
affections, and habits, in a degree,
so far as we know, without
limit—is, according to all we can conceive,
infinitely more worthy of the
Divine Power and Wisdom, in the
creation of the universe, than any
number of planets occupied by creatures
having no such lot, no such law,
no such capacities, and no such responsibilities.
<span class='pageno' id='Page_298'>298</span>However imperfectly the
moral law may be obeyed; however ill
the greater part of mankind may respond
to the appointment which places
them here in a state of moral probation;
however few there may be who use the
capacities and means of their moral
purification and elevation; still <em>that
there is</em> such a plan in the creation,
and that <em>any</em> respond to its appointments,
is really a view of the universe
which we can conceive to be suitable
to the nature of God, because we can
approve it, in virtue of the moral nature
which He has given us. One
school of moral discipline, one theatre
of moral action, one arena of moral
contests for the highest prizes, is a
sufficient centre for innumerable hosts
of stars and planets, globes of fire and
earth, water and air, whether or not
tenanted by corals and madrepores,
fishes and creeping things. So great
and majestic are those names of <span class='fss'>RIGHT</span>
and <span class='fss'>GOOD</span>, <span class='fss'>DUTY</span> and <span class='fss'>VIRTUE</span>, that all
mere material or animal existence is
worthless in the comparison....
Man’s moral progress is a progress
towards a likeness with God; and
such a progress, even more than a progress
towards an intellectual likeness
with God, may be conceived as making
the soul of man fit to endure for ever
with God, and therefore, as making
this earth a preparatory stage of human
souls, to fit them for eternity—a
nursery of plants which are to be
fully unfolded in a celestial garden.
And if this moral life be really only
the commencement of an infinite Divine
plan beginning upon earth, and
destined to endure for endless ages
after our earthly life, we need no array
of other worlds in the universe, to
give sufficient dignity and majesty to
the scheme of the Creator.</p>

<p class='c011'>The author of the <cite>Essay</cite> then ascends
to an infinitely greater and grander
altitude:—</p>

<p class='c013'>“If by any act of the Divine government
the number of those men should be
much increased, who raise themselves towards
the moral standard which God has
appointed, and thus towards a likeness
to God, and a prospect of a future eternal
union with him; such an act of Divine
government would do far more towards
making the universe a scene in which
God’s goodness and greatness were largely
displayed, than could be done by any
amount of peopling of planets with creatures
who were incapable of moral
agency, or with creatures whose capacity
for the development of their moral faculties
was small, and would continue to
be small, till such an act of Divine government
was performed. The interposition
of God, in the history of man, to remedy
man’s feebleness in moral and spiritual
tasks, and to enable those who profit by
the interposition to ascend towards a
union with God, is an event entirely out
of the range of those natural courses of
events which belong to our subject: and
to such an interposition, therefore, we
must refer with great reserve; <em>using
great caution that we do not mix up speculations
and conjectures of our own with
what has been revealed to man concerning
such an interposition</em>. But this, it would
seem, we may say, that such a Divine interposition
for the moral and spiritual
elevation of the human race, and for the
encouragement and aid of those who seek
the purification and elevation of their
nature, and an eternal union with God,
is far more suitable to the idea of a God
of infinite goodness, purity, and greatness,
than any supposed multiplication of
a population, on our own planet, or on
any other, not provided with <em>such</em> means
of moral and spiritual progress. And if
we were, instead of such a supposition, to
imagine to ourselves, in other regions of
the universe, a moral population purified
and elevated without the aid, or need, of
any such Divine interposition, the supposed
possibility of such a moral race
would make the sin and misery, which
deform and sadden the aspect of our
earth, appear more dark and dismal still.
We should, therefore, it would seem, find
no theological congruity, and no religious
consolation, in the assumption of a
plurality of worlds of moral beings; while,
to place the seats of those worlds in the
stars and the planets would be, as we
have already shown, a step discountenanced
by physical reasons; and discountenanced
the more, the more the light of
science is thrown upon it.”<a id='r38'></a><a href='#f38' class='c009'><sup>[38]</sup></a></p>

<p class='c010'>Should it be urged, that if the creation
of <em>one</em> world of such creatures as man
exalts so highly our views of the
dignity and importance of the plan of
creation, the belief in many such
worlds must elevate still more our
sentiments of admiration and reverence
of the greatness and goodness
of the Creator; and must be a belief,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_299'>299</span>on that account, to be accepted and
cherished by pious minds, Dr Whewell
replies in the following weighty passage:—</p>

<p class='c013'>“We cannot think ourselves authorised
to assert cosmological doctrines, <em>selected
arbitrarily by ourselves</em>, on the ground of
their exalting our sentiments of admiration
and reverence for the Deity, <em>when the
weight of all the evidence which we can
obtain respecting the constitution of the
universe, is against them</em>. It appears to
me, that to discover one great scheme of
moral and religious government, which is
the spiritual centre of the universe, may
well suffice for the religious sentiments of
men in the present age; as in former
ages, such a view of creation was sufficient
to overwhelm men with feelings of
awe, and gratitude, and love, and to make
them confess, in the most emphatic language,
that all such feelings were an
inadequate response to the view of the
scheme of Divine Providence which was
revealed to them. The thousands of
millions of inhabitants of the earth, to
whom the effects of the Divine love
extend, will not seem, to the greater part
of religious persons, to need the addition
of more, in order to fill our minds with
vast and affecting contemplations, so far
as we are capable of pursuing such contemplations.
The possible extension of
God’s spiritual kingdom upon the earth
will probably appear to them a far more
interesting field of devout meditation than
the possible addition to it of the inhabitants
of distant stars, connected, in some
inscrutable manner, with the Divine
Plan.”<a id='r39'></a><a href='#f39' class='c009'><sup>[39]</sup></a></p>

<p class='c014'>“In this state of our knowledge,” Dr
Whewell subsequently adds, after recapitulating
the whole course of the argument
indicated by the lines above placed
in italics, “and with such grounds of
belief, to dwell upon the plurality of
worlds of intellectual and moral creatures
as a highly probable doctrine,
must, we think, be held to be eminently
rash and unphilosophical. On such a
subject, where the evidences are so imperfect,
and our power of estimating
analogies so small, far be it from us to
speak positively and dogmatically. And if
any one holds the opinion, on <em>whatever</em>
evidence, that there are other spheres of
the Divine government than this earth,
other spheres in which God has subjects
and servants, other beings who do his will,
and who, it may be, are connected with
the moral and religious interests of man,
we do not breathe a syllable against such
a belief, but, on the contrary, regard it
with a ready and respectful sympathy:
it is a belief which finds an echo in pious
and benevolent hearts, and is of itself an
evidence of that religious and spiritual
character in man, which is one of the points
of our argument.... But it would be
very rash, and unadvised—a proceeding
unwarranted, we think, by religion, and
certainly at variance with all that science
teaches—to place those other extra-human
spheres of Divine government in
the planets and in the stars. With regard
to these bodies, if we reason at all, we
must reason on <em>physical</em> grounds; we
must suppose, as to a great extent we
can prove, that the law and properties of
terrestrial matter and motion apply to
them also. On such grounds it is as
improbable that visitants from Jupiter, or
from Sirius, can come to the earth, as
that men can pass to those stars—as unlikely
that inhabitants of those stars
know and take an interest in human
affairs, as that we can learn what they
are doing. A belief in the Divine government
of other races of spiritual creatures,
besides the human race, and in Divine
ministrations committed to such beings,
cannot be connected with our physical
and astronomical views of the nature of
the stars and planets, without making a
mixture altogether incongruous and incoherent—a
mixture of what is material,
and what is spiritual, adverse alike to
sound religion and to sound philosophy.”<a id='r40'></a><a href='#f40' class='c009'><sup>[40]</sup></a></p>

<p class='c010'>Those possessing a competent acquaintance
with the doctrines of
theology, and ethical and metaphysical
discussions, cannot, we think, read
this necessarily faint and imperfect
outline of what Dr Whewell has
thus far advanced on the subject,
without appreciating the caution and
discretion with which he handles the
subject which he here discusses—one
of a critical character—in all
its aspects and bearings. It is
deeply suggestive to reflecting minds,
who may be disposed to note with
satisfaction how closely his doctrine,
as thus far developed, quadrates with
those of the Christian system. He
has well reminded us, in the <cite>Dialogue</cite>,
of a saying of Kant—that two things
impressed him with awe: the starry
heaven without him, and <em>the Moral
Principle within</em>; and the current
of his reflections tends towards that
awful passage in the New Testament,—words
<span class='pageno' id='Page_300'>300</span>which fell from the
lips of the Saviour of mankind:
“For what is a man profited, if
he shall gain <em>the whole world</em>, and
lose his own soul? Or what shall
a man give in exchange for his
soul?” “<span class='sc'>For</span> the Son of Man shall
come in the glory of his Father, with
his angels, and then he shall reward
every man according to his works.”<a id='r41'></a><a href='#f41' class='c009'><sup>[41]</sup></a>
These two questions (to say nothing
of the significance of the expression
with reference to the subject now
under discussion, “the whole world”),
and the reason which is proposed to
those who would answer the question,
as that which should govern the
choice between their own soul and
the whole world, justify our attaching
the highest conceivable value and
importance to man, as a rational, a
moral, an accountable being.</p>

<p class='c011'>In the <cite>Dialogue</cite>, an objector suggests,
“But in your inclination to make man
the centre of creation, and the object
of all the rest of the universe, are
you not forgetting the admonitions of
those who warn us against this tendency
of self-glorification? You will
recollect how much of this warning
there is in the <cite>Essay on Man</cite>:—</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c012'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>‘Ask for what end the heavenly bodies shine?</div>
      <div class='line'>Earth for whose use? Pride answers, ’Tis for mine.’</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c016'>To imagine ourselves of so much
consequence in the eyes of the Creator
is natural to us, self-occupied as we
are, till philosophy rebukes such conceit.”
To which it is justly answered—“It
is quite right to attend to such
warnings. But warnings may also
be useful on the other side: warnings
against self-disparagement; against
the belief that man is <em>not</em> an important
object in the eyes of the Creator.
I do not know what philosophy represents
man as insignificant in the
eyes of the Deity; and still less does
religious philosophy favour the belief
of man’s insignificance in the eyes of
God. What great things, according
to the views which religion teaches,
has He done for mankind, and for
each man!”<a id='r42'></a><a href='#f42' class='c009'><sup>[42]</sup></a></p>

<p class='c011'>But man’s intellectual and moral
nature being of such dignity and
value in the estimation of God, other
circumstances connected with him
tend in the same direction, says Dr
Whewell, and point him out as a
special and unique existence, in every
way worthy of his transcendent position.
He is created by a direct and
special act of the Deity, and placed
and continued, under circumstances of
a most remarkable character, upon the
locality prepared for him. We need
hardly say that Dr Whewell repudiates
the irreligious, idle, and unphilosophical
notion that man is
merely the result of material development
out of a long series of animal
existences. This figment Dr Whewell
easily demolishes, on philosophical
grounds, in common with all the great
scientific men of the age; and having
vindicated for man the dignity of his
origin, as the result of a direct act of
creation, and differing not only in his
kind, but in his order, from all other
creations, proceeds to consider his relations
to his earthly abode. This
brings us to the second stage of his
Argument, to which we now proceed;
premising that it necessarily involves
considerations relating to the constitution
of man, physically, intellectually,
and morally; and especially
as a being of <em>progressive</em> development.
This stage is to be found in two
chapters of the <cite>Essay</cite>, the fifth and
sixth, respectively entitled, “Geology;”
and “the Argument from
Geology,”—both written with uncommon
ability, and exhibiting proofs of
the great importance attached to them
by the author. Even those who may
altogether dissent from his main conclusions,
will appreciate the interesting
and instructive, the masterly and
suggestive outline which he gives of
this noble twin sister of Astronomy,
Geology. We are disposed to hazard
a conjecture, that the governing idea
developed in these chapters, was the
origin of the whole speculation to
which the <cite>Essay</cite> is devoted.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_301'>301</span>
  <h2 class='c002'>MRS STOWE’S SUNNY MEMORIES.<a id='r43'></a><a href='#f43' class='c009'><sup>[43]</sup></a></h2>
</div>

<p class='c010'>It is, we think, to be regretted that
those who intend to lay before the
public their impressions of foreign
travel, should so often have recourse
to the form of letters purporting to
be addressed to friends or relatives at
home. We admit that, for purposes
of fiction, the epistolary style is convenient.
Testy Mathew Bramble,
his tyrannical sister Tabitha, and the
lovelorn Winifred Jenkins, may, by
their several lucubrations, unite to
form the most amusing of family
chronicles; but Smollett, when  he
compiled <cite>Humphrey Clinker</cite>, took care
that the expression of each character
should be perfectly natural. So with
Lever’s <cite>Dodd Family</cite>, and the immortal
letters of Mrs Ramsbottom.
But the case of a party deliberately
penning letters, in his or her own
name, not for the private gratification
of a select circle, or the information
of those to whom they are addressed,
but directly for the press and the
public, is very different. In the first
place, every one knows and feels that
the letters are not genuine. The
most gifted of our race, in addressing
a mother, a sister, or a child, do not
think it necessary to indulge in fine
writing, or in long elaborate descriptions,
or in statistical details. They
write simply—generally shortly; and
a good deal of their matter would, if
submitted to the eye of a stranger,
appear to be unmeaning gossip, not
improbably approaching to twaddle.
We doubt not that, in the real letters
which Mrs Stowe despatched across
the Atlantic, there were many household
inquiries, suggestions, and remembrances—domestic
precepts and
home-thoughts—kind, motherly, or
friendly words, such as render letters
doubly delightful to the recipients.
But these formal epistles which she
has now given to the world under
the collective title of <cite>Sunny Memories
of Foreign Lands</cite>, bear falsity in their
very face, and, in all human probability,
the printer’s devil was the first
person that perused them. They are
all pitched in one key. Her despatches
to the home nursery are as
elaborate efforts of composition, as
those which are nominally addressed
to her father, or to “Dear Aunt E.”;—and,
as a necessary consequence,
they are frigid in the extreme. This is
an artistic blunder, which cannot fail
to detract very much from the interest
of what Mrs Stowe had written. It
was not perhaps to be expected, nor
indeed desired, that she should have
printed her genuine letters; but surely
there was no occasion for recasting
her diary or memoranda in a purely
fictitious form.</p>

<p class='c011'>We have, however, no reason to
doubt that these volumes contain a
faithful record of Mrs Beecher Stowe’s
impressions of such parts of Europe
as she has visited; and we so receive
them. In her preface she requests
“the English reader to bear in mind
that the book has not been prepared
in reference to an English, but an
American public, and to make due
allowance for that fact.”—We do not
think that any explanation of the
kind was required. Mrs Stowe says
plainly enough, that “the object of
publishing these letters is to give to
those who are true-hearted and honest
the same agreeable picture of life and
manners which met the writer’s own
eyes.”—In short, she was delighted
with her tour and reception, and
generally pleased with the people
whom she met; and she wishes to
communicate her own agreeable impressions
to her countrymen. No
one, on this side of the water at least,
is likely to object to so kindly and
benevolent a design. And we are
bound to say, that had she prepared
this book with the sole object of gratifying
the people of Great Britain by
indiscriminate praise of everything
which met her eye, she could hardly
have been more eulogistic than she
is. Nor is this at all surprising, when
we remember under what circumstances
her journey to this country
was made.</p>

<p class='c011'><span class='pageno' id='Page_302'>302</span>No work published within our memory
made so rapid an impression on
the public mind as Mrs Stowe’s novel,
<cite>Uncle Tom’s Cabin</cite>. It became
famous among us almost as soon as
it was imported from America. The
theme was of surpassing interest, the
characters were powerfully drawn;
there was enthusiasm and pathos
enough to thrill the heart, to call up
tears, and to awaken the general
sympathies of the free for the
wrongs of the persecuted negro. It
brought home to the minds of all of
us the horrors of slavery in its worst
and most unendurable form. The
separation of husband and wife—the
sale of children—the exposure in the
public market of men and women,
whose education was often superior to
that of the brutes who bought and sold
them: all these things, so revolting
to humanity, were described with an
energy and power greater, perhaps,
than have been exhibited by any recent
writer. Add to this that the tone
of the novel was eminently religious,
and calculated to make it find its way
into circles from which other works
of fiction were studiously banished;
and it is easy to account for its immense
and sudden popularity. Thousands
of persons who would have
thought it a positive sin to indulge in
the perusal of a romance by Scott or
Lytton, devoured the pages of Mrs
Stowe with an avidity the more intense
from their habits of previous
abstinence. It was a book much
patronised by the Quakers, and greatly
in favour among the Methodists.
It was multiplied by countless editions;
it was to be seen in the drawing-room
of the noble, and in the
humble home of the mechanic; and
from men of all classes throughout
Great Britain it met with a cordial
acceptance.</p>

<p class='c011'>Unfortunately, however, it entered
into the heads of certain wiseacres,
that they might produce a great moral
sensation, and promote other causes
besides that of emancipation, by inducing
Mrs Beecher Stowe to visit
this country, and by parading her as
an object of interest. Far be it from
us to attempt to dictate to the gentlemen
and ladies who are the principal
promoters of the Peace Society, and
the most active in the distribution of
Olive-leaves, or to those who make
total abstinence a leading article of
their faith. But we may be allowed,
with all deference, to hint our opinion
that, in inviting Mrs Stowe to undergo
the ordeal of a public ovation, they
were not acting altogether fairly by
the lady whom they professed to
honour. We trust that we have said
enough, both now and previously, to
testify the sincere admiration in
which we regard her talents as exhibited
in her famous novel, and our
sympathy for the cause in which that
genius was displayed. Our tribute
of praise, however humble in its kind,
has not been niggardly bestowed;
but we demur altogether to the propriety
of making a public show and
spectacle of the authoress of the most
popular work, upon even the best or
the holiest subject. We should demur
to the propriety of such an exhibition,
were it even demanded by
the general voice—we condemn it
when it is notoriously got up for
sectarian glorification. Yet such undoubtedly
was the case with Mrs
Stowe. At Liverpool, at Glasgow,
and at Edinburgh, her self-constituted
friends determined that she should be
received with demonstrations which
were, in the eyes of the unexcited,
purely ridiculous. There were to be
anti-slavery meetings, working-men’s
soirées, presentation of addresses and
offerings, and an immense deal of the
same kind of thing which was utterly
unsuited to the occasion; and the
result was, that Mrs Stowe, in so far
as the north of Britain was concerned,
saw little of that society which gives
the intellectual stamp to the country,
and derived her impressions almost
entirely from the conversation of a
limited coterie. How could it be
otherwise? Mrs Stowe was undoubtedly
a very clever woman—she had
written an admirable novel upon a
most interesting subject—and every
one was delighted both with its matter
and its success. But was that
any reason why town-councils should
receive her at railways—why people
should be urged to present addresses
to her as though she had been a
Boadicea, or a Joan d’Arc—or why
her presence should be made an excuse
for indulging in unmeasured
speeches, or in violent objurgations
<span class='pageno' id='Page_303'>303</span>against the legislature of America,
for continuing a system which we
have nationally decreed to be vile in
our own dominions, and have taken
every means in our power to discountenance
elsewhere? Opinion in
this country, in so far as it can be
expressed—and it has been expressed
in thousands of ways—is unanimous
for the emancipation of the
negro. One and all of us consider the
continuance of slavery, as it exists
in America, a foul blot upon the nation,
which proclaims itself as peculiarly
free; and we have said so in
anything but undecisive terms. Still,
what we have said, is the expression
of an opinion only. We may object
to slavery in America, as we may
object to the same institution in Turkey,
or to serfage in Russia, or to anything
else beyond our cognisance and
jurisdiction; but we are not entitled
to usurp the right, which every separate
nation possesses, of regulating its own
laws according to its peculiar position.
We say this, because, of late years,
the tendency towards popular demonstrations
and sympathising meetings
in England, has increased to such a
degree as even to embarrass our relations
with foreign powers. Well-meaning,
but supremely ignorant vestry-men,
bustling civic magistrates,
and conceited members of town-councils,
consider themselves entitled to
sit in judgment and give sentence
upon all questions of European politics.
The moment a political exile of
any note arrives in this country, he
is fêted, and cheered, and made a
hero of by municipal dignitaries, who
seize the occasion as a capital opportunity
for making ungrammatical professions
of their ardent adoration of
liberty. Their sympathy in favour
of insurgents is perfectly unbounded.
They have sympathised with the Hungarians—they
have sympathised with
the Italians—and, until very lately,
they showed great sympathy for those
gentlemen who were compelled to
leave France for their conspiracies
against the existing government. It
is not a little amusing to contrast the
tone which is now assumed by the liberal
press and by the municipalities
of England towards Louis Napoleon,
with that which was prevalent some
eighteen months ago! We should
like to see an ovation attempted now
in honour of the French republicans.
And yet what change has taken
place? Ledru Rollin is as good a
patriot now as ever; the title of the
Emperor to the throne of France is
not one whit better than it was before.
We are now engaged in war;
and the utmost efforts of our statesmen
have been used to induce Austria
to join with the Western Powers.
And yet, in the face of these negotiations,
we find that, in the large towns
of England, Kossuth is declaring to
immense and sympathising audiences
that the accession of Austria to our
side would be the means of riveting
the chains on the oppressed nationality
of Hungary! This conduct on the
part of the English public, or rather
that portion of it which has an inveterate
itch for meddling with what
it does not and cannot understand, is
not only silly, but positively dangerous.
If the people of every State were to
act in this way, war would not be the
exception, but a perpetually existing
calamity; and nation would rise
against nation, not on account of acts
of positive aggression, but because
each objected to the mode in which
the other administered its own affairs.
We have no scruple in expressing our
conviction that, since this sympathising
mania commenced, Great Britain
has lost much of her influence as a
first-rate European power. It has the
effect of placing, apparently at least,
the Government and the people in
antagonism—of detracting from the
power of the one, and unduly adding
to that of the other. And—what we
regret most deeply to see—it has
raised and fostered the impression
that we are collectively a nation of
braggarts. It is most natural that it
should be so, for we are perpetually
vaunting about the force of public
opinion in this country, and declaring
that nothing can stand against it. On
the Continent the voice of the towns
is considered as the sure index of
public opinion; and if that voice had
been taken, not very long ago, we
should ere now have been engaged in
liberating crusades in behalf of Hungary
and Italy. The Government, of
course, and the vast bulk of the educated
and thinking classes throughout
Great Britain, estimate these ridiculous
<span class='pageno' id='Page_304'>304</span>exhibitions at their proper value,
and treat them with silent contempt;—not
so foreigners; who, being assured
that in the principal towns of
England immense meetings have
been held and resolutions passed in
favour of insurgency, conclude, naturally
enough, that these are demonstrations
of that public opinion of
which they have heard so much, and
that the British Government cannot
do otherwise than yield to the pressure
from without. Perhaps the most
absurd commentary upon this exceedingly
reprehensible system of sympathising
may be found in the fact, that
while our mayors, provosts, aldermen,
bailies, and other civic small-deer, are
sympathising with the oppressed nationalities
of Europe, various of their
Transatlantic brethren are doing the
same in behalf of Ireland and the
Irish, and holding up the people of
England to the scorn and detestation
of the universe, as the cold-blooded,
fiendish, and systematic torturers of
the oppressed Celtic nationality!</p>

<p class='c011'>But we must not diverge too much
from our immediate subject. It seems
to us that there really was no occasion
for holding public meetings to
show that the sympathy of this country
was decidedly in favour of the
cause of emancipation, or to irritate
the Americans by a vain-glorious
comparison of our own conduct contrasted
with theirs. We ought, in
common decency, to remember that
no very great tract of time has elapsed
since slavery was abolished in the
British colonies; and as, in matters
of this kind, interest is always a
ruling motive, we should also bear
in mind that the prosperity of those
colonies has not been increased by
the substitution of free for forced
labour. Very few of us, on this side
of the Atlantic, are able to give a
competent opinion as to what effect
immediate and unconditional emancipation
might produce upon the slave-holding
States of America; and therefore
we are hardly entitled to do more
than to assert the general principle,
which condemns the absolute property
of man in man. How entire
emancipation, which we trust, before
long, every State in America will
adopt, can be carried out, must be
left to the wisdom and discretion of
the local legislatures. No change so
great as this can be wrought suddenly.
Christianity itself must be inculcated,
not coerced, for violence never yet
made converts; nor was the blood-red
baptism of Valverde, who held
the cross in the one hand and the
sword in the other, equal in efficacy
to the calm expositions of Xavier.
Now, it is very plain to us that, in her
own way, Mrs Beecher Stowe is a
zealot. She has been writing and
working at this subject of emancipation,
until she has ceased to see any
practical difficulty between her vision
and its realisation, and wants to persuade
all others that no practical
difficulty exists. We agree with her
so far, that we contemplate not only
as desirable, but as necessary for
the political existence of the United
States of America, a measure for the
ultimate and entire emancipation of
the negro; but we cannot take upon
ourselves the responsibility of urging
an immediate change, which might
have the effect, in many important
respects, of deteriorating instead of
bettering the condition of the black
population. What more, by any
possible effort, can the people of
Great Britain do than they have
done? Every man in America knows
that we detest the system of slavery.
We have shown that by a long series
of legislative measures, and by national
grants to purchase the freedom of our
slaves in the colonies; and very few
names, indeed, are held in greater
honour in this country than those of
Clarkson and Wilberforce. But most
assuredly we have no right to dictate
to other nations, or to insist that they
shall adopt our views in the regulation
of their internal policy. We
might just as well attempt to coerce
them in matters of religion, and,
founding upon our belief in the purity
of Protestantism, insist that the Catholic
states shall renounce the authority
of Rome. Certainly we shall
not improve the cause of the American
negro by indulging in bitter terms
and unlimited objurgation against the
States which do not, as yet, see their
way to immediate emancipation. All
the great reforms of the world have
been progressive. To hasten them
unduly, and until men are fit to receive
them, is the mere work of
<span class='pageno' id='Page_305'>305</span>anarchy; and the world-history of
the last sixty years, whilst it conveys
a terrible warning against the neglect
of a despised population, shows us
that, in order to be permanent, all
social ameliorations must be carefully
and cautiously introduced.</p>

<p class='c011'>But we feel that we owe an apology
to Mrs Stowe for this digression. It
was no fault of hers that she had to
run the gauntlet through so many
soirées, or to appear perpetually in
the disagreeable character of a <i><span lang="fr">lionne</span></i>.
The whole programme was arranged
before she set foot in this country;
and she had nothing else for it than
to go through her allotted part with
patience and equanimity. We must
admit that she was sorely tried during
her sojourn in the north. She seems
to have been under the custody of a
special dissenting body-guard, with
about as little liberty of action as the
unfortunate Lady Grange. No wonder
that Scotland appeared to her a very
different country from the land of her
imagination. Not one of those by
whom she was surrounded possessed
a spark of romantic enthusiasm, or
cared about the associations which
have shed the light of poetry over the
land. “One thing,” says Mrs Stowe,
“has surprised, and rather disappointed
us. Our enthusiasm for Walter
Scott does not apparently meet a
response in the popular breast.” Very
little indeed does the lady know of
the beating of the national heart of
Scotland, or the veneration in which
the memory of our greatest poet is
held by his countrymen. But it is
not at soirées, or meetings such as she
witnessed or attended, that the national
feeling finds a voice; nor have
the writings of Sir Walter Scott been
ever favourably regarded by the rigid
sectarians among whom she moved.
His thoughts were not as their
thoughts are, nor would it be possible
that any sympathy should exist between
minds so differently constituted.
We cannot expect Mr Sturge to take
much delight in the “Lay of the Last
Minstrel,” or a sleek member of the
Peace Society to feel his spirit moved
by the chaunt of the “Field of Flodden.”
What has amused us most in
the perusal of this book is, the evident
influence which the dislike of her
friends to the martial strains of Scott
produced at length upon herself. She
seems to have entered Scotland in a
sort of fever of enthusiasm, as is testified
by the perpetual quotations
from Sir Walter’s poetry—rather
common, by the way, for they are to
be found in all the guide-books—in
which she indulges. By-and-by she
begins to find that her raptures are
coldly listened to by the society in
which she moves; and ultimately she
seems to have adopted the view that
in some respects her friends were
right. The following is a very pretty
<em>morçeau</em> of criticism: “The most objectionable
thing, perhaps, about his
influence is its sympathy with the
war spirit. A person Christianly
educated can hardly read some of
his descriptions in the <cite>Lady of the
Lake</cite> and <cite>Marmion</cite> without an emotion
of disgust, like what is excited
by the same things in Homer:
and as the world comes more and
more under the influence of Christ, it
will recede more and more from this
kind of literature.” We marvel that
Mrs Stowe, who is a clever woman,
does not perceive that the people of
a country in which the spirit which
she pleases to reprehend becomes
extinct, must necessarily be in time
succeeded by a race of unresisting
slaves. The remark, too, comes
with a peculiarly bad grace from a
lady who is not only proud of the independence
of her country, but affects
intense enthusiasm for the struggles
of the Puritans and Covenanters in
Great Britain. However, we suppose
she thought it polite to the members
of the Peace Society, among whom
she was moving, to give this little
jog to their principles; and it may be
that, after all, her intimacy with the
writings of Scott is considerably less
than one would conclude from the
quantity of quotation. Certainly we
were surprised to find it stated by a
lady of so much literary pretension
and apparent acquaintance with the
personal history of Sir Walter, that
Abbotsford “is at present the property
of Scott’s only surviving daughter;”
and we must also confess that
some of her quotations unsettle our
ancient ideas as to the limits of the
Border. For example, she says with
reference to a visit paid at the Earl of
Carlisle’s—“I was also interested in
<span class='pageno' id='Page_306'>306</span>a portrait of an ancestor of the family,
the identical “Belted Will” who
figures in Scott’s “Lay.””</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c012'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“‘<em>Belted Will Howard</em> shall come with speed,</div>
      <div class='line'>And <em>William of Deloraine</em>, good at need.’”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c016'>Possibly Lord Carlisle was not previously
aware that his ancestor was
a Scotsman, and a retainer of the
house of Buccleuch. With equal propriety
might Omer Pasha be described
as a hetman of the Cossacks, rushing
to the rescue of Gortschakoff.</p>

<p class='c011'>On the whole, we are inclined to
think that the American public will
not derive much enlightenment on the
subject of Scotland and the Scots from
the revelations of Mrs Stowe. We
can assure them that the general aspect,
tone, and sentiments of society
here do not at all correspond with
what is represented in her pages. It
is not the fact that the greater part
of our time is occupied by delivering
or listening to wish-washy platform
speeches, or even to such as have
“the promising fault of too much
elaboration or ornament,” on the subjects
of tee-totalism, olive-leavery, or
any of the other mild absurdities of
the day. It is not the fact that we
have lost all grateful memory for the
warlike deeds of our ancestors, or
for the poets who have worthily
recorded them. And, above all,
it is not the fact that Mrs Stowe had
a fair opportunity of forming a judgment,
on almost any point, of the
views entertained by the bulk of the
more educated classes of society. We
do not say this at all in disparagement
of the parties among whom she
moved, and by whom she was so hospitably
entertained. We have every
respect for their worth, position, and
acquirements; and we are well aware
that among the ministers of various
denominations to whom she was introduced,
and of whom she speaks
affectionately, there are many whose
talent, learning, and devotion have
made their names known beyond the
waters of the Atlantic. It must have
been peculiarly gratifying to her to
receive the congratulations of the late
venerable Dr Wardlaw of Glasgow,
of Dr John Brown of Edinburgh,
whom she rightly calls “one of the
best exegetical scholars in Europe,”
and other lights of the United Presbyterian
and Congregationalist Churches.
In Edinburgh, Glasgow, and Aberdeen
she received much civic kindness
and attention; but we are at a loss,
after reading her book, to discover
much trace of her intercourse with
general society beyond a very limited
coterie. True, she refers to some
persons “from ancient families, distinguished
in Scottish history both for
rank and piety,”—and especially to a
“Lady Carstairs,” of whose corporeal
existence we can find no trace in any
Book of Dignity within our reach.
All that, however, is of little moment;
and we never should have thought of
alluding to such circumstances, were
it not that, so very much having been
said in America on the subject of Mrs
Stowe’s reception in Scotland, her
account of what she saw may naturally
be received as an accurate picture
of the country. We have no
doubt whatever of her general accuracy
in describing what she saw. We
are very proud to think that she was
received with much enthusiasm and
cordiality; and nothing could be more
genuine than the expression of feeling
on the part of the working-classes.
Her book undoubtedly struck most
deeply in the popular mind; producing
a sensation which we have never
seen equalled, inasmuch as it extended
through every grade of society. And
we can very well understand the intensity
of the feeling which must have
thrilled Mrs Stowe, when she found
that even in sequestered villages in
Scotland her work had been moistened
with tears, and that the people,
on the announcement of her approach,
thronged to welcome the woman who
had exercised so mighty a spell over
their intellect and their passions.
There was, really, no delusion in the
matter, in so far as admiration of her
talent and respect for her intrepidity
were concerned; but we may, at the
same time, be allowed to regret that
she was made part of a premeditated
pageant. The utter want of delicacy
which marked the whole arrangements
was most extraordinary. We
are sure that Mrs Stowe must have
been surprised, if not disgusted, at
finding herself announced as ready to
receive deputations and addresses at
certain stated hours, and at the invitation
<span class='pageno' id='Page_307'>307</span>of crowds to attend in order to
cheer her at railway stations. There
is something elevating in spontaneous
enthusiasm, even when it is carried
beyond the limits of strict propriety;
but demonstrations such as those to
which we have alluded, are not only
unfair to the party paraded, but border
closely on the ludicrous. No
quackery of the kind was required to
insure Mrs Stowe a cordial reception
in Scotland; and we fear that in some
respects it operated rather to her disadvantage
than otherwise.</p>

<p class='c011'>We confess to have been greatly
disappointed in the perusal of her
northern tour. We had expected to
derive some amusement, if not edification,
from the remarks of a lady
whose previous publications had manifested
considerable power in the depiction
of character, not unmixed with
occasional glimpses of humour; the
more especially as there is much in
the northern idiosyncrasy which must
appear peculiar in the eyes of a stranger.
Nothing of the sort, however, is
to be found in the pages of Mrs Stowe.
Read her work, omitting the familiar
names of places, and one would be
utterly at a loss to suppose that she is
describing Scotland and its inhabitants
either outwardly or inwardly.
Saunders, as she depicts him, is a sort
of sentimental Treddles, minding every
body’s business more than his own,
intoning peace speeches on a platform
with a strong nasal twang, and refreshing
himself, after his labours,
with oceans of the weakest and the
worst of tea. It is ten thousand pities
that Mrs Stowe should not have witnessed
either a Lowland kirn or a
regular Highland meeting. Possibly
the sounds either of fiddle or of bagpipe
might have grated harshly on
her ear; and the “twasome” reel or
that of Houlakin been regarded as forbidden
vanities; still she would have
been infinitely the better of some more
diversified experience, which might at
least have caused her to avoid the
error of depicting us as a nation of
Mucklewraths, Hammeryaws, and
Kettledrummles. As for her outward
sketches, we must say that we greatly
prefer the ordinary guide-books. They
have at least the merit of being concise,
and do not usually confound localities
and historical events, as Mrs
Stowe certainly does when she indicates
Glammis Castle as the scene of
the tragedy in <cite>Macbeth</cite>.</p>

<p class='c011'>Moving southwards, Mrs Stowe
seems to have been surrendered, in
the Midland Counties, almost entirely
into the hands of the Quakers. They
appear to have acted towards her with
considerable indulgence; for her host,
albeit one of the most eminent of his
sect, consented to join a party to
Stratford-on-Avon. Mrs Stowe’s
Shakespearian remarks do not appear
to us either so novel or profound as to
justify any lengthy extract—indeed,
they are chiefly confined to speculations
as to what Shakespeare might
have done or said had he been born
under different circumstances and in
a different age. Disquisitions of this
sort appear to us very nearly as sensible
and profitable as the question,
once gravely argued in the German
schools, whether Adam, if born in the
fifteenth century, would instinctively
have betaken himself to the occupation
of a gardener. Mrs Stowe, upon the
whole, inclines to the opinion that
Shakespeare would have ranked with
the Tories. She says—“That he did
have thoughts whose roots ran far beyond
the depth of the age in which he
lived, is plain enough from numberless
indications in his plays; but whether
he would have taken any practical interest
in the world’s movements, is a
fair question. The poetic mind is not
always the progressive one; it has, like
moss and ivy, a need for something old
to cling to and germinate upon. The
artistic temperament, too, is soft and
sensitive; so there are all these reasons
for thinking that perhaps he
would have been for keeping out of
the way of the heat and dust of modern
progress.” Certainly, understanding
progress in the sense which
Mrs Stowe attaches to it, we cordially
agree with her that Shakespeare would
have kept out of its way; but it does
seem to us a most monstrous assumption
that he would have taken no
practical interest in the world’s movements.
Of all the poets that ever
lived, Shakespeare was decidedly the
most practical and comprehensive in
his views. So far from being addicted
to clinging to old things, from mere
want of moral stamina, he has created
a new world of his own; and no man
<span class='pageno' id='Page_308'>308</span>ever possessed so keen a power of
analysis of human character, and perception
of the springs of action. But
possibly we do her wrong. The word
“practical” nowadays has divers significations;
and if Mrs Stowe simply
means to express her belief that
Shakespeare, had he existed in our
time, would neither have been a habitual
spouter upon platforms, a vegetarian,
a tee-totaller, a member of the
Peace Congress, nor a unit of the
Manchester phalanx, we beg leave to
record our entire acquiescence in her
estimate. Also we think that, as an
eminent vice-president of the Fogie
Club lately phrased it, she has hit the
nail on the point, when she adds—“One
thing is quite certain, that he
would have said very shrewd things
about all the matters that move the
world now, as he certainly did about
all matters that he was cognisant of
in his own day.” We have not the
least doubt of it.</p>

<p class='c011'>The Stratford pilgrimage, however,
seems to have given little gratification
to any of the party except Mrs Stowe,
who considered it in the light of a
duty. Her brother, the Rev. C.
Beecher, who was of the party, doing
a little independent platform business
whenever he could with propriety,
and whose journal materially swells
the bulk of the second volume, seems
to be quite the sort of man whom
Prynne would have delighted to have
honoured. Relic-hunting after professors
of the lewd art of play-making,
was by no means to his taste; and
accordingly we find the following commentary
delivered over the tea and
crumpets on the questionable amusements
of the day:—“As we sat, in
the drizzly evening, over our comfortable
tea-table, C—— ventured to intimate
pretty decidedly that he considered
the whole thing a bore;
whereat I thought I saw a sly twinkle
round the eyes and mouth of our most
Christian and patient friend, Joseph
Sturge. Mr S. laughingly told him
that he thought it the greatest exercise
of Christian tolerance, that he
should have trailed round in the mud
with us all day in our sight-seeing,
bearing with our unreasonable raptures.
He smiled, and said quietly—‘I
must confess that I was a little
pleased that our friend Harriet was so
zealous to see Shakespeare’s house,
when it wasn’t his house, and so earnest
to get sprigs from his mulberry,
when it wasn’t his mulberry.’ We
were quite ready to allow the foolishness
of the thing, and join the laugh
at our own expense.”</p>

<p class='c011'>Warwick Castle, where Mrs Stowe
grows critical upon art, after a very
peculiar fashion—and Kenilworth, at
which she indulges in the somewhat
singular remark that “it was a beautiful
conception, this making of birds”!—need
not detain us. The pleasure
trip was succeeded by a penance, in
the shape of a lecture “against the
temptations of too much flattery and
applause, and against the worldliness
which might beset me in London,”
delivered by a celebrated female
preacher, belonging to the Society of
Quakers, of the name of Sibyl Jones,
who had “a concern upon her mind
for me.” That Sibyl possessed somewhat
of the prophetic spirit, appears
plain from the commentary of Mrs
Stowe, who was sensibly touched by
the hints which she received, and
very likely began to feel that she had
been somewhat over-elevated by the
inflation of the northern Puffendorffs.
In all seriousness, we believe that the
lesson was both well meant and well
timed; but the commentary appended
is but one of the many proofs contained
in these volumes, that Mrs
Stowe is something more than a passive
spectator of the Transatlantic
movement for establishing what are
called the “Rights of Woman”—in
more vulgar language, the superiority
of the grey mare, and the supremacy
of the petticoat over the breeches.
Now, as to the supremacy of women,
we never had any doubt about it—few
men, who have been married for a
year, can be sceptical upon that point—and
the utmost that men can demand
from their wives as to the respective
ranking of the garments, is,
in the ancient and significant language
of the Highlanders, to be allowed
“to cast their clothes together.”
Moreover, to the wife is invariably
committed that highest symbol of
authority known as “the power of the
keys;” so that she has it in her
power at all times to coerce her husband
by the simplest and the readiest
means. In fact, she has him at a
<span class='pageno' id='Page_309'>309</span>dead lock, and possesses the entire
command of the press. Young Hampden
may talk as much as he pleases,
at his Club, about the liberty of the
press, and its being as essential as
the air he breathes; but, when he
returns home, about one in the morning,
he is very fain to take his candle,
and move up-stairs as quietly as possible,
without attempting to enfranchise
any incarcerated spirits. We
do not hesitate to declare ourselves in
favour of the supremacy of the wife in
her own household, believing that it
is, in almost every case, an unavoidable
consummation, and, upon the
whole, the very best arrangement that
human ingenuity could devise. But
the American notion goes far beyond
this. The advocates of the “Rights
of Woman” admit of no such paltry
compromise as the surrender of domestic
authority. What you as a
man can do, of that your wife is
equally capable, and may lawfully
exert herself accordingly. Are you
a barrister—why should not your
wife, who has studied as a juris-consult,
and been admitted to the honours
of the forensic gown more legitimately
than Portia, take a fee from
the opposite party, and, by an influence
only known to herself, cause you
to quail before you have proceeded
half-way in the exposition of the cause
of your client? Or are you a doctor—Harriet
Hunt, M.D., forgive us for
this supposition; for your image, albeit
we never saw you and never may,
often haunts us in our dreams, and
from your imaginary hand have we
received multitudes of indescribable
but seemingly celestial pills—how
would you like your wife to be called
in as an adviser on the homœopathic
principle, after you had staked your
existence on the superiority of the
drastic method, and see her recover
a patient in less than a week, whereas
you had calculated upon a month’s
legitimate fees under the ordinary
curatory process? Or let us suppose
that one of the fairest dreams of the
strong-minded women of our generation
should be realised, and that all
political disabilities were removed
from the fair sex, so that they might
be admitted to sit and vote in Parliament.
We scorn to take up the objection
which might occur to a common
mind of the impossibility of the
Speaker maintaining order—we shall
suppose a far worse case; and that is
the possible disagreement between
man and wife in political principle
and conduct. How could you possibly
endure the spectacle of your
spouse accompanying the smiling Mr
Gladstone to a division in one lobby,
whilst your stern sense of duty compelled
you to retire into another?
How could you possibly remain at
bed and board with a woman who
was in the habit of attending those
meetings at Chesham Place, which
Lord John Russell is so fond of calling
whenever he requires a friendly
castigation, as Henry II. bared his
brawny shoulders to the monks?
And how, as a gentleman and a man
of honour, could you reconcile it with
your conscience to lay your head on
the same pillow with a woman who
can support the Coalition Ministry,
and even go the length of declaring
that she has confidence in
the Earl of Aberdeen? Or we shall
come to preaching, which is perhaps
the more germain to the matter.
The Rev. Asahel Groanings, of
some undefined shadow of dissent,
marries Miss Naomi Starcher of corresponding
principles, with a fortune
of some few hundred pounds, which
are speedily sunk, beyond hope of extrication,
in the erection of an Ebenezer.
Both are licensed to the ministry,
Asahel officiating in the morning and
his helpmate in the afternoon. But
somehow or other, Asahel is not
popular with his congregation. His
style of oratory reminds one unpleasantly
of the exercitations of a seasick
passenger in a steamboat, and
his visage is ghastly to look upon,
being distorted as if he laboured under
a permanent attack of colic. Whereas,
the voice of Naomi is soft as that of a
dove cooing in a thicket of pomegranates,
her countenance is fair and
comely, and the thoughts of the elders,
as they gaze upon her, revert to the
apocryphal history of Susannah. The
result is, that Asahel utters his ululations
to empty benches, whilst Naomi
attracts hundreds of the rising youth
of dissenting Christendom. How can
their union possibly be a happy one;
or how can they continue to fructify
in the same theatre of usefulness?
<span class='pageno' id='Page_310'>310</span>Yet Mrs Beecher Stowe absolutely
goes the length of recommending, or
at least sanctioning, the view that
ladies should be allowed to preach.
She says, “The calling of women to
distinct religious vocations, it appears
to me, was a part of primitive Christianity;
has been one of the most
efficient elements of power in the
Romish church; obtained among the
Methodists in England; and has in all
these cases been productive of great
good. The deaconesses whom the
apostle mentions with honour in his
epistle, Madame Guyon in the Romish
church, Mrs Fletcher, Elizabeth Fry,
are instances which show how much
may be done for mankind by women
who feel themselves impelled to a
special religious vocation.” Then she
goes on to cite the case of the prophetesses,
and tells us that “the example
of the Quakers is a sufficient
proof, that acting upon this idea does
not produce discord and domestic disorder.”
We are afraid that Mrs
Stowe’s platform experiences have
tended somewhat to warp her better
judgment upon this point; and we beg
to submit that, according to her own
showing, the ladies of America have
quite as much to do, in the interior of
their households, as they can possibly
manage to accomplish, without entering
into any of the learned professions, or
attempting to eclipse their husbands.
The following extract is certainly a
curious one. We, of course, are not
answerable for the correctness or
colouring of the picture, these being
matters for which Mrs Stowe is amenable
to the consciences of her countrywomen.</p>

<p class='c013'>“There is one thing more which goes a
long way towards the continued health of
these English ladies, and therefore towards
their beauty; and that is, <em>the quietude
and perpetuity of their domestic
institutions</em>. They do not, like us, fade
their cheeks lying awake nights ruminating
the awful question who shall do the
washing next week, or who shall take
the chamber-maid’s place, who is going to
be married, or that of the cook who has
signified her intention of parting with her
mistress. Their hospitality is never embarrassed
by the consideration that their
whole kitchen cabinet may desert at the
moment that their guests arrive. They
are not obliged to choose between washing
their own dishes, or having their cutglass,
silver, and china, left at the mercy
of a foreigner, who has never done anything
but field-work. And last, not least,
they are not possessed of that ambition to
do the impossible in all branches, which,
I believe, is the death of a third of the
women in America. What is there ever
read of in books or described in foreign
travel, as attained by people in possession
of every means and appliance, which our
women will not undertake, single-handed,
in spite of every providential indication
to the contrary? Who is not cognisant
of dinner-parties invited, in which the
lady of the house has figured successively
as confectioner, cook, dining-room girl,
and, lastly, rushed up-stairs to bathe her
glowing cheeks, smooth her hair, draw on
satin dress and kid gloves, and appear
in the drawing-room as if nothing were
the matter? Certainly the undaunted
bravery of our American females can
never enough be admired. Other women
can play gracefully the head of the establishment;
but who, like them, could be
head, hand, and foot, all at once?”</p>

<p class='c010'>This passage is very suggestive in
two ways. In the first place, we
humbly venture to think that it contains
many excellent reasons why the
ladies of America should mitigate their
inordinate desire for sharing in what
hitherto have been considered the
appropriate employments of men. It
appears, by Mrs Stowe’s evidence,
that they have already so much
domestic work to perform, that they
are compelled to sacrifice both their
health and beauty, which certainly
are the two last things that a woman
would be inclined to part with. Therefore
it seems to us unwise, and even
preposterous, that any portion of them
should be clamorous in demanding a
further increase of duty, unless, like the
gude-wife of Auchtermuchty in the old
Scots ballad, they are prepared to make
an entire interchange of occupation
with their husbands, and can persuade
the latter to whip cream, concoct
soup, wash the dishes, and
arrange the table, whilst they are
pleading at the bar, prescribing for
half the young fellows in the neighbourhood,
gesticulating at public
meetings, or receiving the incense of
deputations. In the second place,
these particulars of American society
may, in reality, have more to do with
the evident dislike to emancipation of
the slaves which evidently prevails in
many parts of the United States, than
<span class='pageno' id='Page_311'>311</span>Mrs Stowe was aware of when she
penned the passage. If it is true that
the ladies of America—using the term
in the same sense as Mrs Stowe does,
for she is comparing the personal
appearance of women of the richer
and more independent class in the
two countries—if it is the fact that
the American ladies in the free States
have to undergo the drudgery which
she describes, and that not from
choice, but from absolute inability to
obtain proper assistance; then we
have a distinct and intelligible motive
assigned to us why many excellent
and humane people in the slave States
hesitate to join the movement in behalf
of emancipation. We have often
suspected that some strong social
reasons, unknown to us and to the
British public, must exist, to account
for the continuance of the slave system;
and we think that Mrs Stowe
has, albeit unwittingly, disclosed one
of them. For what does her sentiment
amount to, but an acknowledgment
that, in the great enlightened
republic of America, it is impossible
to procure decent or permanent service—that,
as there is no acknowledgment
of anything like rank or
gradation, the servants consider themselves
in all respects as good as their
master or mistress, will not obey them
unless it suits their humour, and are
always ready to decamp? That
must be the case, unless we are to
suppose that the American ladies,
answering to the aristocracy here,
have a diseased appetite for performing
the offices of scullion, cook, and
table-maid. Now, it may be thought
a very strong statement on our part,
but we venture to say, that were
slavery existing at the present time
in Great Britain, and were the
kind of free service procurable on any
terms, no better than that which Mrs
Stowe and all other writers have described
as existing in America, emancipation
would be a decidedly unpopular
proposal in these Islands.
Is it possible to doubt that? Look
at the history of the Factories Bill,
opposed, defeated, and evaded in
every possible way, by the very same
men who proclaim themselves as the
warmest friends of the negro. They
thought it as nothing that the bodies
and souls of the young children within
their factories should be distorted and
uncared for, whilst at the same time
they were ready to expend their gratuitous
sympathy on the American
slave. But we shall not refer solely
to them. Our remark applies to
every class; and we put the question
to the ladies of this country, from the
Duchess of Sutherland downwards,
whether, if they had been born slave-owners,
they would at once have relinquished
their control over those
whom they could treat kindly, and
whose affections they could secure, to
pass to a system which would have
sent them down from the drawing-room
to slave themselves in the pantry
or the kitchen? Is that an argument
for slavery? Heaven forbid!
We intend nothing of the kind, and
should be very sorry to see our meaning
so twisted and distorted. But it
is an argument of the very strongest
description against republicanism and
republican institutions, and against
those absurd notions of equality which,
under philosophical cover, are making
such rapid progress in this country.
Slavery, we are convinced, has in all
times existed rather as a social necessity,
than from any abstract wish in
man to own property in man. The
idea is of itself repugnant. Not much
more than a hundred years ago, the
Earls of Sutherland were, in effect,
considerable serf-owners. The patriarchal
rule of the chief was more
despotic than is the sway of the proprietor
of slaves in America; for if
the Mhor-ar-chat, which we apprehend
to be the most ancient designation
of the family, had desired Dugald
or Donald to pitch his recusant brother
into the loch, with some hundred-weight
of granite attached to
his neck by a plaid, “nae doubt the
laird’s pleasure suld be obeyed.”
Fortunately we are past that phase of
existence. The feudal system has
decayed and died, which we are not
by any means sorry for; but, on the
other hand, we have not yet arrived
at the point when the descendants of
Dugald and Donald consider themselves
as ranking in the same degree
of the social scale with the great
Lady of Dunrobin. Feudal service
has given way to a better-ordered,
more convenient, and more profitable
system. But still, among us, the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_312'>312</span>gradations of rank are recognised and
acted on; and it is because the feelings
and institutions of the country
are essentially aristocratic, that our
domestic arrangements and social intercourse
are so decidedly superior to
those of America, or indeed of any
other country in the world. We
have equal laws, to which noble and
yeoman are alike amenable; but we
do not insist upon the recognition of
what has absurdly and mischievously
been termed, the law of universal
equality. Admirably has Sir Edward
Bulwer Lytton, in one of his
earlier writings, exposed the fallacy
of those who confound equal rights
with absolute parity in society. “If
the whole world conspired to enforce
the falsehood, they could not make it
<em>law</em>. Level all conditions to-day, and
you only smoothe away all obstacles
to tyranny to-morrow. A nation that
aspires to <em>equality</em> is unfit for <em>freedom</em>.”
How is an army led? By subordination
only. Remove that principle,
and the army resolves itself into a
mob. So is it with all society. Let
men talk of the absurdities of chivalry
as they please, it is the influence of
the chivalrous institutions still remaining
among us which leavens the
whole mass of British society. Pothouse
philosophers may sneer at this
assertion, and, in their usual elegant
style of language, talk of “flunkeyism,”
a phrase which, of late, has
been very frequently in their mouths.
Let us see what they understand by
it. Do they mean to object to service
altogether? Do they consider the
waiter at the Thistlewood Arms, who
supplies them with their nocturnal
allowances of gin, degraded by the
act of fetching? Doubtless they
would infinitely prefer to help themselves,
and to be the sole supervisors
of the score; but as that is a degree
of liberty which no law could possibly
allow, or landlord tolerate, they are
very fain to avail themselves of the
spirituous ministry of Trinculo. But
do they consider him on a level with
themselves? Not at all. They bully
him for his blunders in the transmission
of half-and-half and kidneys, with
a ferocity truly unfraternal; and if he
were to propose to take a place at the
table of their democratic worships, he
would be taught a due reverence to
the rules of society and breeding by
the application of a pint-pot to his
cranium. We have very little doubt
that the wretched kind of domestic
economy which prevails in the free
States of America has had a strong
influence in preventing the spread
of emancipation principles; and we
believe that to the very same cause
may be traced the continuance of
slavery in ancient Rome as part of
their social system. The Roman
plebeian was quite as surly a republican
as the descendant of the
Pilgrim Fathers. He would not
stoop to act in the capacity of a
servant—hardly in that of a help,
which we believe to be the recognised
American term; and consequently
the Cornelias, Livias, and Tullias of
Rome, had either to avail themselves
of the ministry of slaves who formed
part of the household, or to submit to
the personal drudgery of cleaning the
lampreys and opening the oysters for
the suppers of their luxurious lords
Titius or Mœvius, or any other of
the fellows of the common sort who
had a tribune of their own, would not
have consented to brush the toga or
clean the sandals even of a senator.
At the bare mention of such a thing
they would have been ready to rush
to the Mons Sacer, for it is a curious
fact that in all ages the disaffected
have manifested a propensity for
taking to the hills. Chivalry put an
end to this; and by establishing gradation
of orders and of rank, laid the
foundation for the freedom which now
prevails throughout the states of
Europe. It was no disgrace for the
squire to obey the orders of the
knight, or for the yeoman to serve
the squire. The lady in her bower
had the attendance of damsel and of
page; and the great model of a well-regulated
household was then framed
and introduced. But not one atom
of chivalrous feeling was conveyed
by the Mayflower to New England.
The spirit of the sourest republicanism
pervaded that whole cargo of human
verjuice; and instead of bearing with
them to the west the seeds of civilisation,
they carried those of intolerance
and slavery. Very wise, in more
senses than one, is the old proverb,
which, in all matters of reformation,
desires us to look primarily to home,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_313'>313</span>and to set our houses in order. There
are many social reforms, besides emancipation,
required in America; and
some which we almost venture to
think must necessarily precede it.
For at present, according to Mrs
Stowe’s own showing and testimony,
there is a vast gap in society occasioned
by the republican abhorrence
of anything like menial service, and
the jealous and almost defiant spirit
with which the semblance of authority
is resisted. In a word, we believe
that until civilisation in America has
proceeded so far as to assimilate its
social condition to that of the older
states of Europe, very material obstacles
will impede the triumph of
that cause which Mrs Stowe has so
enthusiastically advocated.</p>

<p class='c011'>Mrs Stowe, like many others of her
ardent countrywomen, has a decided
turn for crotchets. She next falls in
with Elihu Burritt, and begins an
eulogistic commentary on the “movement
which many, in our half-Christianised
times, regard with as much
incredulity as the grim, old, warlike
barons did the suspicious imbecilities
of reading and writing. The sword
now, as then, seems so much more
direct a way to terminate controversies,
that many Christian men, even,
cannot conceive how the world is to
get along without it.” We suspect
that, by this time, exceeding grave
doubts as to the practicability of his
views, and the termination of all disputes
by arbitration, must have penetrated
even the jolter-pate of the
pragmatic Elihu, and that he must
be mourning over the enormous waste
of olive-leaves for so little good purpose.
We sincerely hope, for his
sake, that he has been allowed a
liberal commission or per-centage on
the circulation. As Mrs Stowe seems
to have been admitted to his secrets,
we may as well insert her account of
the operations of the Peace Society.</p>

<p class='c013'>“Burritt’s mode of operation has been
by the silent organisation of circles of
ladies in all the different towns of the
United Kingdom, who raise a certain sum
for the diffusion of the principles of peace
on earth and good-will to men. Articles,
setting forth the evils of war, moral,
political, and social, being prepared, these
circles pay for their insertion in all the
principal newspapers of the Continent.
They have secured to themselves in this
way a continual utterance in France,
Spain, Italy, Switzerland, Austria, and
Germany; so that from week to week,
and month to month, they can insert
articles upon these subjects. Many times
the editors insert the articles as editorial,
which still further favours their design.
In addition to this, the ladies of these
circles in England correspond with the
ladies of similar circles existing in other
countries; and in this way there is a
mutual kindliness of feeling established
through these countries.”</p>

<p class='c010'>We have already recorded in the
Magazine our opinion of the character
of these olive-leaves, as well as of the
articles avowedly emanating from the
pen of the inspired Elihu; and therefore
we need not trouble ourselves by
again disturbing the rubbish. If there
are any sincere but weak people who
were inclined to view favourably the
movements of the Peace Society, the
transactions in Europe during the last
twelve months must have convinced
them of the utter impossibility of
creating any general court of arbitration,
by means of which international
disputes may be adjusted. At the
present moment, Russia stands condemned
for her aggression by every
state in Europe. Even Prussia does
not venture to defend the forcible
occupation of the Danubian principalities;
and every species of persuasion
and representation was employed to
induce the Czar to abandon his purpose,
or at all events to retrace his
steps. So unwilling were the western
powers to draw the sword, that they
allowed a great deal of valuable time
to be expended in negotiation, before
they took any decided step; and the
general opinion in England is, that
the British Government was rather
too tardy in its movements. And yet,
without a single declared ally, and
with the unanimous voice of Europe
against him, Nicholas has thrown
down the gauntlet, and the fleets of
Britain and France are in the Black
and the Baltic Seas. After this, it is inconceivable
that there should be found
any people besotted enough to talk
about arbitration. We should not,
however, omit to notice the last dying
speech and final confession of the
Peace Society, as delivered by a leash
of Quakers before his Majesty the Emperor
<span class='pageno' id='Page_314'>314</span>of all the Russias, and reported
on their return with so much unction
by the highly-gifted and exulting
Pease. There is no tragedy so deep
and solemn as to be entirely without
a farcical element; and we can remember
nothing, in the shape of burlesque,
to compete with the apparition
of those diffident Quakers at St Petersburg.
But the fact is, that the leading
members of the Peace Society,
amongst whom rank conspicuously
the chiefs of the Manchester school,
were perfectly well aware that the
notion of arbitration was a mere
chimera. Their real object was to
promote the spread of democratic
principles; and, if possible, to weaken
the power of every existing government
by strewing dissatisfaction
among their subjects. This is not
our allegation only—it is in perfect
consonance with what Mrs Stowe records
in repeating her conversations
with the leading apostles of peace;
and we really think that the following
revelation as to ultimate views, is by
no means the least valuable or interesting
part of her work. She says—</p>

<p class='c013'>“When we ask these reformers how
people are to be freed from the yoke of
despotism without war, they answer, ‘By
the diffusion of ideas among the masses—<em>by
teaching the bayonets to think</em>.’ They
say, ‘If we convince every individual soldier
of a despot’s army that war is ruinous,
immoral, and unchristian, we take
the instrument out of the tyrant’s hand.
If each individual man would refuse to
rob and murder for the Emperor of Austria
and the Emperor of Russia, where
would be their power to hold Hungary?
What gave power to the masses in the
French Revolution, but that the army,
pervaded by new ideas, refused any longer
to keep the people down?’</p>

<p class='c014'>“These views are daily gaining strength
in England. They are supported by the
whole body of the Quakers, who maintain
them with that degree of inflexible
perseverance and never-dying activity
which have rendered the benevolent actions
of that body so efficient.”</p>

<p class='c010'>Very good, Mrs Stowe! But are no
soldiers to be allowed to think, except
those belonging to a despot’s army?
And is every individual soldier to be
permitted to act exclusively upon his
own impressions of the abstract propriety
or justice of the service in which
he is engaged? Passages such as
these—and they are not unfrequent in
her work—go far indeed to unsettle
our faith in the sense, judgment, and
discretion of Mrs Stowe—qualities
without which even the highest talent
fails in attaining at its aims.</p>

<p class='c011'>But we must now follow Mrs Stowe
to London, where her reception was
of a most marked and gratifying kind.
Our readers cannot have forgotten the
remonstrance or expostulation which
was addressed by the ladies of Great
Britain, under the generalship of the
Duchess of Sutherland, to the ladies
of America, on the subject of the
emancipation of the slaves. That document
was freely commented upon
at the time; and, if we recollect aright,
some rather pungent strictures were
made upon it, even by writers in this
country, as if, by taking this step,
the fair remonstrants had somewhat
transgressed the reserve which is expected
from their sex. In that view
we cannot join. We have intimated,
perhaps broadly enough, our objections
to the American notion of the
“Rights of Woman;” but we trust to
stand acquitted of entertaining any
such discourteous view as might preclude
the ladies from a fair expression
of their opinion. In a question such
as this, embracing all the domestic
considerations and feelings to which
women are more alive than men, it was
not only well and commendable, but
noble and Christian, that women should
take a decided part, and attempt, at
least, by an appeal to the common
sympathies of the sex, to awaken commiseration
for the degraded condition
of thousands of their human sisters,
and to urge an effort in their behalf.
We really think that one such representation,
addressed by women to
women, is more likely to have a lasting
and salutary effect, than five hundred
public meetings, such as Mrs
Stowe witnessed at Glasgow and elsewhere,
where bull-throated ministers
and blethering bailies assemble to
make trial of their powers of oratory.
Notwithstanding the reply of Juliana
Tyler, who came forward as the champion
on the other side, we believe that
the appeal, on the part of the ladies
of Great Britain, must have made a
deep impression on the minds of many
in America. We do not feel ourselves
called upon to discuss the arguments
<span class='pageno' id='Page_315'>315</span>which Mrs Tyler employed; for in a
ladies’ controversy, no male has a
right to interfere. Mrs Stowe tells
us that the origin of the address was
this: “Fearful of the jealousy of
political interference, Lord Shaftesbury
published an address to the ladies
of England, in which he told them
that he felt himself moved by an irresistible
impulse to entreat them to
raise their voice, in the name of their
common Christianity and womanhood,
to their American sisters.” We shall
add, what Mrs Stowe is too modest
to say, or perhaps what she does not
know, that, but for the publication of
<cite>Uncle Tom’s Cabin</cite>, and the interest
excited thereby, Lord Shaftesbury
might have worn his pen to the
stump before he could have succeeded
in eliciting any such remonstrance.</p>

<p class='c011'>Most graceful indeed, and becoming,
was the attention which was
lavished, on the part of the Duchess
of Sutherland and her kindred, upon
Mrs Stowe; and to us by far the most
pleasing portion of the book is that in
which she records her impressions of
London society. In the very highest
circles of the metropolis, and while
moving for a time in a sphere which
might very well dazzle and perplex
one to whom such scenes must have
appeared like a fairy dream, she really
appears to have kept her equilibrium,
and preserved her coolness of judgment
much better than when she was
greeted by civic demonstrations in
the North, or by gatherings of the
peaceful but somewhat prosy and dogmatic
brotherhood of the Quakers in
the Midland Counties. To our great
astonishment we have observed that
poor Mrs Stowe has been accused
by various liberal journals in England,
of “flunkeyism,” for conveying
to her friends an accurate account of
what she saw at Stafford House, and
one or two other mansions to which
she was invited. Anything more
unfair and even monstrous than this
style of criticism it is impossible to
conceive. Mrs Stowe is writing her
impressions of British society for the
information of her friends in America.
In London it was her good fortune to
be received cordially and hospitably
by several of the most distinguished
and estimable of the nobility and public
characters; and because she gives
a fair, and by no means too minute relation
of what she saw and heard, she
is scoffed at, by a certain section of
the liberal gentry of the London press,
as a kind of parasite. This is really
very shabby and disgusting; for we
do think that her modest, unaffected,
and sometimes naïve observations upon
what she saw passing around her,
might have saved her from any such
reflection. She enjoyed in England
particular advantages such as very
few Americans could boast of. Had
N. P. Willis ever been able to compass
an admission to Stafford House,
his literary fortune would have been
made. We should have heard no
more of Count Spiridion Ballardos, or
any such small-deer; but the intrepid
Penciller would have fixed at once
upon the Duke of Argyll as his victim,
and have magnified himself in some
inconceivable way, by introducing
Philip Slingsby as the triumphant rival
and competitor of the MacCallum-Mhor.
Mrs Stowe does not try by
any means to exalt herself—indeed
her figure does not appear at all prominently
in the picture. She has endeavoured
to give as accurate a sketch
as she could of London society, and
in some respects has succeeded pretty
well. Blunders there are of course,
but that was unavoidable, and a good
deal of what appears to us to be gossip,
but which possibly may have a
higher value in the eyes of her Transatlantic
readers. She very fairly admits
in her preface, that her narrative
may be tinged <i><span lang="fr">couleur de rose</span></i>; and we
are only surprised, considering the
temptations in her way, that she has
used the Claude Lorraine glass with
so much discretion. Society is quite
as intoxicating as champagne; and it
is impossible to write a book of this
kind, without recalling, to a considerable
extent, the feeling of the bygone
excitement. We have no doubt
that the printed narrative would seem
peculiarly sober, could we be favoured
with a perusal of the actual letters
which Mrs Stowe despatched to America
from the bewildering whirl of
London.</p>

<p class='c011'>One thing, however, we have remarked
with pain; and that is the
introduction by Mrs Stowe of an elaborate
defence or explanation of what
were called the “Sutherland Clearings.”
<span class='pageno' id='Page_316'>316</span>Her motive for doing so is
quite apparent; but we cannot help
thinking that she has placed both herself,
and the noble family for whom
she appears as an advocate, in a false
and disagreeable position, by putting
forth statements of the accuracy of
which she had no means of judging.
The transactions to which she refers
are of an old date; and they occurred
in a district of which she has absolutely
no personal knowledge. She
never was in Sutherland, or indeed
any other part of the Highlands, and
therefore she was not entitled in any
way to deal with such a subject. That
she was furnished with materials for
the purposes of publication seems
more than probable: if so, we cannot
commend the prudence of those who
took so singular a method of refuting
what may very possibly be calumny
or misrepresentation. With the merits
of the case we have nothing to do, nor
shall we express any opinion upon
them; but it does seem to us a most
extraordinary circumstance that Mrs
Stowe should have been induced to
put forth a long, elaborate, and statistical
argument upon a subject of which
she is wholly ignorant. A defence of
this kind—supposing that any defence
was required—is positively hurtful to
the parties whose conduct has been
called in question; and anything but
creditable to their discretion if they
consented to its issue.</p>

<p class='c011'>Interspersed with the actual narrative,
are commentaries, or rather criticisms,
upon art and literature, which,
for the sake of the authoress, we could
wish omitted. Her taste, upon all
subjects of the kind, is either wholly
uncultivated or radically bad—indeed
it would be absolutely cruel to quote her
observations on the works of the old
masters. In literature she prefers Dr
Watts, as a poet, to Dryden, and has
the calm temerity to proceed to quotation.
She says, “For instance, take
these lines:—</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c012'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“‘Wide as his vast dominion lies</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Let the Creator’s name be known;</div>
      <div class='line'>Loud as his thunder shout his praise,</div>
      <div class='line in2'><em>And sound it lofty as his throne</em>.</div>
      <div class='line'>Speak of the wonders of that love</div>
      <div class='line in2'><em>Which Gabriel plays on every chord</em>,</div>
      <div class='line'>From all below and all above</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Loud hallelujahs to the Lord.’</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c011'>“Simply as a specimen of harmonious
versification, <em>I would place this
paraphrase by Dr Watts above everything
in the English language</em>, not even
excepting Pope’s Messiah”!!! Whereas,
to any one possessing a common
ear, the lines must rank as absolute
doggrel, and the ideas which
they convey are commonplace and
wretchedly expressed. Elsewhere she
says:—“I certainly do not worship
the old English poets. With the exception
of Milton and Shakespeare,
there is more poetry in the works of
the writers of the last fifty years than
in all the rest together.” We wonder
if she ever read a line of Chaucer or
of Spenser, not to speak of Pope and
Dryden. But she objects even to
Milton. Here is a piece of criticism
which we defy the world to match:
“There is a coldness <em>about all the luscious
exuberance of Milton</em>, like the
wind that blows from the glaciers
across these flowery valleys. How
serene his angels in their adamantine
virtue! yet what sinning, suffering
soul could find sympathy in them?
The utter want of sympathy for the
fallen angels, in the whole celestial
circle, <em>is shocking</em>. Satan is the only
one who weeps</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c012'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“‘For millions of spirits for his faults amerced,</div>
      <div class='line'>And from eternal splendours flung—’</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c011'>“God does not care, nor his angels.”
Our readers, we hope, will understand
why we leave this passage without
comment. But it may be worth while
to show them the sort of poetry (beyond
Watts) which Mrs Stowe does
admire, and she favours us with the
following as a “beautiful aspiration”
from an American poet of the name
of Lowell:—</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c012'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“Surely the wiser time shall come</div>
      <div class='line in2'>When this fine overplus of might,</div>
      <div class='line'>No longer sullen, slow or dumb,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Shall leap to music and to light.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>In that new childhood of the world,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Life of itself shall dance and play,</div>
      <div class='line'><em>Fresh blood through Time’s shrunk veins be hurled</em>,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>And labour meet delight half way.”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c011'>Beautiful aspirations—lovely lines!
Why—they are absolute nonsense;
and the mere silent reading of them
has set our teeth on edge. Try to
recite them, and you are inevitably
booked for a catarrh! In like manner
she refers to some rubbish of Mr Whittier,
an American rhymer, as a “beautiful
ballad, called ‘Barclay of Ury.’”
We have a distinct recollection of having
read that ballad some years ago,
and of our impression that it was incomparably
the worst which we ever
encountered; though, if a naked sword
were at this moment to be presented
to our throat, we could depone nothing
further, than that “rising in a fury,”
rhymed to “Barclay of Ury;” and
also, that “frowning very darkly,”
chimed in to the name of “Barclay.”
But it was woeful stuff; and it lingers
in our memory solely by reason of its
absurdity. However, as Mrs Stowe
prefers this sort of thing to Spenser,
we have nothing for it except to make
our bow, regretting that our æsthetical
notions are so far apart, that,
under no circumstances whatever,
can we foresee the possibility of a
coalition.</p>

<p class='c011'>Beyond the Channel we shall not
follow her; the more especially as the
greater part of the Continental tour is
described in the journal of the Rev.
Charles Beecher, an individual with
whose proceedings, thoughts, and raptures,
we have not been able to conjure
up the slightest sympathy. In
fact, taking Mr Beecher at his own
estimate and valuation, and making
every allowance for playfulness of
manner, we should by no means covet
his company in any part of Europe;
and we are only surprised that, in one
or two places (as for instance Cologne),
he did not receive an emphatic check
to his outrageous hilarity. But as
he seems to have been impressed
with the idea that he exhibited himself
rather in a humorous and attractive
light, we have no intention of dispelling
the dream—we are only sorry
that Mrs Stowe should have thought
it worth while to increase the bulk of
her book by admitting her relative’s
inflated, ill-written, and singularly
silly lucubrations, as part of a work
which, considering her literary celebrity,
and the interest of the theme,
will in all probability have an extensive
circulation.</p>

<p class='c011'>After making every allowance for
the difficulty attendant upon the task
of portraying with fidelity and spirit
the customs of a foreign country, we
cannot, with truth, express an opinion
that Mrs Stowe has been successful in
her effort. Far more interesting and
agreeable volumes have been written
by women of less natural ability; and
we are constrained to dismiss, with a
feeling of decided disappointment, a
book which we opened with the anticipation
of a very different result.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_317'>317</span>
  <h2 class='c002'>THE CRYSTAL PALACE.<a id='r44'></a><a href='#f44' class='c009'><sup>[44]</sup></a></h2>
</div>

<p class='c010'>It is the common practice of innovators
to set up a loud cry against
long-received opinions which favour
them not, and the word prejudice is
the denunciation of “mad-dog.” But
prejudices, like human beings who
hold them, are not always “<em>so bad
as they seem</em>.” They are often the
action of good, natural instincts, and
often the results of ratiocinations
whose processes are forgotten. Let
us have no “Apology” for a long-established
prejudice; ten to one but
it can stand upon its own legs, and
needs no officious supporter, who
simply apologises for it.</p>

<p class='c011'>We have had philosophers who have
told us there is really no such thing
as beauty, consequently there can be
no such thing as taste; that it is a
mere idea, an unaccountable prejudice
somehow or other engendered in the
brain. And though there exists not
a head in the universe without a portion
of this disorder-breeding brain,
the philosopher persists that the product
is a worthless nonentity, and
altogether out of the nature of things.
We maintain, however, in favour of
prejudices and tastes—that there are
real grounds for both; and, presuming
not to be so wise as to deny the evidences
of our senses, and conclusions
of our minds, think it scarcely worth
while to unravel the threads of our
convictions. In matters of science
we marvel and can believe almost
anything; but in our tastes and feelings
we naturally, and by an undoubting
instinct, shrink from the
touch of an innovator, as we would
shun the heel of a donkey.</p>

<p class='c011'>Whenever an innovator of this
kind sets up “An Apology” for his
intended folly, we invariably feel that
he means a very audacious insult
upon our best perceptions. The worst
of it is, he is not one easily put aside—he
will labour to get a commission
into your house, ransack it to its
sewers, and turn it out of windows.
He is the man that must ever be
doing. He will think himself entitled
to perambulate the world with
his pot of polychrome in his hand,
and bedaub every man’s door-post;
and if multitudes—the whole offended
neighbourhood—rush out to upset
his pot and brush, he will laugh in
their faces, defend his plastering instruments,
and throw to them with
an air his circular, “An Apology;”
and perhaps afterwards knock the
doors down for an authorised payment.
Such a one shall get no
“Apology”-pence out of us.</p>

<p class='c011'>We are prejudiced—we delight in
being prejudiced—will continue prejudiced
as long as we live, and will
entertain none but prejudiced friends.
There are things we will believe, and
give no reasons for, ever; and things
we never will believe, whatever reasons
are to be given in their favour.
We think the man who said, “Of
course, I believe it, if you say you
saw it; but I would not believe it if
I saw it myself,” used an irresistible
argument of good sound prejudice,
mixed with discretion. It is better,
safer, and honester, to bristle up like
a hedgehog, and let him touch who
dares, than to sit and be smoothed
and smoothed over with oily handling
of sophisticated arguments, till every
decent palpable roughness of reason
is taken from you.</p>

<p class='c011'>Reader, do you like white marble?
What a question! you will ask,—do you
suppose me to have no eyes? Do not
all people covet it—import it from
Carrara? Do not sculptors, as sculptors
have done in all ages, make
<span class='pageno' id='Page_318'>318</span>statues from it—monuments, ornaments,
and costly floors? Of course,
everybody loves white marble. Then,
reader, if such is your taste, you
are a prejudiced ignoramus; you
belong to that age “devoid of the
capacity to appreciate and the power
to execute works of art”—that age
which certain persons profess to <em>illuminate</em>.
You are now, under the new
dictators of taste, to know that you
had no business to admire white
marble,<a id='r45'></a><a href='#f45' class='c009'><sup>[45]</sup></a>—that you are so steeped in
this old prejudice that it will require
a long time before you can eradicate
this stain of a vile admiration, although
your teachers have acquired a
true knowledge in an incredible time.
You must put yourself under the
great colourman of the great Crystal
Palace, Mr Owen Jones, who, if he
does not put out your eyes in the experiments
he will set before you, will
at least endeavour to convince you
that you are a fool of the first water.
But beware how you don his livery of
motley. Hear him: “Under this influence
(the admiration of white
marble), however, we have been born
and bred, and it requires time to
shake off the trammels which such
early education leaves.” You have
sillily believed that the Athenians
built with marble because of its
beauty,—that the Egyptians thought
there was beauty in granite. You
thought in your historical dream that
he who found the city of brick, and left
it of marble, had done something
whereof he might reasonably boast.
You have been egregiously mistaken.
If you ever read that the Greeks and
Romans, and other people since their
times civilised, sent great distances
for marble for their palaces and statues,
you must put it down in your
note-book of new “historic doubts.”
You learn a fact you never dreamed
of, from Mr Owen Jones. They merely
used it (marble) because it lay accidentally
at their feet. He puts the
richest colouring of his contempt on
“the artificial value which white
marble has in our eyes.” Learn the
real cause of its use: “The Athenians
built with marble, because they found
it almost beneath their feet, and also
from the same cause which led the
Egyptians to employ granite, which
was afterwards painted—viz. because it
was the most enduring, and capable of
receiving a higher finish of workmanship.”
He maintains that so utterly
regardless were these Greeks of any
supposed beauty in marble—especially
white marble—that they took pains
to hide every appearance of its texture;
that they not only painted it
all over, but covered it with a coating
of stucco. Listen to an oracle
that, we will answer for it, never
came from Delphi, that no Pythia in
her madness ever conceived, and that,
if uttered in the recesses, would have
made Apollo shake his temple to
pieces.</p>

<p class='c011'>“To what extent were white marble
temples painted and ornamented?
I would maintain that they were <em>entirely</em>
so; that neither the colour of
the marble, nor even its surface, was
preserved; and that preparatory to
the ornamenting and colouring of the
surface, the whole was covered with
a thin coating of stucco, something in
the nature of a gilder’s ground, to stop
the absorption of the colours by the
marble.”</p>

<p class='c011'>“A thin coat of stucco!” and no
exception with respect to statues—to
be applied wherever the offensive
white marble showed its unblushing
nakedness and beauty!! Let us imagine
it tested on a new statue—thus
stucco over, however thin, Mr Bayley’s
Eve, or Mr Power’s Greek Slave—the
thought is enough to make the
sculptor go mad, and commit a murder
on himself or the plasterer—to
see all his fine, his delicate chisellings
obliterated! all the nice markings,
the scarcely perceptible dimplings
gone!—for let the coat of stucco be
thin as a wafer, it must, according to
that thickness, enlarge every rising
and diminish the spaces between
them: thus, all true proportion must
be lost; between two risings the
space must be less. “What fine
chisel,” says our immortal Shakespeare,
“could ever yet cut breath?”
How did he imagine, in these few
words, the living motion of the “breath
of life” in the statue! and who
doubts either the attempt or the success
<span class='pageno' id='Page_319'>319</span>so to represent perfect humanity,
when he looks at the finest antique
statues? Let an audacious innovator
dare to daub one of them with his
coat of stucco, and all the chiselling
of the life, breath, and motion is annihilated.
It must be so, whatever
be the thickness of the coat; though
it be but a nail-paring it must diminish
risings and hollows, and all
nicer touches must disappear. We
should heartily desire to see the innovator
suffocated in his plaster and
paint-pot, that in his suffering he may
know it is a serious thing to knock
the life-breath out of the body even
of a statue.</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c012'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line in10'>“<span lang="la">Nec lex est justior ulla</span></div>
      <div class='line'><span lang="la">Quam necis artifices arte perire suâ.</span>”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c011'>There is one slight objection to our
getting rid of this prejudice in favour
of white marble which we suggest to
Mr Owen Jones, and all the “Stainers’”
Company—the unseemly blots we shall
have to make in the fairest pages of
poetry, old and new. Albums will of
course be ruined, and a general smear,
bad as a “coat of stucco,” be passed
over the whole books of beauties who
have “dreamed they dwelt in marble
halls.” The new professors, polychromatists,
must bring out, if they are
able, new editions of all our classics.
How must this passage from Horace
provoke their bile:</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c012'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“<span lang="la">Urit me Glycone nitor</span></div>
      <div class='line'><span lang="la">Splendentis Pario marmore puriùs.</span>”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c016'>And when, after being enchanted by
the “<span lang="la">grata protervitas</span>,” he adds the
untranslateable line,</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c012'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“<span lang="la">Et Vultus nimium lubricus aspici,</span>”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c016'>we can almost believe, with that bad
taste which Mr Owen Jones will condemn,
that he had in the full eye of
his admiration the polished, delicately
defined charm of the Parian marble.</p>

<p class='c011'>It was a clown’s taste to daub the
purity; and first he daubed his own
face, and the faces of his drunken
rabble. He would have his gods made
as vulgar as himself; and then, doubtless,
there was many a wooden,
worthless, and obscene idol, the half
joke and veneration of the senseless
clowns, painted as fine as vermilion
could make them.</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c012'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“<span lang="la">Agricola et minio suffusus, Bacche, rubente,</span></div>
      <div class='line'><span lang="la">Primus inexpertâ duxit ab arte choros.</span>”</div>
      <div class='line in32'><span class='sc'>Tib.</span></div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c016'>But to suppose that Praxiteles and
Phidias could endure to submit their
loveliest works to be stuccoed and
<em>solidly</em> painted over with vermilion,
seems to us to suppose a perfect impossibility.
That they could not have
willingly allowed the defilement we
have shown by the nature of their
work, all the nicety of touch and real
proportion of parts lying under the necessity
of alteration, and consequently
damage thereby. Whatever apparent
proof might be adduced that such
statues were painted—and we doubt
the proof, as we will endeavour to
show—we do not hesitate to say that
the daubings and plasterings must
have been the doing of a subsequent
less cultivated people, and possibly at
the demand of a vulgarised mobocracy.
The clown at our pantomimes
is the successor to the clown
who smeared his face with wine-lees,
and passed his jokes while he gave
orders to have his idol painted with
vermilion. Yet though it must be
impossible that Phidias or Praxiteles
would have allowed solid coats of
paint or stucco, or both, to have
ruined the works of their love and
genius, under the presuming title
“historical evidence” an anecdote is
culled from the amusing gossip Pliny,
to show what Praxiteles thought of
it. “There is a passage in Pliny
which is decisive, as soon as we understand
the allusion.” Speaking of
Nicias (lib. xxxv. cap. 11), he says
that Praxiteles, when asked which of
his marble works best satisfied him,
replied, “Those which Nicias has had
under his hands.” “So much,” adds
Pliny, “did he prize the finishing of
Nicias”—(<i><span lang="la">tantum circumlitioni ejus tribuebat</span></i>).
This “finishing of Nicias,”
by its location, professes to be a translation
from Pliny, which it is not.
Had the writer adopted the exact
wording of the old English translation,
from which he seems to have taken
the former portion of the sentence, it
would not have suited his purpose,
but it would have been more fair:
it is thus, “So much did he attribute
unto his vernish and polishing”—which
<span class='pageno' id='Page_320'>320</span>contradicts the solid painting.
Pliny is rather ambiguous with regard
to this Nicias—whether he was the
celebrated one or no. But it should
be noticed that the anecdote, as told
in Mr Owen Jones’ “Apology,” is
intended to show that the painter’s
skill, as a painter, was added—substantially
added—to the work of
Praxiteles, whereas this Nicias may
have been one who was nice in the
making and careful in the use of his
varnish; and we readily grant that
some kind of varnishing or polishing
may have been used over the statues,
both for lustre and protection. Certainly
at one time, though we would
not say there is proof as to the time
of Phidias, such varnishes, or rather
waxings, were in use. But even if it
were the celebrated Nicias to whom
the anecdote refers, we cannot for
a moment believe he would have
touched substantially, as a painter,
any work of Praxiteles. But as genius
is ever attached to genius, he
may have supplied to Praxiteles the
means of giving that polish which he
gave to his own works, and probably
aided him in the operation, not
“had under his hands,” as translated—“<span lang="la">quibus
manum <em>admovisset</em></span>.”
Pliny had in his eye the very <i><span lang="la">modus
operandi</span></i> of the encaustic process, the
holding heated iron within a certain
distance of the object. But what
was the operation? Does the text
authorise anything like the painting
the statue? Certainly not. And however
triumphantly it is brought forward,
there is a hitch in the argument
which must be confessed.</p>

<p class='c011'>In making this confession, it would
have been as well to have referred to
Pliny himself for the meaning. Pliny
uses the verb <i><span lang="la">illinebat</span></i>, in grammatical
relation to <em>circumlitio</em>, in the sense
of varnishing, in that well-known
passage in which he speaks of the
varnish used by Apelles—“Unum
imitari nemo potuit, quod absoluta
opera <em>illinebat</em> atramento ita tenui,”
&#38;c.</p>

<p class='c011'>The meaning of this passage hangs
on the word <em>circumlitio</em>. Winckelmann
follows the mass of commentators
in understanding this as referring
to some mode of <em>polishing</em> the statues.
But Quatremère de Quincey, in his
magnificent work <cite><span lang="fr">Le Jupiter Olympien</span></cite>,
satisfactorily shows this to be
untenable, not only “because no
sculptor could think of preferring such
of his statues as had been better
polished, but also because Nicias being
a <em>painter</em>, not a sculptor, his
services must have been those of a
painter.” If these are the only “becauses”
of Quatremère de Quincey,
they are anything but satisfactory;
for a sculptor may esteem all his
works as equal, and then prefer such
as had the advantage of Nicias’s <em>circumlitio</em>.
Nor does the <em>because</em> of
Nicias being a painter at all define
the <em>circumlitio</em> to be a plastering with
stucco, or a thick daubing with vermilion;
for, be it borne in mind, this
vermilion painting is always spoken
of as a solid coating. As to Nicias’s
services, “What were they?” asks
the author of the <cite>Historical Evidence
in Mr Jones’s Apology</cite>. “Nicias was
an <em>encaustic painter</em>, and hence it is
clear that his <em>circumlitio</em>, his mode of
finishing the statues, so highly prized
by Praxiteles, must have been the
application of encaustic painting to
those parts which the sculptor wished
to have ornamented. For it is quite
idle to suppose a sculptor like Praxiteles
would allow another sculptor to
<em>finish</em> his works. The rough work
may be done by other hands, but the
finishing is always left to the artist.
The statue completed, there still remained
the painter’s art to be employed,
and for that Nicias is renowned.”—Indeed!
This is exceedingly
childish: first the truism that
one sculptor would not have another
to <em>finish</em> his work—of course, not;
and then that the work was not
finished until the painter had regularly,
according to his best skill and art—which
art and skill were required—been
employed in the painting it as he
would paint a picture, “<em>for which he
was renowned</em>;”—that is, variously
colour all the parts—till he had
variously coloured hair and eyes,
and put in varieties of flesh tones,
show the blue veins beneath, and all
that a painter <em>renowned</em> for these
things was in the habit of doing in
his pictures. If this be not the meaning
of this author, and the object of Mr
Owen Jones in making such a parade
<span class='pageno' id='Page_321'>321</span>of it, he or the writer writes without
any fixed ideas, and all this assumption,
all this absurd theory, is after
all built upon a word which these
people are determined to misunderstand,
and yet upon which they cannot
help but express the doubt. But
why should there be any doubt at all?
As far as we can see, the word is a
plain word, and explains itself very
well, and even expresses its <i><span lang="la">modus
operandi</span></i>. A writer acquainted with
such a schoolboy book as Ainsworth’s
Dictionary might have relieved his
mind as to any doubts or forced construction
of <em>circumlitio</em>; he might have
found there, that the word comes
from <em>Lino</em>, to smear, from <em>Leo</em>, the
same—and that <i><span lang="la">Circum</span></i> in the composition
shows the action, the mode of
smearing. Nay, he is referred to two
passages in Pliny, the very one from
which the quotation in the <cite>Historical
Evidence</cite> is taken, and to another in
the same author, Pliny—and authors
generally explain themselves—where
the word is used in reference to the
application of medicinal unguents.
We can readily grant that the ancient
sculptors did employ recipes of the
most skilful persons in making unctuous
varnishes, which they rubbed
into the marble as a preservative,
and also to bring out more perfectly
the beauty of the marble texture—not
altogether to hide it. It may be, without
the least concession towards Mr
Owen Jones’s painting theory, as
readily granted that they gave this
unctuous composition a warm tone,
with a little vermilion, as many still
do to their varnishes. Pliny himself,
in his 33d book, chap. vii., gives such
a recipe: White Punic wax, melted
with oil, and laid on hot; the work
afterwards to be well rubbed over with
cere-cloths. To return to the “Circumlitio,”
we have the word, only
with <em>super</em> instead of <i><span lang="fr">circum</span></i>, used in
the application of a varnish by the
Monk Theophilus, of the tenth century,
who, if he did not take the word
from Pliny, and therefore in Pliny’s
sense, may be taken for quite as good
<em>Latin</em> authority. After describing
the method of making a varnish of oil
and a gum—“gummi quod vocatur
fornis”—he adds, “Hoc glutine omnis
pictura superlinita, fit et decora ac
omnino durabilis.” The two words
Superlitio and Circumlitio,<a id='r46'></a><a href='#f46' class='c009'><sup>[46]</sup></a>—the first
applicable to such a surface as a picture;
the last to statues, which present
quite another surface. But if it
could be proved—and it cannot—that
the works of Praxiteles were in Mr
Owen Jones’s sense painted over,
would that justify the colouring the
frieze of the Parthenon, the work of
Phidias, who preceded Praxiteles
more than a century, during which
many abominations in taste may have
been introduced? We are quite aware
that, at a barbarous period, images of
gods, probably mostly those of wood,
were painted over with vermilion, as
a sacred colour and one of triumph.
We extract from the old translation
of Pliny this passage:—“There is
found also in silver mines a mineral
called minium, <em>i. e.</em> vermilion, which
is a colour at this day of great price
and estimation, like as it was in old
time; for the ancient Romans made
exceeding great account of it, not
only for pictures, but also for divers
sacred and holy uses. And verily
Verrius allegeth and rehearseth many
authors whose credit ought not to be
disproved, who affirm that the manner
was in times past to paint the
very face of Jupiter’s image on high
and festival daies with vermilion: as
also that the valiant captains who
rode in triumphant manner into Rome
had in former times their bodies covered
all over therewith; after which
manner, they say, noble Camillus
entered the city in triumph. And
even to this day, according to that
ancient and religious custom, ordinary
it is to colour all the unguents that
are used in a festival supper, at a
solemne triumph, with vermilion.
And no one thing do the Censors
give charge and order for to be done,
at their entrance into office, before the
painting of Jupiter’s image with minium.”
Yet Pliny does not say much
in favour of the practice; for he adds—“The
cause and motive that induced
our ancestors to this ceremony I marvel
much at, and cannot imagine what
it should be.” The Censors did but
follow a vulgar taste to please the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_322'>322</span>vulgar, for whom no finery can be too
fine, no colours too gaudy. However
refined the Athenian taste, we know
from their comedies they had their
vulgar ingredient: there could be no
security among them even for the
continuance in purity of the genius
which gave them the works of Phidias
and Praxiteles; nor were even these
great artists perhaps allowed the exercise
of their own noble minds. The
Greeks had no permanent virtues—no
continuance of high perceptions:
as these deteriorated, their great simplicity
would naturally yield to petty
ornament. They of Elis, who appointed
the descendants of Phidias to
the office of preserving from injury
his statue of Jupiter Olympius, did
little if they neglected to secure their
education also in the principles of the
taste of Phidias. The conservators
would in time be the destroyers; and
simply because they must do, and
know not what to do. When images—their
innumerable idols—were carried
in processions, they were of course
dressed up, not for veneration, but
show. We know that in very early
times their gods were carried about in
shrines, and, without doubt, tricked
up with dress and daubings, pretty
much as are, at this day, the Greek
Madonnas. Venus and Cupid have
descended down to our times in the
painted Madonna and Bambino.
Whatever people under the sun have
ever had paint and finery, temples,
gods, and idols have had their share of
them. We need no proofs, and it is
surprising we have so few with respect
to the great works of the ancients,
that these corruptions would
take place. It is in human nature:
barbarism never actually dies; it is
an ill weed, hard entirely to eradicate,
and is ready to spring up in the most
cultivated soils. The vulgar mind will
make its own Loretto: imagination
and credulity want no angels but
themselves to convey anywhere a
“<i><span lang="es">santa casa</span></i>;” nor will there be wanting
brocade and jewels, the crown and
the <i><span lang="es">peplos</span></i>, for the admiration of the
ignorant. Are a few examples, if
found and proved, and of the best
times—which is not clear—to establish
the theory as good in taste, or in any
way part of the intention of the great
sculptors? If authorities adduced, and
to be adduced, are worth anything,
they must go a great deal farther.
Take, for instance, a passage from
Pausanias, lib. ii. c. 11: <span lang="grc">Καὶ
Ὑγείας δ’ ἐσι κατα ταυτον αγαλμα οὺκ
αν οὐδὲ τοῦτο ἴδοις ῤᾳδίως, οὕτω, περιεχουσιν
ἀυτὸ κόμαι τε γυναικὼν άὓ κειρονται
τῇ θεῶ, καὶ ἐσθῆτός Βαβυλωνίας τελαμῶνες.</span>—“And
after the same manner
is a statue of Hygeia, which you
may not easily see, it is so completely
covered with hair of the women
who have shorn themselves in honour
of the goddess, and also with the
fringes of the Babylonish vest.” Here,
surely, is quite sufficient authority for
Mr Jones to procure ample and variously coloured
wigs for the Venus de
Medicis, and other statues, and to order
a committee of milliners to devise
suitable vesture. Images of this
kind were mostly made of wood, easy
to be carried about; and were often,
doubtless, made likest life, for the deception
as of the real presence of a
deity. The view of art was lost when
imposture commenced. Mr Jones admits
that the Greek sculptors did not
intend exact imitation, but his theory
goes so close to it, it would be difficult
to say where it stops short. Indeed,
he had better at once go the whole
way, or we may better say, “the
whole hog,” with bristle brushes, for
when he has got rid of the “<em>prejudice</em>”
in favour of white marble, his spectators
will be satisfied with nothing
less than wax-work.</p>

<p class='c011'>We remember hearing, in a remote
village, the consolation one poor woman
gave another—“Look up to
them pretty angels, with their lovely
black eyes, and take comfort from
’em.” These were angels’ heads in
plaster, round the cornice, which the
church-wardens, year after year, with
the official taste and importance of the
Roman Censors, had caused to be so
painted when, as they announced on a
tablet, they “beautified” the church.
Of late years we have been removing
the whitewash from our cathedrals,
thicker, by repetition, than Mr Owen
Jones’s prescribed coats of stucco.
Should his theory prevail, we shall be
again ashamed of stone; white-lime
<span class='pageno' id='Page_323'>323</span>will be restored until funds shall be
found for stucco, inside and out, as
preparation for Mr Jones’s bright blue
and unmitigated vermilion and gold.
It is frightful to imagine Mr Owen
Jones and his paint-pot over every inch
of Westminster Abbey, inside and out.</p>

<p class='c011'>Let us take a nearer view of the
historical evidence.  We are told,
“Ancient literature abounds with references
and allusions to the practice
of painting and dressing statues.
Space prevents their being copiously
cited here.” We venture to affirm,
that the lack of existence is greater
than the lack of space, if by ancient
literature is meant the best literature—the
literature contemporary with
the works of the great sculptors.
There were poets and historians—can
any quotation be given at all admissible
as evidence? It is extraordinary
that the advocates for the theory, if it
were true, can find no passages in the
poets. Is there nothing nearer than
what Plato puts into the mouth of
Socrates? “Let it be remembered that
Socrates was the son of a sculptor,
and that Plato lived in Athens, acquainted
with the great sculptors and
their works; then read this passage,
wherein Socrates employs by way of
simile the practice of painting statues—‘Just
as if, when painting statues,
a person should blame us for not placing
the most beautiful colours on the
most beautiful parts of the figure—inasmuch
as the eyes, the most beautiful
parts, were not painted purple but
black,—we should answer him by saying,
Clever fellow, do not suppose
we are to paint eyes so beautifully
that they should not appear to be
eye.’—<span class='sc'>Plato</span>, <cite>De Repub.</cite>, lib. iv. This
passage would long ago have settled
the question, had not the moderns
been preoccupied with the belief that
the Greeks did not paint their statues;
they therefore read the passage in another
sense. Many translators read
‘pictures’ for ‘statues.’  But the
Greek word <span lang="grc">Ανδριας</span> signifies ‘statue,’
and is never used to signify ‘picture.’
It means statue, and a statuary
is called the maker of such statues—<span lang="grc">Ανδριαντοποιος</span>.
(Mr Davis, in
Bohn’s English edition of Plato, avoids
the difficulty by translating it ‘human
figures’).”—Mr Lloyd, in his remarks
upon this passage, confesses
that it does not touch the question
concerning the painting the flesh, but
refers to the eyes, lips, and ornaments.
We object not to admit more than
this, and, as we have before observed,
that certain images, mostly of wood,
were painted entirely, excepting where
clothed; and, for argument’s sake, admitting
that Socrates alluded to these
common images, if we may so speak,
the ancestors of our common dolls,
should we be justified in building a
theory subversive of all good taste
upon such an ambiguity? For nothing
is here said of marble statues; and
there is nothing to show that marble
statues are meant. The writer in the
“Apology” says, with an air of triumph,
that <span lang="grc">Ανδριας</span> always means statue,
and never picture; but these were
figures, that he would call statues, of
wood and of clay, and of little value—a
kind of marketable goods for the
vulgar, as we have already shown.
But if the writer is determined to
make them marble statues, and of the
best, he might certainly have made
his case the stronger; for when he
says, and truly, that Socrates was the
son of a sculptor, he forgets that Socrates
was himself a sculptor,—and
some have supposed him to have been
a painter also, but Pliny is of another
opinion. The three Graces in
the court before the Acropolis of
Athens were his work; and it is
probably to the demands these Graces
made upon his thoughts the philosopher
alluded in his dialogue with
Theodote the courtesan. She had invited
him to her home; he excused
himself that he had no leisure from
his private and public affairs,—“and
besides,” he adds playfully, “I have
<span lang="grc">φἴλαι</span>—female friends—at home who
will not suffer me to absent myself from
them day or night, learning, as they
do from me, charms and powers of enticement.”<a id='r47'></a><a href='#f47' class='c009'><sup>[47]</sup></a>
So that we may suppose
him to have been no mean statuary.
Yet, considering that his mother followed
the humble occupation of a
<span class='pageno' id='Page_324'>324</span>midwife, and that consequently his
father was not very rich, it may not
be an out-of-the-way conjecture to
suppose that the family trade may
have had its humbler employments, of
which the painting images may have
borne a part. Ships had their images
as well as temples, and we know that
the ship’s head was “<span lang="grc">Μιλτοπάρἤος</span>.”
The custom has descended to our
times. But we are not to take the word
put by Plato into the mouth of Socrates—<span lang="grc">ανδριαντας</span>—necessarily in the
highest sense, and imagine he speaks
of such works as those of Phidias or
Praxiteles. Although the Greeks did
distinguish the several words by
which statues were understood, they
were not very nice in the observance
of the several uses. <span lang="grc">Ανδριαντας</span> may
have been applied to any representation
of the human figure.<a id='r48'></a><a href='#f48' class='c009'><sup>[48]</sup></a> <span lang="grc">Ανδριαντοποιος</span>,
says the Apologist, was a
statuary—so may have been said to
be <span lang="grc">Ανδριαντοπλάσης</span> the modellist in
clay or wax; but neither word is
used by Socrates—simply <span lang="grc">Ανδριαντας</span>,
(images). There is not a hint as to
how, or with what materials, they
were made. The scholiast on the
passage in Aristophanes respecting
the work of Socrates (the Graces),
makes a distinction between <span lang="grc">ανδριαντας</span>
and <span lang="grc">αγαλματα</span>—noticing that Socrates
was the son of Sophroniscus,
<span lang="grc">λιθοξόou</span>, with whom he took his share
in the polishing art, adding that he
polished <span lang="grc">ανδριαντας λιθινouς ἐλαξεύε</span>, and
that he made the “<span lang="grc">αγαλματα</span>” of the
three Graces. Now, let <span lang="grc">ανδριας</span> be a
statue, or human figure, of whatever
material, and grant that some such
figures had painted eyes, and probably
partially coloured drapery, possibly
the whole body painted—what then?
they might have been low and inferior
works. Who would think, from such
data, of inferring a habit in the Greek
sculptors of painting and plastering
all their marble statues—asserting too,
so audaciously, that we the moderns
have, and not they, a prejudice in
favour of white marble? But Mr
Lloyd, in his note on this passage,
with respect to Socrates (<i><span lang="la">vide</span></i> “Apology”),
admits that it is no evidence of
the colouring the flesh. “The passage
is decisive, as far as it goes, but
it does not touch the question of
colouring the flesh. It proves that
as late as Plato’s time it was usual
to apply colour to the eyes of statues;
and assuming, what is not stated, that
marble statues are in question, we
are brought to the same point as by
the Æginetan marbles, of which the
eyes, lips, portions of the armour and
draperies, were found coloured. I
forget whether the hair was found to
be coloured, but the absence of traces
of colour on the flesh, while they were
abundant elsewhere, indicates that, if
coloured at all, it must have been by
a different and more perishable process—by
a tint, or stain, or varnish.
The Æginetan statues, being archaic,
do not give an absolute rule for those
of Phidias. The archaic Athenian
bas-relief of a warrior, in excellent
preservation, shows vivid colours on
drapery and ornaments of armour,
and the eyeballs were also coloured:
here again there is no trace of colour
on the flesh.” But notwithstanding
that no statue has been found with
any trace of colour in the flesh, and
not satisfied with Mr Lloyd’s commentary,
Mr Owen Jones seeks proof
and confirmation of the sense of the
quotation from Plato, in a caution
given by Plutarch, thus mistranslated:
“It is necessary to be very careful
of statues, otherwise <em>the vermilion
with which the ancient statues were
coloured will quickly disappear</em>.” What
kind of care is necessary? Plutarch
uses the word <span lang="grc">γάνωσις</span>, which means
more than care—that a polishing or
varnishing is necessary (if, as we may
presume, they would preserve the old
colouring of an archaic statue), because,
not perhaps of the quick fading
of the vermilion, as translated by Mr
<span class='pageno' id='Page_325'>325</span>Lloyd, but the vermilion <span lang="grc">εξανθεῖ</span>—effloresces;
or, as we should say, comes
up dry to the surface, leaving the
vehicle with which it was put on.
However, let the passage have all the
meaning Mr Owen Jones can desire,
it relates only to certain sacred figures
at Rome, not in Greece, and which
may have been, for anything that is
known to the contrary, figures of sacred
geese. How do these quotations show
the practice of Phidias? In the first
place, Plato, who narrates what Socrates
said, was nearly a century after
Phidias, and Plutarch nearly six hundred
years after Phidias. On every
account the authority of Plato would
be preferable to that of Plutarch, who
kept his school at Rome, and was far
more fond of raising questions than
of affording accurate information.<a id='r49'></a><a href='#f49' class='c009'><sup>[49]</sup></a>
Mr Owen Jones, however, in the impetuosity
of his imaginary triumph,
outruns all his given authorities to
authorities not given. He says:
“There are abundant notices extant
which illustrate it (the painting of
statues). One will suffice. The
celebrated marble statue of a Bacchante
by Scopas is described as
holding, in lieu of the Thyrsus, a
dead roebuck, which is cut open, and
the marble represents living flesh.”
We willingly excuse the blunder of
the <em>living</em> flesh of a <em>dead</em> roebuck,
ascribing it solely to the impetuosity
of the genius of Mr Owen Jones,
which, plunging into colouring matter,
would vermilionise the palest
face of Death. If paint could “create
a soul under the ribs of death,” he
would do it. He must greatly
admire the old lady’s dying request
to—</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c012'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line in8'>“Put on this cheek a little <em>red</em>,</div>
      <div class='line'>One surely would not look a fright when dead.”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c011'>We know not where to lay our hand
upon the original account of this
statue of the Bacchante of Scopas;
but if it says no more than the
Apologist says for it—that the marble
represented “living flesh”—it does
not necessarily imply colour. Here
is a contradiction: if it be meant
that by “living flesh” the colour
of living flesh was represented—for
that must be the argument—there
must have been an attempt towards
the exact imitation of nature. “In
the first place,” says Mr Owen Jones,
arguing against the suggestion of coloured
and veined marble having been
used, “veins do not so run in marble as
to represent flesh. In the second, unless
statues were usually coloured, such
veins, if they existed, would be
regarded as terrible blemishes, and
the very things the Greeks are supposed
to have avoided—viz., colour
as representing reality—would be
shown.” Does Mr Owen Jones here
admit that this exact imitation by
colour was not usual? If so, as the
words imply, what becomes of his
quotation of the words of Socrates
with regard to colouring the eyes?
And further, upon what new plea
will he justify his colouring the
Parthenon frieze—not only the men
and their cloaks, but the horses—so
that the latter exactly resemble
those on the roundabouts on which
children ride at fairs? We suppose
he meant the men to have a natural
colour, and the horses also—a taste
so vile, that we are quite sure such
a perpetration would have shocked
Phidias out of all patience. And if
not meant for the exact colour, what
can he suppose they were painted
for?—as, to avoid this semblance of
reality, the Greeks, according to him,
should have painted men and horses
vermilion or blue, or any colour the
farthest from reality, the contrary to
the practice of Mr Owen Jones—and
that he should have painted them
vermilion he immediately shows, by
quoting Pausanias, where he describes
a statue of Bacchus “as
having all those portions not hidden
by draperies painted vermilion, the
body being of gilded wood.” What
has this to do with marble statues?
But he seems not to understand the
hint given by his commentator, Mr
Lloyd, “that the statue was apparently
ithyphallic, and probably
archaic”—a well-known peculiarity
in statues of Bacchus. Not having,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_326'>326</span>however, such a specimen in marble,
he is particularly glad to find one of
gypsum, “ornamented with paint:”
nothing more probable, and for the
same reason that the wooden one
was painted vermilion.</p>

<p class='c011'>“But colour was used, as we
know,” says Mr Owen Jones; “and
Pausanias (<cite>Arcad.</cite>, lib. viii. cap. 39)
describes a statue of Bacchus as having
all those portions not hidden by
draperies painted vermilion, the body
being of gilded wood. He also distinctly
says that statues made of
gypsum were painted, describing a
statue of Bacchus <span lang="grc">γυψου πεποιημενον</span>,
which was—the language is explicit—ornamented
with paint, (<span lang="grc">επικεκοσμημενον
γραφῃ</span>.)” These are statues of
Bacchus, and, as the Apologist is
reminded by his commentator, Mr
Lloyd, “apparently ithyphallic,” and
therefore painted red. The draperies
are the assumption of the writer; he
should have said ivy and laurel.
Mr Owen Jones, to render his
examples “abundant,” writes <em>statues</em>
in the latter part of the quotation,
whereas the word in his authority,
Pausanias, is singular. We stay not
to inquire if <span lang="grc">γραφη</span> here means paint,
though, speaking of another statue,
Pausanias uses the verb and its congenial
noun in another sense—“<span lang="grc">ἐπίγραμμα
ἐπἄυτῆ γραφῆναι</span>.”  We the more
readily grant it was painted vermilion,
because it was a Bacchic statue;
and grant that it was seen by Pausanias.
We daresay it was ancient
enough; but for any proof we must
not look to Pausanias, who lived at
Rome 170th year of the Christian
era;—and here it must be borne in
mind, that of the innumerable statues
spoken of by that writer, of marble
and other materials, the supposed
painted are a very few exceptions.
Not only does he speak of marble,
without any mention of colouring,
but of its whiteness. In this matter,
indeed, the exceptions prove the rule
of the contrary. Before we proceed
to the examples taken from Virgil—weak
enough—let us see if there may
not be found something nearer the
time of Phidias than any authorities
given. Well, then, we have an eyewitness,
one who must not only have
seen the statues of Phidias, but probably
conversed with Phidias himself—Æschylus.
If such statues as
he speaks of were painted generally,
and as a necessary part of their
completion, could he have brought
into poetic use and sentiment their
vacancy of eyes? It is a remarkable
passage. He is describing Menelaus
in his gallery full of the large statues
of Helen. It is in the “Agamemnon:”</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c012'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line in2'><span lang="grc">Εὐμόρφων γὰρ κολοσσῶν</span></div>
      <div class='line'><span lang="grc">Ἔχθεται χάρις ἀνδρί.</span></div>
      <div class='line'><span lang="grc">Ὀμμάτων δ’ ἐν ἀχηνίαις</span></div>
      <div class='line in3'><span lang="grc">Ἔῤῥει πᾶσ’ Ἀφροδίτα.</span></div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c016'>There was “no speculation in those
eyes.” The eyes were not painted
certainly; as the poet saw the statues
in his mind’s eye, so had he seen
them with his visible organs. The
charm of love was not in them,
because the outward form of the
eye was only represented in the
marble. The love-charm was not in
those “vacancies of eyes.” Schütz
has this note upon the passage:
“Quamvis nimirum eleganter fabricatæ
sint statuæ, carent tamen oculis,
adeoque admirationem quidem excitare
possunt amorem non item.”</p>

<p class='c011'>These lines of the poet Æschylus,
repeated before an acute and critical
Athenian audience, would have been
unintelligible, and marked as an egregious
blunder, if the practice of painting
statues, or even their eyes alone,
had been so universal as it is represented
in this “Apology.” Can there
be a more decisive authority, than this
of the contemporary Æschylus? It is
certainly a descent from Æschylus to
Virgil; but we follow the apologist.</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c012'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“<span lang="la">Marmoreusque tibi, Dea, <em>versicoloribus alis</em></span></div>
      <div class='line'><span lang="la"><em>In morem</em> pictâ stabit Amor pharetrâ.</span>”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c016'>The writer, by his italics, is, we
think, a little out in grammar, connecting
“in morem” (because it was
customary) with “versicoloribus alis,”—and
in his translated sense of the
passage, with “pictâ pharetrâ” also.
This is certainly making nothing of
it, by endeavouring to make the most
of it. “In morem” may more properly
attach itself to “stabit;” if
not, to the wings or painted quiver,—not,
in construction, to both; at any
rate, Virgil, though Heyne reproves
him for his bad taste, had here a prejudice
<span class='pageno' id='Page_327'>327</span>in favour of marble, for “Amor”
shall be marble—that is the first word,
and first consideration. In the next
quotation Virgil, as provokingly, sets
his heart upon marble—nay, smooth
polished marble—and the whole figure
is to be entirely of this smooth marble;
but he gratifies Mr Jones by “scarlet”—the
colour of colours, vermilion—and
thus so reconciles the Polychromatist
to the marble, as to induce him
to quote the really worthless passage:—</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c012'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“<span lang="la">Si proprium hoc fuerit, levi de marmore tota</span></div>
      <div class='line'><span lang="la">Puniceo stabis suras evincta cothurno.</span>”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c016'>It is not of much moment to the main
question what statue one clown should
offer to Diana, in return for a day’s
hunting, or the other to a very different
and far less respectable deity,
whom he has already made in vulgar
marble, <i><span lang="la">pro temp.</span></i> only, and whom he
promises to set up in gold, though
simply the “custos pauperis horti.”</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c012'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“<span lang="la">Nunc te marmoreum pro tempore fecimus; at tu</span></div>
      <div class='line'><span lang="la">Si fœtura gregem suppleverit, aureus esto.</span>”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c016'>The poetical promises exceeded the
clown’s means; neither Diana, nor
the deity, odious to her, saw the
promises fulfilled. The Apologist is
merely taking advantage of a poetical
license, a plenary indulgence in nonperformance.
It is quite ridiculous
to attempt to prove what Phidias and
Praxiteles must have done, by what
Virgil imagined. But as Mr Owen
Jones delights in such <i><span lang="la">quasi</span></i> modern
authorities, we venture to remind him
of the bad taste of Horace, who loved
the Parian marble; and to recommend
him to consider in what manner
white marble is spoken of by as good
authority, Juvenal, who introduces it
as most valued in his time—white
statues.</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c012'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“<span lang="la">Et jam accurrit, qui marmora donet</span></div>
      <div class='line'><span lang="la">Conferat impersas. Hic nuda et candida signa,</span></div>
      <div class='line'><span lang="la">Hic aliquid præclarum Euphranoris et Polycleti.</span>”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c016'>It may be as well to quote also what
he says in reference to waxing statues:—</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c012'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“<span lang="la">Propter quæ fas est genua <em>incerare</em> Deorum.</span>”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c016'>Upon which we find in a note—“<span lang="la">Consueverant
Deorum simulacra cera
<em>illinire</em></span> (the old word of dispute) <span lang="la">ibidemque
affert illud Prudentii, lib. i.</span>,
contra Symonachum,—</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c012'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line in13'>——‘<span lang="la">Saxa illita ceris</span></div>
      <div class='line'><span lang="la">Viderat, unguentoque Lares humescere nigros.</span>’”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c016'>And in Sat. XII., “<span lang="la">Simulacra intentia
cerâ</span>.”</p>

<p class='c011'>We have already treated of this
custom of waxing the statues, and
given the recipe of Pliny, to which
we revert for a moment, because the
advocates for the colouring theory insist
that <i><span lang="la">illitia</span></i>, <i><span lang="la">linita</span></i>, <i><span lang="la">illinere</span></i>, <i><span lang="la">linire</span></i>,
all of one origin, are words applicable
to painting. Pliny says,—we quote
from Smith’s <cite>Dictionary of Greek and
Roman Antiquities</cite>,—after showing
how the wax should be melted and
laid on, “It was then rubbed with a
clean linen cloth, <em>in the way that naked
marble statues were done</em>.” The Latin
is—“<i><span lang="la">Sicut et marmora nitescunt.</span></i>”
The writer in the Dictionary speaks
as to the various application of the
encaustic process, to paint and to
polish: “Wax thus purified was
mixed with all species of colours, and
prepared for painting; but it was applied
also to many other uses, as
polishing statues, walls, &#38;c.”</p>

<p class='c011'>Lucian, who died ninety years of age,
180th of the Christian era, although
he relinquished the employment of a
statuary, and followed that of literature,
had certainly an excellent taste
in art. His descriptions of statues
and pictures prove his fondness and
his knowledge. What he says of the
famous Cnidian Venus of Praxiteles
is very remarkable. After admiring
the whiteness of the marble and its
polish, he praises the ingenuity of the
artificer, in so contriving the statue
as to bring least in sight a blemish in
the marble, (a very common thing, he
adds). It would not have required
this ingenuity in the design, if Praxiteles
had intended his statue to be
painted, for the paint would have
covered the stain in the marble wherever
placed. We may learn something
more from Lucian. In his
“Images,” wishing to describe a perfect
woman, he will first represent
her by the finest statues in the world,
selecting the beauties of each. It is
in a dialogue with Lycinus and Polystratus.
<span class='pageno' id='Page_328'>328</span>“Is there anything wanting?”
asks Polystratus, after mention
of these perfect statues. Lycinus replies
that the colouring is wanting.
He therefore brings to his description
the most beautiful works of the best
painters. Enough is not done yet;
there is the mind to be added. He
therefore calls in the poets. Here,
then, we have statuary, painter, and
poet, each by their separate art to
portray this perfect woman. He
does not describe by painted statues,
but by pictures. Had painting statues
been universal, as pretended,
Lucian must have seen examples, and
his reference to pictures would have
been unnecessary. If it be argued
that the paint had worn off, that
argument will tell against the Polychromatists,
for it at least will show
that, in an age when statues were
esteemed, the barbarity of colouring
was not renewed.</p>

<p class='c011'>In his “Description of a House,”
he says, “Over against the door, upon
the wall, there is the Temple of
Minerva in relief, where you may see
the goddess in white marble, without
her accoutrements of war.” The
painter, it may be fairly conjectured,
painted inside on the wall of the
house, the common aspect, and the
white marble statue.</p>

<p class='c011'>In his “Baths of Hippias,” he
mentions “two noble pieces of antiquity
in marble of Health and Æsculapius.”
Nor does he omit noticing
paint, and that vermilion—but
where is it? “Then you come to a
hot passage of Numidian stone, that
brings you to the last apartment,
glittering with a bright vermilion,
bordering on purple.”</p>

<p class='c011'>According to Mr Owen Jones’s
theory, all these exquisite works in
white marble are to be considered as
unfinished; if they have not been
handed over to the painter, they
should be now. Why did Phidias
and Praxiteles so elaborate to the
mark of truth their performances?
The reader will be astonished to learn
the reason from Mr Owen Jones. It
was from the necessity of the subsequent
finish by paints!</p>

<p class='c011'>“People are apt to argue that Phidias
never could have taken such pains
to study the light and shade of this
bas-relief, if the fineness of his workmanship
had had to be stopped up
when bedaubed with paint.” It is astonishing
that not a glimmering of
common sense was here let in upon
the work of Phidias, while the whole
light of his understanding showed the
effect of his own handiwork on the
plaster; for he, in that case, says,
“But when the plaster has further to
be painted with four coats of oil-paint
to stop the suction, it may readily be
imagined how much the more delicate
modulations of the surface will suffer.”
Does he suppose that the eyes of Phidias,
and of people in that age, were
blind to the suffering of these nice modulations
from the stucco, or over-coats
of paint? But why did Phidias so
finish his works?—hear the polychromatic
oracle “Now, people who
argue thus have never understood
what colour does when applied to
form. The very fact that colour has
to be applied, demands the highest
finish in the form beneath. By more
visibly bringing out the form, it makes
all defects more prominent. Let any
one compare the muscles of the figures
in white with the muscles of those
coloured, and he will not hesitate an
instant to admit this truth. The
labours of Phidias, had they never
received colour, would have been
thrown away; it was because he designed
them to receive colour, that
such an elaboration of the surface was
required.” This is the most considerable
inconsiderate nonsense imaginable.
Common sense says, that one
even colour, or absence of colour, gives
equal shadows, according to the sculptor’s
design; but if you colour portions
of the same work differently, the unity
of shadows will be destroyed, for shadows
will assimilate themselves to the
various colourings, be they light or
dark. This necessity of colouring
would impose such a task upon the
sculptor, so complicate his work and
design, and so bring his whole mind
into subservience to, or certainly co-operation
and consultation with, the
painter, that no man of genius could
submit to it; for it is the characteristic
of genius to have its exercise in
its own independent art. The assertion
of this effect of colour, by Mr
Jones, is untrue in fact, and if he
could make it true, would so complicate,
and at the same time degrade,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_329'>329</span>the statuary’s art, that in the disgust
of its operation it would be both out
of the power, and out of the inclination,
of men to pursue it. Will the
people of England take Mr Owen
Jones’s reproof? To them the labours
of Phidias have hitherto been
thrown away, for they have only as
yet seen his works in white marble—in
fact, unfinished. In this state Mr
Jones thinks they have been very
silly to admire them at all—and how
they came to admire them who can
comprehend? they have no colourable
pretext for their admiration. Not
only have the labours of Phidias
been “<em>thrown away</em>,”—but, what is
more galling to this age of economists,
some forty thousand pounds of our
good people’s money have been thrown
away too. What is left to be done?
Simply what we have often done before—throw
some “good money after
the bad,” and constitute Mr Owen
Jones Grand Polychromatist-plenipotentiary,
with competence of salary
and paint-pots, and establish him for
life, and his school for ever, in the
British Museum. It is well for him
and for them the innocent marbles
have no motion, or the very stones
would cry out against him, and uplift
their quiescent arms to smash more
than his paint-pots.</p>

<p class='c011'>And here let us be allowed to remark
of Mr Owen Jones’s colouring,
having been thoroughly disgusted at
the Crystal Palace, that he is as yet
but in the very elements of the grammar
of colour. He has gone but a very
little way in its alphabet. He has
practised little more than the A B C—that
is, the bright blue, the bright
red, the bright yellow. But the alphabet
is much beyond this. What of
their combinations? These are so
innumerable that, as if in despair of
their acquirement, he puts his whole
trust in the blue, red, and yellow,
so that the very object of colour,
variety, is missed, and the eye is
wearied and irritated in this Crystal
Palace with what may be called,
in defiance of the contradiction
of the word, a polychromatic monotony.
His theory of colour stops
short at the beginning—it is without
its learning. The sentiments
of colours are in their mixtures,
their relative combinations, and appropriate
applications, and we venture
to suggest to other Polychromatists,
besides Mr Owen Jones, that the grammar
of colouring, if learned properly,
will lead to a mystery which the blue,
red, and yellow, of themselves the
A, B, C of the art, are quite insufficient
to teach. The study is by
none more required than our painters
in glass; nor are some of our picture-makers,
as our Academy exhibitions
show, without the need of a little learning.
We scarcely ever see a modern
window that does not exhibit a total
ignorance of colour. The first thing
that strikes the eye is a quantity of
blue, for it is the most active colour,
and it is given in large portions, not
dissipated as it should be—then reds,
and as vivid as may be—and yellows.
Attempt at proper effect, such
as the <i><span lang="la">genius loci</span></i> requires, there is
none. With the unsparing use of
these three unmitigated colours only,
we do not see why decorators should
be called Polychromatists at all; they
should style themselves Trichromatists.
But of Mr Owen Jones’s polychromatic
theory and practice, do not let him
so slander the tasks of the ancients as
to pretend that he has it from them, if
by the ancients he means those artists
of good time. They delighted in white
marble, “nuda et candida signa,”—the
naked and the white. The pretence
that he had it from them, is as
the</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c012'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“Painted vest Prince Vortigern had on,</div>
      <div class='line'>Which from a naked Pict his grandsire won.”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c016'>The grandsire never took it; the
<em>naked</em> Pict never had it. And yet the
directors of this Crystal Palace have
taken Mr Owen Jones’s word for it.
They have inconsiderately, and with
the worst taste, delivered up the
Palace into Mr Jones’s hands. We
dread his being put into any other
palace, for he evidently longs to be
stuccoing and daubing the real
marbles. “The experiment cannot
be fairly tried, till tried on marble”—and
he looks to a wide area, ample
verge, and room enough, “and in
conditions of space, atmosphere, &#38;c.,
similar to those under which the originals
were placed.” We however
owe it to Mr Owen Jones’s candour
in admitting a note by Mr Penrose,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_330'>330</span>which vindicates the character of this
odious marble. Thus speaks Mr Penrose:
“An extensive and careful examination
of the Pentelic Quarries, by
the orders of King Otho, has shown
that large blocks, such as were used at
Athens, are very rare indeed. The distance,
also, from the city is considerable:
whereas there are quarries on
Mount Hymettus at little more than
one-third the distance (and most convenient
for carriage), which furnish
immense masses of dove-coloured
marble, much prized, it would seem,
by the Romans (Hor., ii. 18), and inferior
in no respect but that of colour
to the Pentelic. It could, therefore,
only have been the intrinsic beauty of
the latter material that led to its employment
by so practical a people as
the Athenians.” It will occur to the
reader to ask if there is not here something
like a proof that they did not
intend this Pentelic marble to be
painted; for it is manifest, under the
stucco-and-painting theory, the dove-coloured
of Hymettus would have
answered all purposes. But Mr Owen
Jones triumphs over his own candour.
He sees nothing in the admission of
this note of Mr Penrose; he takes it
up, he exhibits it, merely for the purpose
of throwing it down and trampling
upon it. He gives it a scornful
reply.—<em>Reply</em> in large letters. It is a
curious one, for, like the boomerang,
it flies back upon himself, and gives
his own arguments a palpable hit.
The reader may remember how he
had asserted that “the Athenians
built with marble because they found
it almost beneath their feet.” In his
oblivious reply, he discovers that the
Athenians used it because it was a
great way off from their feet; nay,
that the worst part of the matter was,
that it was no farther off from their
feet. He uprises in reverential dignity,
to reprove “our present ideas of
economy.” “I do not think that,
with our present ideas of economy,
we are able to appreciate the motives
of the Athenians in choosing their
marble from the Pentelic quarries, in
preference to those of Mount Hymettus.
We must remember that the
Greeks built for their gods; and the
Pentelic marble, by presenting greater
difficulties in its acquisition, may have
been a more precious offering.” Mr
Jones thus offers two contradictory
motives on behalf of the Athenians—<em>one</em>
must be given up. It would be
strange in so few pages that a writer
should so contradict himself, if we did
not bear in mind with what ingenuity
a theory will invest its own pertinacity.
Surely no man on earth will
believe that the Athenians, either by
any extraordinary devotion<a id='r50'></a><a href='#f50' class='c009'><sup>[50]</sup></a> they
showed towards their gods in the time
of Pericles, or by an unheard of folly
(for they were a practical people),
chose the one quarry in preference to
the other, for no other reason than its
greater cost and difficulty.</p>

<p class='c011'>We are referred to the evidence of
Mr Bracebridge, produced before the
committee of the Institute, which Mr
Jones says settles the point “as far
as regards monumental sculpture.”
The evidence is, that in the winter
1835–6, an excavation, to the depth
of twenty-five feet, was made at the
south-east angle of the Parthenon.
“Here were found many pieces of
marble, and among these fragments
parts of triglyphs, of fluted columns,
and of statues, particularly a female
head, which was painted (the hair
is nearly the costume of the present
day).” It is quite an assumption
that the spot of this excavation was
the place where “the workmen of the
Parthenon had thrown their refuse
marble.” There is no proof whatever
that these fragments were even of the
age of the Parthenon; even if they
may be supposed so to be, we presume
that, as works of art, they are worthless,
for they are called refuse, and
most likely had nothing to do with
the work of the Parthenon. We believe
at the same time was found the
very beautiful fragment in relief, the
Winged Victory, of which but very
few casts were taken. One of these
we have just now seen, and doubt not
its being of the age of Phidias. This
is white marble, and we have never
heard that it has any indication of
having been painted. If Mr Owen
<span class='pageno' id='Page_331'>331</span>Jones could prove to us that the whole
Parthenon, with all its statues, showed
certain indications of paint, we still
have not advanced to any ground of
fair conclusion; for, in the want of
contemporary evidence—(we cannot
call anything yet adduced evidence)—we
are left to conjecture that the
daubing and plastering were the work
of a subsequent age, or ages, when
ornament encroached upon and deteriorated
every art in Greece, whether
dramatic, painting, or sculpture.
“Pliny and Vitruvius both repeatedly
deplore the corrupt taste of their own
times. Vitruvius (vii. 5), observes,
that the decorations of the ancients
were tastelessly laid aside, and that
strong and gaudy colouring and prodigal
expense were substituted for the
beautiful effects produced by the skill
of the ancient artists.”—(Smith’s
<cite>Antiquities</cite>.)</p>

<p class='c011'>We pay little attention to what has
been said by the writers quoted regarding
Acrolithic or Chryselephantine
statues, whether of the best or
lowest character. Whatever they
were, they have perished, and there
is nothing left for modern barbarism
to restore. We have looked chiefly
to undoubtedly good genuine marble—white
marble statues, and reliefs of
the best times, of such as are to be
seen and admired, unadorned, in our
British Museum. “It is the custom
of all barbarous nations to colour their
idols,” says the writer of the historical
evidence. We perfectly assent to this,
and believe we shall ourselves be a
very barbarous nation whenever the
statues in that Museum shall be plastered
with stucco, or painted over with
four coats of vermilion or any other
colour. Barbarous nations have
painted, and do so still, not only
their idols but themselves. Our Picts,
with their woad colouring, may have
emulated the peculiar beauty of blue-faced
baboons. We dispute not the
point that Greece, as well as every
other country, at some period of its
history was addicted to the common
barbarous taste of colouring to the
utmost of their means. The question
is not whether they did it, but when
they left it off. It is said in the
“Apology,” that if they had ever left
off the practice, it would have been
so remarkable an event that it
would have been noted in history.
We know not where any one will be
able to put his hand upon any passage
in history, showing the exact or
probable period at which our neighbours
the Picts left off the fashion,
which we learn prevailed. We think
Mr Owen Jones himself would be
very much astonished if, even though
in pursuit and pursuance of his own
argument, he should turn the corner
of Pall Mall, and come face to face
with half-a-dozen naked Picts in the
ancient blue and vermilion costume.
Quite satisfied that the fashion has
been superseded, we care not about
the when. Nor do we care to know,
in our practical age, what finery they
put upon their idols; and although a
commission under Polychromatic direction
may bring back, from no very
distant travel, accounts of multitudes
of idols still draped and painted, we
are sure this English nation will not
resume the practice. We have something
else to do, which the “Wisdom
of Solomon” tells us they had not,
who fabricated such monstrosities.
“The carpenter carved it diligently,
<em>when he had nothing else to do</em>,
and formed it by the skill of his understanding,
and fashioned it to the
image of a man, or made it like some
vile beast, laying it over with vermilion,
and with paint colouring it
red, and covering every spot therein.”</p>

<p class='c011'>Much is made of the notices of
Pausanias, who, in the 177th year of
the Christian era, travelled over
Greece. Mr (afterwards Sir Uvedale)
Price, in 1780 published “an accurate
bill of fare of so sumptuous an
entertainment,” in relation to the
temples, statues, and paintings remaining
in Greece in the time of
Pausanias. We have thought it
worth while to look over this bill of
fare, and to extract all that is said
about painted statues. Page 45: “In
the great square, where there are several
temples, there are the statues of
the Ephesian Diana, and of Bacchus
<span class='pageno' id='Page_332'>332</span>in wood—all the parts of which are
gilt with gold, except the faces, which
are coloured with vermilion.” Immediately
follows—“There is a
Temple of Fortune with her statue,
which is an upright figure of Parian
marble”—Nothing about painting this!
Page 177–78: “In Ægina there is
a Temple of Jupiter, in which there
is his statue of Pentelican marble, in
a sitting posture, and one of Minerva
in wood, which is gilt with gold, and
adorned with various colours; but
the head, hands, and feet are of
ivory.” “At Philoe there are the
temples of Bacchus and Diana: the
statue of the goddess is in brass, and
she is taking an arrow out of her
quiver; but that of Bacchus is of
wood, and is painted of a ruddy
colour.” It is only the wooden are
painted! Page 199: “In Phigalia
there is a Temple of Diana Sospita,
with her statue in marble; and in
Gymnasium there is a statue of Mercury,
and likewise a Temple of
Bacchus Acratophorus with his
statue—the upper part of which is
painted with vermilion, but the lower
part is covered by the ivy and laurel
that grows over it.” This is the
statue mentioned in the historical
evidence, where it says “<em>the body
being of gilded wood</em>.” There is no
doubt it was so—but in fairness we
must say, that, having examined the
original passage in Pausanias (<cite>Arcad.</cite>,
lib. viii. cap. 89), we find no mention
of the material of which it was made.
Here it will be observed that in no
instance does Pausanias speak of a
marble statue painted.</p>

<p class='c011'>We have been reading an account
of the discoveries at Herculaneum
and Pompeii—without doubt, both
these places contained Greek sculpture
of a good period. There have
been a vast number of marble statues
and fragments of statues found. The
marble of which they are made is
mentioned. They are mostly white
marble, and there is no notice of any
having been painted. If one should be,
or should have been found coloured,
it would be an exception, the not unlikely
experiment of individual bad
taste. We should bear in mind, also,
that the discovered works must have
been found with regard to substance
and colour in the state in which they
were overwhelmed in the sudden destruction
of the towns. Yet do we
read of a single painted marble statue?
The paintings are, however, minutely
described, and their coloured wall decorations.
We have yet to learn that
there has been any paint discovered
upon those exquisitely beautiful
statues belonging to the Lycian
Temple Tomb, in the British Museum,
discovered and brought to this country
by Sir Charles Fellowes. Could
we be brought to believe that marble
statues were stuccoed or painted—and
we utterly repudiate any such attempts
as Mr Jones’s to make it credible—we
should bless the memories, had they
left us any notices of their names, of
those worthies of a better taste who
had the good sense to obliterate, to the
utmost of their power, the bedaubers’
doings. With them we venerate white
marble; and while we think of the
Polychromatists, we entertain greater
respect for the taste and sense of the
so-called simpletons of the fable who
endeavoured to wash the blackamoor
<em>white</em>, than for the fatuous who would
make the <em>white</em> black, or even vermilion.</p>

<p class='c011'>It is surprising that in the history
of the arts the Homeric period is
made of so little account. We are
inclined to believe that the arts had
reached a high state, at least of workmanship;
that they were subsequently
lost, and revived. If Homer and
Hesiod, the eldest of heathen authors,
introduced into their poems elaborate
descriptions of the shields of Hercules
and Achilles, and in some degree
spoke of the actual workmanship, can
we believe that either of them treated
of things totally unknown at the times
they wrote? If so, they were inventors—or
at least one of them—of the arts
they describe. It is all very well to
ascribe all that we read of as mere
poetry; but poetry, however it invents,
or partakes of invention, builds
invention on fact. It would not invent
an art, and offer it to the world
as a thing already known. The
shields exhibit extraordinary workmanship,
which is thought worthy to
be attributed to the skill of a deity.
That of Hercules in Hesiod implies
the use of hidden springs, for Perseus
is described as hovering over and not
touching the shield, and the Gorgons
<span class='pageno' id='Page_333'>333</span>pursuing him as making a noise with
the shield’s motion. The gold and
silver dogs keeping watch at the gates
of Alcinous could scarcely be the unauthorised
invention of the poet.
Much might be said upon the Nineveh
discoveries; references might be made
to the time of Moses—and instances
more than that of the brazen serpent;
the subsequent building of the
Temple might supply most curious
detail—all these proving the existence
of sculptural arts, more or less
refined, long antecedent to what we
would fain call the revival of art in
Greece. But we cannot be allowed
space for a discussion not immediately
bearing upon the subject of this
paper.</p>

<p class='c011'>It may be fairly conceded, that we
are not to look to the earliest periods
of art for its greatest simplicity. In
all countries monstrosities and ornament
were more eagerly sought, soon
after the first attempts at representation,
than accuracy and beauty. The
time of the</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c012'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“<span lang="la">Fictilis et nullo violatus Jupiter auro</span>,”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c016'>if not the poets’ fiction, was of short
duration.</p>

<p class='c011'>In this paper we treat not of the
barbarities of art. Barbarous ages
may be of all or of any times. Art
having once reached perfection, and
having mastered, over the falsities of
bad taste, its own independence and
emancipation from every other art,
we deprecate the return of a barbarism
which shall unite it with a gaudy
presumption of another and a lower
art, subjugating the genius of mind
to the meaningless handling of the
decorator.</p>

<p class='c011'>Indeed, we should be content very
much to narrow the question—to care
little whether the ancient statues and
relievi were painted or not. We are
quite sure, from the very nature
of things, the materials and the objects
in the use of them, that they
never ought to have been painted;
and if there ever was such a practice,
and it were a common one as pretended,
the world has shown its good
sense in obliterating the marks of the
degradation of art so widely, as that
any satisfactory discovery of such a
practice is not to be met with. Ages
have passed in a contrary belief, and
much more than the meagre evidence
adduced must be required, in any degree
to damage the long-established
opinion that statues should not be
painted, and that white marble has
undeniable, and, for the purpose of the
statuary, perfect beauty. The audacious
attempt in the Crystal Palace,
and the assumptions of the “Apology,”
might lead to the worst taste, to
retard and not to advance art. And
while we see simultaneously set up a
foolish and dangerous principle to govern
our national collections in painting,
and probably sculpture, assumed
with too much apparent authority, we
fear the introduction of monstrosity in
preference to beauty, and the consequence
in oblivion of what is good in
art, and the encouragement of a practice
of all that is bad.</p>

<p class='c011'>If the reader, unsatisfied with the
damage inflicted in these pages upon
the facts assumed by Mr Owen Jones
in his “Apology,” and his conclusions
upon them, would desire to see further
arguments adduced from the
necessities which originated the various
styles of basso, alto, and <span lang="it">mezzo
relievo</span>,—showing that they all presupposed
one even colourless, or at
least unvariegated plane, as the surface
upon which they were to be executed,
and how and why these three—the
basso, alto, and mezzo—have each
their own proper principles, in which
they differ from each other—how they
were invented for the very purpose
of doing that which, if painting the
marble had been contemplated, would
have been unnecessary—how, in fact,
they are in their own nature independent
of colour, regulated by principles
of light and shade, with which colour
would detrimentally interfere—we
would recommend to his attentive
reading the short yet complete treatise
on the subject, by Sir Charles
Eastlake, being No. 7, in his admirable
volume, <em>The Literature of the
Fine Arts</em>. He proves by the characters
of the three styles, and by the
wants they were invented to supply,
and the diversity of design which they
require, that “the Greeks, as a general
principle, considered the ground
of figures in relief to be the real wall,
or whatever the solid plane might be,
and not to represent air as if it was a
picture.” As Mr Jones’s experiments
are made on relievi, a little study of
their nature and distinctions is at this
moment very desirable.</p>

<p class='c011'>If Mr Jones colours the horses
brown and grey, the faces of the
riders flesh colour, and marks their
eyes, and reddens their lips, and draperies
their bodies after patterns out
of a tailor’s book—it is quite absurd
to say that the Greeks never intended
exact imitation. In what he has
done every one will recognise the
attempt to portray exact nature in
colour. Upon this principle, and establishing
a contempt of white marble,
there is but one more step to take, to
set up offensive wax-work above the
art of the statuary in marble. Sculpture
is an appeal to the imagination,
not to the senses. That which attempts
to deceive disgusts by the
early discovery of the fraud. Indeed,
it is a maxim in sculpture that a certain
unnaturalness in subordinate accompanying
objects is to be adopted,
to show that a comparison with real
nature is not intended. “If imitation
is to be preferred,” says Aristotle,
“which is least adapted to the vulgar
and most calculated to please the
politest spectators, that which imitates
everything is clearly most
adapted to the vulgar, as not being
intelligible without the addition of
much movement and action, as bad
players on the flute turn round,
if they would imitate the motion of a
discus.” Paint to the statuary is
what all this motion is to the flute-player.
Whoever mutilates what is
great and good in art, and would
persist in so doing, after reproof,
ought to pay the penalty of his folly.
We would not be too severe in the
punishment of offenders in taste, but
should rejoice to see one of a congenial
kind put in practice, one very
mild for such an offence as this of
statue painting—the tarring and
feathering the perpetrators, plasterers
and bedaubers, principals and coadjutors.
Upon Mr Owen Jones’s principle,
the “ex uno omnes,” and his
making a confirmed summer of one
swallow, though we entirely deny the
existence of this one <i><span lang="la">rara avis</span></i>, a
white marble statue painted, he and
his company ought not to object to
the punishing process, for more culprits
have been known to have been
tarred and feathered than are even
the pretended specimens of painted
marbles on record. We would, out of
consideration for the peculiar taste of
the decorators, mitigate the punishment,
by allowing the received proportion
of Mr Jones’s blue and vermilion
to be mixed with the tar.</p>

<p class='c011'>Besides, as fine feathers make fine
birds, and choice may be made of the
brightest colours, it would be a fine
sight, and one that would very much
take the fancy of the public, to see
the Polychromatists stand materially
and bodily plastered, stuccoed, coloured,
tarred and feathered, in the Crystal
Palace, in their own glory or shame,
as they may be pleased to take it, as
living specimens of colouring interferences,
to the infinite amusement of
all beholders, and a caution to modern
decorators. They would be
pleased in one respect, for, beyond a
question, the white statues would be
quite neglected, the “prejudice” in
favour of white marble would quite
give way, and even the city wonders,
Gog and Magog, would be no
longer visited.</p>

<p class='c011'>The reader will think it time to
draw to a conclusion; it will be most
satisfactory if he deems the case too
clear to have required so much discussion,
and that</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c012'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“<span lang="fr">Le jeu ne vaut pas la chandelle.</span>”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c016'>But before we lay down the pen, we
would not have it supposed that we
are not sensible both of the merits
and advantages of the Crystal Palace.
It ought to be, and doubtless will be,
the means of improving the people,
and affording them rational amusement.
There has been a little too
much bombast about it, as a great
college for the education of the mind
of the people—too much eulogistic
verbiage, which sickens the true source
of rational admiration. It will improve,
because it will amuse; for
good amusement is education both
for head and heart. The best praise
it can receive is, that it is a place of
<span class='pageno' id='Page_334'>334</span>permanent amusement, than which
nothing could be devised more beautiful
and appropriate for those who
mainly want such relief from the
toils and cares which eat into life.
We could wish the Archbishop of
Canterbury had not consented to let
the Church of England be dragged
in triumph behind the car of a commercial
speculation. It was in bad
taste at its opening—and Mr Owen
Jones’s colouring is another specimen
of bad taste—but “non paucis maculis.”
We sincerely hope it will succeed
in all respects, though we ventured
not to join the Archbishop in his
prayer. In fact, it is too great in itself
for unnecessary display at the
ushering in, which was worse than
ridiculous—it made that which should
be most serious in that place an
offence and a falsity. The reader
may be amused by an inauguration
of quite another kind—one of poetry
by anticipation. We summon, then,
our oldest poet, to celebrate as afar
off, for coming time, our newest Crystal
Palace and its wonders, in</p>

<h4 class='c021'>CHAUCER’S DREAM<br> OF THE CRYSTAL PALACE.</h4>

<div class='lg-container-b c012'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“As I slept, I dreamt I was</div>
      <div class='line'>Within a temple made of glass,</div>
      <div class='line'>In which there were more images</div>
      <div class='line'>Of gold standing in sundry stages,</div>
      <div class='line'>In more rich tabernacles,</div>
      <div class='line'>And with jewels more pinnacles;</div>
      <div class='line'>And more curious portraitures</div>
      <div class='line'>And quaint maniere of figures</div>
      <div class='line'>Of gold work than I saw ever.</div>
      <div class='line'>There saw I on either side,</div>
      <div class='line'>Straight down to the door wide,</div>
      <div class='line'>From the dais many a pillar</div>
      <div class='line'>Of metal that shone out full clear.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>       ·       ·       ·       ·       ·</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Then gan I look about I see</div>
      <div class='line'>That there came entering in the hall,</div>
      <div class='line'>A right great company withal,</div>
      <div class='line'>And that of sundry regions,</div>
      <div class='line'>Of all kinds of conditions,</div>
      <div class='line'>That dwell on earth beneath the moon,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Poor and rich.</div>
      <div class='line'>Such a great congregation</div>
      <div class='line'>Of folks as I saw roam about,</div>
      <div class='line'>Some within, and some without,</div>
      <div class='line'>Was never seen, nor shall be no more.”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_336'>336</span>
  <h2 class='c002'>THE SECRET OF STOKE MANOR: A FAMILY HISTORY.</h2>
</div>
<h3 class='c021'>PART IV.</h3>
<h4 class='c021'>CHAPTER VI.—CHARLEMONT.</h4>

<div class='lg-container-b c012'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'><span lang="fr">“La vertu, dans le monde, est toujours poursuivie.”—<span class='sc'>Moliere.</span></span></div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c011'>The people swayed and hummed
in the road, with strange burnished
chequers cast over their very visages
as they pressed against the gorgeous
gates, thrown open towards each other,
so as to form a double impromptu palisade
across the highway, and locked
as well as steadied by inward props;
through the bars of each side-wicket
could be seen a scarlet-clothed Swiss
sentinel, his musket shouldered, as he
paced to and fro, grimly though carelessly
contemplating all. But scarce
was there time to take in the scene ere
a louder trumpet-note sounded from
among the trees, and two mounted
trumpeters in orange liveries were
seen to rise at speed on the brow of
the avenue; till, amidst sudden silence,
the whole array of a brilliant
<i><span lang="fr">cortège</span></i> rose up beyond them from a
slope, glittering, indeed, yet pale and
almost tarnished amidst the rich evening
light, as it emerged through the
cool forest chase. It was indeed the
royal stag-hunt returning to Marly
from the woods. Swiftly they came
onward—the troop of chivalrous-looking
gardes-du-corps, in sky-blue
and gold, scarlet velvet breeches and
white-plumed black hats, with ringing
scabbards and glossy foam-necked
horses,—the carriages and riders, the
sledge with the slain stag, and the
chasseurs and stag-hounds. But the
procession appeared to go across in
visionary swiftness between the reversed
gates: there was but one
glimpse of that single face, with its
unfixed and solitary glance, its inscrutable
air of calm, ere it had gone
past, to a doubtful murmur of <i><span lang="fr">Vive le
Roi</span></i>, that was succeeded by a hubbub
of sounds, with all the disagreeable
pressure of a miscellaneous crowd,
sometimes standing on the wheels, or
leaning against the carriage-hood.
Young Willoughby had torn off his
hat with a ‘hurrah!’ which stultified
all his previous British protestations.</p>

<p class='c011'><span class='pageno' id='Page_337'>337</span>A face was turned up from the confusion
beneath, which, owing to the
now neater attire of the possessor,
Charles had not before observed: the
village teacher had assumed coat and
hat, bearing an umbrella of somewhat
faded texture beneath his arm, and
some workmen evidently assisted him
to gain a more convenient position.</p>

<p class='c011'>“Yes, I say, Father Pierre,” gloomily
observed one of the workmen, addressing
the teacher, as if in reference to
some previous remark, “there are
plots!”</p>

<p class='c011'>“Ah, it is no doubt undeniable,”
agreed that person, with reluctance,
while he still turned an eye to the
carriage, as if to apologise for being
thrust up against it: “there are possibly
plots. In that case it is only
necessary to disconcert them, Monsieur
Jacques.”</p>

<p class='c011'>“But it is exactly to do so, Monsieur
Morin,” said a quieter mechanic,
“that, after earlier than usual dismissing
the school, you were on the
point to set off for Paris.”</p>

<p class='c011'>“Yes, half an hour ago, on foot, to
the Club Breton, at the Palais Royal,”
continued a peasant beyond.</p>

<p class='c011'>“Père Pierre had a plot also, you
know,” added some one else.</p>

<p class='c011'>“Pardon me, Monsieur Robert—a
<em>plan</em>,” replied the teacher with his
peculiar blandness, though his eye
continued wandering sideways to the
carriage: “to plot, my friend—it
does not belong to the virtuous.”</p>

<p class='c011'>“But from a philosopher,” rejoined
the villager, “Monsieur Père Morin
is about to become a man of action—he
has a plan.”</p>

<p class='c011'>“Delayed by this beast of a barricade,
which deranges everything,”
said his rougher neighbour, angrily.</p>

<p class='c011'>“Monsieur Morin will, then, however,
relate to us this plot which he
counteracts,” added the keen-eyed
mechanic, with emphasis—“and the
plan also. We shall perhaps be able
to assist him! It seems to me that
M. Morin should have avoided being
thrust on this side the barrier.”</p>

<p class='c011'>“Good!” responded Jacques, “we
shall assist him! It is no doubt fortunate
after all.” The last riders had
passed through, and the porters were
coming with their keys to unlock the
gates. The neighbouring chateau
clock struck six with a cracked tone;
and the great gates were slowly yielding,
to allow time for the Swiss sentries
to cross through. They came
together to their usual place with a
clash; the crowd poured each way
between again, among the various
country vehicles and market-carts,
the passengers and riders, from or to
the city, or the town of Versailles—for
a few minutes in such sudden disorder
as almost to hurl the bystanders
from the carriage when it drove forward;
save the young man, the
teacher, who had held by it for security,
and in the attempt to balance
himself was urged so close as to seize
the hood of the barouche, already in
motion. An unaccountable repugnance
shot from the young lady’s look
and attitude as she started back, extricating
her shawl from the accidental
clutch—till her heart reproached her
next moment at his thorough expression
of apology mixed with alarm,
for Jackson drove furiously down-hill.
She was in vain calling him to stop,
when she saw her brother spring up
quick as thought, look round, and hurl
their unintentional fellow-passenger
backward on the road.</p>

<p class='c011'>“Drive on, Jackson,” shouted
Charles, triumphantly. “Serves him
right—the very fellow’s face that
I detested!”</p>

<p class='c011'>Panniered market-asses, hastening
pedestrians and boys, alone mingled
with their speed across the bridge,
past the <i><span lang="fr">chemin des affronteux</span></i>, into
Charlemont; the sudden howl of indignation
from the groups behind
them had died away.</p>

<p class='c011'>“What on earth is the matter with
you, Jackson?” called out the lad,
starting up again, as they reached
about the middle of the village street;
“why don’t you drive on? Never
mind watering your horses!”</p>

<p class='c011'>“They’ve got a couple of farm-waggons
and some hampers right across
the way, sir,” replied Jackson, turning
<span class='pageno' id='Page_338'>338</span>about from his box, with an undertone
as much from misgiving as
respect.</p>

<p class='c011'>A shadowy mass blocked up the
passage before them, looking vague
in the dusk. It was opposite the
door of a shabby <i><span lang="fr">auberge</span></i> or village
inn, with the sign of the Fleur-de-lis.
Charles stood up to call
out in French, and a gendarme
in coarse blue uniform advanced
to the side of the carriage, civilly
enough, as if to answer his inquiries.</p>

<p class='c011'>“You have injured a respectable
person, it is said, monsieur,” was the
reply of the functionary, in a lowered
voice—“a man of influence in the
place here.”</p>

<p class='c011'>“Wilfully, too, it seems!” added
a villager, sharply, and turning to the
crowd, which in a few seconds gathered
about the speakers.</p>

<p class='c011'>“Yes, yes—our schoolmaster—a
philosopher—an estimable man—M.
Morin!” was the general response,
rising to a climax: “see him there,
assisted by every one to reach the
spot!”</p>

<p class='c011'>The figure of Morin by that time
became obvious, in fact, near the
door of the tavern, supported by
workmen and peasants, while the
blood trickled down his cheek, and
he limped on one foot, seeming
more confused than hurt. The
concern of the ladies was extreme;
young Willoughby alone remained obstinately
cool as the excitement increased;
he assumed the chief part
with great self-possession, and distinctly
imputed the fault to the aggrieved
individual, expressing quite
as plainly, though in rather indifferent
French, his doubts as to the seriousness
of the injury.</p>

<p class='c011'>The landlord of the auberge, a
beetle-browed man in a striped cowl
and white apron, with an air between
a cook and a butcher, had hovered
behind, looking on with apparent attempts
at moderation among the bystanders.
“Yet monsieur will scarcely
refuse to apologise to M. Morin?”
inquired he, thrusting his sinister visage
nearer.</p>

<p class='c011'>“If you only hand me your purse,
mother,” was Charles’s answer, to
Lady Willoughby’s anxiety, “you’ll
soon see what’s wanted!”</p>

<p class='c011'>“Monsieur!” exclaimed he, drawing
back from the boy’s offer with an
offended look, “you insult me!”</p>

<p class='c011'>In the indignant noise which ensued,
apologies would have been unavailing;
but at the appearance of
another gendarme pushing up, Charles
Willoughby seated himself, turned
his shoulder on the rabble, and contented
himself with explaining matters
to the official beside him, into
whose palm he had easily enough slipped
the rejected coin. It produced
no apparent increase of deference in
the man’s stiff civility; but he exchanged
a few prompt words with his
comrade, who took out a stump of
pencil and a scrap of paper, put the
end of the first into his mouth, and
rested the latter on the carriage-wheel,
looking up imperturbably for
further particulars. An authoritative
word or two from the other, as he
raised his voice, and glanced from the
throng to the obstacles in the street,
on the other side of which market-drivers
from Paris were grumbling,
served to restore a degree of order.
“Yes, Martin, it will be sufficient,”
he loudly observed to his companion,
“to take notice of the passports.
Attention, then, Martin!”</p>

<p class='c011'>“Monsieur will exhibit the passports,”
said the sergeant in the same
tone, as he turned again to the carriage.
Charles Willoughby looked
blank, though he mechanically felt for
them in his pocket, and inquired at
Jackson, at Mrs Mason, at all the
party, looking below the cushions and
beneath the seats. It was to no purpose;
he had to admit that they were
not forthcoming; a gentleman of the
party, who would no doubt directly
appear, had happened to have them
in his pocket. The gendarmes stood
up, and looked to each other significantly;
the one put up his paper and
pencil, with a shrug of his shoulders;
the other addressed himself
with a rigid air of regret to the carriage.</p>

<p class='c011'>“It will be necessary to descend,
mesdames et monsieur,” he said firmly,
“until the affair can be adjusted.
No, monsieur,” he rejoined in a lower
voice to Charles, who was hinting at
a further douceur, “impossible—a
bribe!—and in the circumstances.
But the thing is doubtless a mere
<span class='pageno' id='Page_339'>339</span>bagatelle, which M. le Maire will very
soon arrange at his chateau.”</p>

<p class='c011'>“Yes! yes! Live justice!” screamed
the gathered village, male and female,
boys, girls, and children, down to the
very crowing of the infant in arms,
the excitement of poodles on the
thresholds, the rousing up of fowls
going early to roost above the doorways
inside the dingy cottages.</p>

<p class='c011'>“But, M. le Gendarme,” interposed
the injured Morin himself, calmly, “I
entertain no resentment against monsieur.”</p>

<p class='c011'>“Only a complaint, M. Morin,”
said the sergeant, with dignity. “It
must be attended to. Besides that,
the passports, which concern the State,
are wanting. It is far more important.”
The mob shrieked applause;
even showing symptoms of disapprobation
against their outraged teacher,
who was silenced.</p>

<p class='c011'>“Well, then, gendarme,” said young
Willoughby, still contemptuous except
to the lawful authorities beside
him, “what do you mean by our getting
down? Can you not take us at
once to your mayor? This is not his
chateau, I suppose?”</p>

<p class='c011'>“Impossible, monsieur,” was the
unruffled answer, “as M. le Comte
has this afternoon gone to his hotel in
Paris, and the commissary of the commune
resides at some distance. It is
by favour, I assure you, monsieur, that
you are not conducted there, or to the
guard-house of the district—which, of
course, was impossible in the case of
mesdames your companions.” The
affable sergeant of police bowed towards
the ladies. “At the auberge
here, however, of the Fleur-de-lis,
they will enjoy very superior accommodation
with M. Grostète, who is
the landlord. He is even an artist;
the <i><span lang="fr">ménage</span></i>, too, of madame the hostess
is admirable.”</p>

<p class='c011'>With regard to the prolongation
of the dilemma, the village mob
found an evident luxury in it, appearing
to balance oddly enough
between the wildest rage and looks of
murmured interest; as if, the more
struck they were with the youth’s
blunt, spirited manner, the mother’s
obvious distress, and the young lady’s
pale, startled air, through her veil and
out of her simple straw-hat, with her
governess’s ill-maintained fastidiousness,
the more unwilling the whole
audience grew to lose hold of these,
but would fain have been wrought up
to extract something more tragic by
way of sequel. The young man who
had been the occasion of all, first relieved
the party from their difficulty:
Morin had fixed his light-blue eyes
on the ground, and raised them
thoughtfully as he moved forward to
the chief gendarme.</p>

<p class='c011'>“But fortunately, M. le Sergent,”
said he, in a thin, distinct voice, “it
seems to me that I am capable of readjusting
this affair here.”</p>

<p class='c011'>“And how?” inquired the police-officer,
over his shoulder, as he drew
himself up with an air of additional
authority.</p>

<p class='c011'>“M. le Maire has this evening gone
to Paris?” continued the teacher, with
composure.</p>

<p class='c011'>“Yes, I witnessed his departure,
since I had the honour to receive M.
le Comte’s instructions,” answered the
functionary, in more immovable certainty
than before.</p>

<p class='c011'>“I was aware of it,” said Morin,
mildly, “because this morning, through
the intendant of his estate, M. le
Comte condescended to inform me
of it.”</p>

<p class='c011'>“Ah, you were informed of it, M.
Morin!” said the gendarme, with a
slight air of surprise, putting his
thumb to his chin, and looking somewhat
cautious. “Well?”</p>

<p class='c011'>“And M. le Comte will not only
be in Paris to-night,” said the schoolmaster,
“but to-morrow also, since
he has affairs of more importance to
transact. Therefore it would be necessary
to convey Monsieur the young
Englishman to the commissary at
Marly.”</p>

<p class='c011'>“Peste! I did not know that
though!” ejaculated the gendarme,
letting fall his hand. “But you are
right. It is only to the commissary
at Marly, then, that we can resort.”
And grim indifference returned to the
faces of the gendarmes, as they shrugged
their shoulders.</p>

<p class='c011'>“But it was exactly to see M. le
Comte that I was about to proceed,
when disabled,” continued Pierre
Morin, modestly, while he indicated
his misfortune by a slight movement
of the leg. The gendarmes stared at
each other half incredulously.</p>

<p class='c011'><span class='pageno' id='Page_340'>340</span>“Eh? Père Pierre?” interrupted
two or three voices; and the rough
workman shouldered in, turning a
dully suspicious glance from his begrimed
visage to Morin’s, and adding,
“It was to the Cloobbe Breton—the
Palais Royal, I thought?”</p>

<p class='c011'>“To disconcert a plot?” exclaimed
several others.</p>

<p class='c011'>“By a plan?” was the vivacious
chorus of many together.</p>

<p class='c011'>The young schoolmaster bowed.
“Certainly, M. Jacques,” he said,
with an unruffled smile, to the workmen,
“since, thanks to the designs of
some relatives, it is to the club that
M. le Comte would have gone to-night
as an auditor. He is still young—his
ideas, though philosophical, are
timid—it happens that he would have
heard our boldest and least elegant
orators, who watch with such a noble
jealousy the division which is prolonged
in the States-General by the privileged
orders. I have studied the
character of M. le Comte—he would
have been deterred—his eloquence as
our deputy to the Third Estate would
not only have disgraced us at Charlemont
here, but have given force to the
opinions of others who would ruin all.
There was, in short, a diabolical snare
spread for him.”</p>

<p class='c011'>An indignant murmur ran through
the crowd, as they glanced to each
other in alarm. The gendarmes rather
appeared puzzled.</p>

<p class='c011'>“<em>Ah dâme!</em>” broke out the superior
of the two; “but how is it that <em>you</em>
are acquainted with all this, M. le
Maitre-d’école?”</p>

<p class='c011'>“It is simple, M. le Sergent,” replied
Morin, calmly. “The message
I received to-day, through M. le
Comte’s intendant, informed me, that
as a correspondent of the Club, as an
advocate for the right-to-absorb of
the Third Estate, I was about to be
dismissed from my school—unless,
indeed, on the assurance, before M.
le Comte’s departure, of confining my
views to the elementary instruction
for which I was placed there.” It
was with difficulty he could proceed,
for the violent uproar of surprise and
resentment. “I was silent,” he at
length continued: “at your usual
wish I read aloud the journal of yesterday.
I received the fresh message
left for me, that till nine, M. le Comte
would be at his hotel in Paris, for the
convenience of his intendant’s communications
from the chateau here,
before visiting, for the first time, this
club. It was the proof of a determination
still postponed by M. le Comte.
I remained unmoved, while mingling
with the concourse to the gates yonder—without
taking advantage of the last
messenger to Paris—but resolved the
more, as I perceived the nature, the
causes of this proceeding. Had I
publicly explained my intention, M.
le Comte might have been unjustly
accused by you—my motives in personally
reaching Paris might have
been misinterpreted. I was even
aware that to intelligence—to integrity—to
virtue—the whole world is
about to become a school!”</p>

<p class='c011'>At the modest attitude, the unconscious
air, touched only by a slight
twinge of suffering from his foot, with
which their teacher announced his
private sacrifice to principles, the
whole audience were struck mute;
their admiration seemed to struggle
silently with dismay. “For me, on
the contrary,” he pursued, recovering
himself by the help of his faded
pocket-handkerchief, “had I gained
Paris by eight, resorting straight to the
Palais Royal before the admission of
strangers to the club, I should have
obtained the right of the tribune,—permitted
after nine to speak, I would
have publicly expressed the sentiments
most congenial to me, which
resemble his own,—without seeming
to address myself to him, without his
expecting it, I astonish him by my
boldness, my disregard of private considerations.
I expose, next, the motives
of those who entangle him,—I
paint the future which dawns on us
so slowly,—I should at once have convinced
him, my friends—and have
retained my school, my position—the
relation to my fellow-villagers, which
I value—the power to consult their
wishes, their necessities!”</p>

<p class='c011'>“It is the <em>plan</em>! Excellent! Yes,
<em>the</em> plan of Père Morin!” ejaculated
a dozen hearers in delight.</p>

<p class='c011'>Monsieur Morin’s countenance had
worked with animation, his gestures
had grown quicker in accompaniment;
and the hushed crowd burst into a
scream of approbation, broken only into
separate yells as the nearest bystanders
<span class='pageno' id='Page_341'>341</span>looked from his face to his disabled
foot, from his foot to the deepened
blue of the sky, and thence to the offending
carriage.</p>

<p class='c011'>“Yes, it is too late, my friends,”
admitted he, composing himself. “As
it is, however, by myself accompanying
Monsieur the young Englishman,
before nine, to the hotel
of M. le Maire, I should equally
gain the object, without having presumed
to request an interview, which
would have been denied me. I relieve
Monsieur and his friends from a
<i><span lang="fr">contretemps</span></i>, while observing the law.
I detain M. le Comte, at a critical
moment, from a danger to his views—in
the act of myself confirming
them! It is not yet eight—we have still
an hour, useless on foot, when lame—that
is, if perhaps Monsieur would
not object to one’s occupying a seat
beside his coachman?”</p>

<p class='c011'>“It is reasonable!” exclaimed fifty
voices. “M. Morin is right—yes!
yes! Sa-cr-r-ré! do they object?”</p>

<p class='c011'>The young Frenchman looked quietly
and calmly, though with an air of
dignity, to Charles Willoughby, who
for a moment scarcely comprehended
his meaning, or the drift of the whole
discussion. Brightening up next instant,
however, his eye gave a quick
response. “Ah, of course!” he said,
springing to assist the teacher up;
“certainly, Monsieur Morin—with
all my heart; here, let me give you a
hand!” The perplexed gendarmes
looked to each other inactively, the
innkeeper and his wife alone gloomed
on their door-steps; while, as the injured
schoolmaster was helped by the
very offender himself to mount the
dickey beside Jackson, the villagers
grew absolutely ecstatic in their applause;
the foremost agitators in the
crowd were the first to begin dragging
the obstacles aside. “Monsieur Jacksong,
my friend,” called out young
Willoughby, in his most scrupulous
French, somewhat to the surprise,
doubtless, of that grim worthy, while
a sudden gleam of enjoyment twinkled
once more in the youth’s eye,
“you will favour me by using the utmost
exertions to arrive in time for
Monsieur Morin!” He deliberately
opened the carriage-door again, took
down the steps, and leisurely stepped
in, two or three officious pairs of hands
contending which should set all to
rights behind him. He took off his
cap as he stood, and bowed with profound
gravity to the crowd. “That’s
to say, Jackson,” added he in English,
“all right—drive on like mad!”</p>

<p class='c011'>And as Jackson whipped his tedious
beasts like a man devoid of all
mercy, the creaking barouche rattled
off; accompanied by half the crowd,
by noisy curs, frightened poultry,
and confused shadows from the trees
and houses, till they jolted across
the other bridge, and rolled out clear
into the broad light of evening. All
at once, after some silent meditation,
Charles tapped the shoulder near him,
and the Frenchman turned his face
with a slight start.</p>

<p class='c011'>“I say, Mossure Moreng,” observed
Charles, with more than his customary
force of pronunciation, “I
am sorry you got hurt, though.”</p>

<p class='c011'>“The apology of Monsieur is accepted,”
was the cold answer, as the
young man quietly turned away again
towards the smoke of Paris before them.</p>

<p class='c011'>“Oh, it is not an apology,” said
Charles, leaning over, “but I own we
are much obliged to you. Such a set
of rascally canaille, to be sure! ’Twas
ingenious enough, that story of yours—so
far as I understood it! But
where are we to take you to keep it
up? Into town? Or perhaps you
would prefer being dropped at the first
comfortable inn!”</p>

<p class='c011'>“I do not comprehend you, Monsieur,”
replied the teacher of Charlemont,
in evident surprise; “it is to
the hotel of M. le Count de Charlemont
that we shall go—in Paris.”</p>

<p class='c011'>“And where is that?” asked the
youth, drumming with his small cane
on his toe.</p>

<p class='c011'>“In the Faubourg St Germain, Monsieur—near
the Quai Voltaire,” said
Morin.</p>

<p class='c011'>“Why, I should say it was two or
three miles out of our way, then,” rejoined
Charles, discontentedly. “Well—what
after that? Do we finish
there—eh?”</p>

<p class='c011'>“I am unaware of the result, naturally,
Monsieur,” answered the
schoolmaster. “In the case of Monsieur,
it will probably be an inconsiderable
fine, which the clerk of M. le
Maire will no doubt regulate according
to law. But for the coincidence,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_342'>342</span>it would have been impossible to extricate
Monsieur from that affair there—it
was important that I should reach
Paris: there is no favour to one or
the other—only a compromise.”</p>

<p class='c011'>“By George!” uttered the boy,
staring, “you do not mean to say
that long rigmarole account of yours
was <em>true</em>?”</p>

<p class='c011'>The Frenchman betrayed equal
amazement. “Is it, then, possible,
Monsieur,” said he, “that you doubt
it—that you imagine these things not
to exist precisely—not to bear themselves
as I have stated!” Charles
surveyed him coolly. “Think you,
Monsieur,” continued the other, with
some vehemence, “that one could at
all events deceive one’s neighbours,
who are aware of every circumstance—who
will to-morrow demand of me
the result! The police—who confide
in my position, my character! No,
Monsieur—it is <em>truth</em> that has happened
to involve, as to extricate you—truth,
by which France is at this
moment so animated—by which we
here are at the instant surrounded,
controlled!”</p>

<p class='c011'>Young Willoughby whistled slightly
as he eyed him. “Oh?” was the
careless rejoinder. “But for my part,
I feel no inclination to trouble your
worthy mayor. The whole thing is a
humbug. What if I merely refuse to
go, Mister Morran—indeed, if I have
you set down beside the first fiacre,
with your fare paid to the driver?”</p>

<p class='c011'>“You do not comprehend this
France here, Monsieur,” said the
village teacher, blandly, as he let a
voluntary gaze of his colourless eye
rest on Charles. “She burns to support
the law—to assist it. At a
moment they are summoned to its
aid—they are roused to complete it
the more perfectly—they exaggerate.
Besides, even in your house, by to-morrow,
you would be traced. The
offence would have become enhanced.
It is owing to the sublime passion for
the philosophical—the consistent,
Monsieur!”</p>

<p class='c011'>The boy eyed Morin with a useless
frown; he had turned away. Looking
about, and thinking, with a singular
sense of antipathy, for which he
could scarce find sufficient grounds,
Charles sat mute; he began to feel as
if, much though he despised this Morin,
he would never be got rid of till
some serious issue came of it in the
end. But they reached the barrier,
not yet closed—passed through, recognised
and unquestioned; for to
enter Paris seemed always easier than
to get out of it; and rattled along
the chaussée through close streets of
a dingy faubourg. Much as it was
out of their way, yet, to be finally
rid of Monsieur Morin and his case,
no course seemed secure but to drive
straight to the authority he indicated.
At the Rue de St Roche, accordingly,
in the aristocratic suburb they at
length drew up before a high old
house in the row of stately mansions,
where lacqueys lounged about the balustraded
door-steps and huge <em>portes-cochère</em>,
and the upper casements began
to glow with light. “It is the
Hotel St Mirel,” said the village
teacher, as he began with difficulty
to get down. He waited quietly for
the young gentleman to follow him,
and they went up the steps together.</p>

<p class='c011'>The carriage had not stood waiting
many minutes before Charles Willoughby
reappeared alone. His face
was bright with satisfaction.</p>

<p class='c011'>“What an absurd affair, after all,”
said he, contemptuously: “it cost
about ten minutes and as many shillings.
An old clerk at a table in an
antechamber took down the statements
on each side. Of course I
allowed the facts; and it seems there’s
an exact understood price tacked to
every sort of assault in France, from
a push to a kick, according to the
quality of the parties; and if the fellow
had pushed me, it would have
cost <em>him</em> about double. There were
two or three gentlemen talking in an
inner room, who all came out together
in riding-boots and coats—though
which was which, one could hardly
see against the large windows this
time of night. I only fancy it was
the Count that bowed to me, rather
a young man, I should say—and
looked at Morin rather sharply, giving
a slight sort of nod; then he said
something to the clerk, who told me
I was fined half a louis-d’or, besides
the five francs for his own fee, which
<span class='pageno' id='Page_343'>343</span>he pocketed very graciously, getting
up and putting off his spectacles. I
only waited another minute to see if
I could catch out that Morin somewhere,
as soon as the Count called
him aside in a hurry to the inner
room; but I must say everything
seemed to agree well enough with the
fellow’s harangue at the village—his
schoolmastership was evidently in
danger—till all at once the Count
came out again to tell the other gentlemen
he could not go somewhere
with them that evening. I believe
the one was some celebrated actor at
the theatre—which was he the footman
couldn’t tell—and the other a
<em>dook</em>, as John of course expressed it!”</p>

<p class='c011'>“Why, that footman was <em>English</em>,
then!” said Rose, gravely.</p>

<p class='c011'>“Of course. As lazy a selfish dog,
with his plump looks and his languid
impertinence, as you’d see in all May
Fair—old Jackson there’s a Roman
by comparison—but somehow it refreshed
one. I couldn’t help giving
him my last half-crown, he fawned so
about my hat and cane, as if to do
something—and as for the coin, he
examined it like a portrait. After
that Morin, you know, anything’s
pleasant that one’s accustomed to!
We’re well quit of him. Happily, by
the by, they forgot about the passports,
and don’t even know my name.
Being lame—if it’s not a sham—why,
I fancy the fellow could scarce do
otherwise than stay at the Count’s,
down stairs with John!”</p>

<p class='c011'>Charles’s mother gently reproved
him for the violence he had used, and
his sister said he was very hardhearted.
But the carriage turned
the corner near the Rue Debilly; and
as they drew up at their own gate,
Mr Thorpe, bareheaded, followed by
Sir Godfrey, came eagerly out. They
had been getting very anxious indeed.
The tutor had missed the Baronet,
whom business had detained a little
later than his expectation, so that he
had left the city by a different barrier,
then had turned, fancying the carriage
already past; while Mr Thorpe had
ridden nearly all the way home alone,
then back, till he met Sir Godfrey.</p>

<h4 class='c021'>CHAP. VII.—THE DILIGENCE OF SIR GODFREY.</h4>

<div class='lg-container-b c012'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“<em>Norfolk.</em> ‘——We may outrun,</div>
      <div class='line'>By violent swiftness, that which we run at,</div>
      <div class='line'>And lose by over-running——’</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'><em>Buckingham.</em> ‘——by intelligence,</div>
      <div class='line'>And proofs as clear as founts in July, when</div>
      <div class='line'>We see each grain of gravel, I do know——’”</div>
      <div class='line in44'><span class='sc'>Shakespeare.</span></div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c011'>The Baronet had no sooner written
his necessary correspondence that
forenoon, and conveyed it, almost as
necessarily, with his own hands to
the post-office at the British Embassy,
than he had turned bridle again toward
the Quais, to ride in the direction of
the Cité, where it seemed that, after
all, the intended legatee of his brother
had only exchanged one obscure place
of abode for another—<span lang="fr">48 Rue Chrétienne,
au cinquième, in fact, for au
septième, num<sup>o</sup>. 80, Rue de la Vierge</span>.
He found himself ere long plunged into
the centre of that strange heart of
a no less strange quarter. He had
no sooner found the number he was
in search of, than a couple of little
sharp-eyed, old-faced <i><span lang="fr">gamins</span></i>, engaged
in some game of chance in a doorway,
were ready to hold his horse, with a
jealousy of each other which was a
guarantee for their joint fidelity.</p>

<p class='c011'>It was an insecure-looking old pile,
which might yet have seemed a sort
of city in itself; compressed back, as
it appeared, and almost held up between
others less elevated, though of
greater prominence and somewhat
more respectable appearance, to the
vast height of at least seven storeys:
the general outer door stood fixedly
open, and the cord which held it so,
conducting by staple and pulley along
the low entrance-passage, as through
the arch of a cellar, turned in on one
side to a dark little den, half lighted
by a cooking-lamp and partly from a
back-yard covered with rank grass
and all sorts of rubbish, with an old
wooden pump in the midst, to which
the passage itself led through. Here
an old woman, the portress, sat in a
crazy leathern arm-chair that had been
gilded once; she was busy trying to
boil something by the lamp, and talking
in a cross voice to herself, her cat,
or some one else not visible to Sir
Godfrey; her old features were sour
enough, probably from the rheumatism
<span class='pageno' id='Page_344'>344</span>which controlled her motions;
but at his appearance and inquiries
she became sufficiently alert and communicative,
curtseying at every sentence,
and trying to nod her head
obsequiously, with the utmost eagerness
to do anything in the matter of
Suzanne Deroux, whom she knew so
well, and who was so deserving—who,
indeed, was never from home,
except to go to mass on saints’ days
at Notre Dame. There was the
low fawning cunning and curiosity
of old age, joined to the practised
manner of some quondam servant,
in the portress’s desire that he
should be saved the flight of stairs,
down which, where it wound up
from opposite her lodge, came but
the dull glimmer of daylight in some
high window: her little girl, however,
whom she had screamed for
over and over again, between fits of
coughing and fresh suggestions to
the visitor, at last appeared with
her pitcher from the pump, to be
angrily despatched up-stairs as a
guide to Madame Peltier. <em>That</em>
was the appellation expected by
the daughter and the son-in-law—the
portress informed him—for they
were proud, and respected their
mother to an extreme—though, properly,
it seemed Madame had no
right to that title, not having been
married—and, doubtless, the marriage
even of her daughter must
at best have been <i><span lang="fr">à la Jacques</span></i>,
since nowadays it was so with all
workmen—who had nothing, of
course, to inherit or to leave. As
for this worthy Suzanne, though
she seemed to affect to be religious,
her frugality, so unavoidable—her
simplicity, which was almost hopeless,
did not entitle her—nothing
but her misfortunes could entitle her—to
such respect.</p>

<p class='c011'>The portress’s little niece had
already preceded him to the floor in
view, ere Sir Godfrey reached it, almost
breathless, counting the storeys.
The whole structure, from base to
summit, appeared not merely to teem
with apartments, but, as it ascended,
to rise and open skyward into visible
life: one pleasant buzz of French vivacity,
indeed, had seemed to circulate
above till the girl appeared; and
her voice could now be heard in eager
dialogue behind an adjoining door with
the young woman who a minute before
had been speaking over the balusters.
He knocked, half open although it
stood, and was at once answered by
the latter. Suzanne Deroux was the
name of her mother, she said—who
was within. There was something
hard and cold, almost sullen, about
the young woman’s face, though it was
well-formed: her cheek seemed worn,
her eyes dry and lustreless; nor did
she make any inviting or inquiring
remark, merely making way for and
following the stranger as he slowly
entered.</p>

<p class='c011'>It was a bare garret, with the red-tiled
floor of such ordinary Parisian
abodes, a low yellow-washed ceiling,
much narrower than the floor, as on
one side the wall slanted with the
roof; yet everything was neat, clean,
and decently arranged. But the
glance took it in at once, without
leaving so much as a shadow; neither
hearth nor semblance of a closet
broke its completeness, to the recess
of the upright dormer-window, which
seemed a redeeming feature in so bald
an apartment, where it rose large and
shining out of the slope, beyond the
older woman’s seat. That was an arm-chair,
indeed, high-backed and easy:
her feet were on a patch of carpet;
a pot of mignonette was in flower on
the window-sill; a small coarsely-coloured
print of some portrait was
stuck with a pin to the opposite wall
of the recess; as if the household
bloomed a little only in that direction,
toward the sunlight, which came flooding
with the air through the wide-open
window-place. Seated on the
floor, beside a deal box in a corner,
under the slant of the wall, was a
stout young workman with a boot-last,
engaged on the second of an
elegant pair of riding-boots; while a
half-naked infant had been laid on the
floor, among the parings of the vegetables
which seemed meant for some
<span class='pageno' id='Page_345'>345</span>afternoon meal—and was taken up by
the portress’s little niece, to be hushed
and shaken, with an air of matronly
attention.</p>

<p class='c011'>At sight of the English baronet’s
conspicuous figure, stooping to enter,
and scarce venturing to stand erect
within, the bootmaker had looked up
with an absolute scowl of astonishment;
showing a strongly-marked
haggard visage, rendered the more
singularly unprepossessing, despite
something of the vivid southern tint
and classic decisiveness, by a head
close-cropped, in all its native soot-blackness,
and a chin left roughly
tufted below, although the lean tanned
cheek had not yet lost altogether
its air of youth. Sir Godfrey’s first
feeling had been one of pity, mingled
with sudden pleasure in the commission
he had to perform; their
perfect want of manners, their very
poverty, the absence of any other
apartment to withdraw into, joined
to the motionless silence of the
elderly woman in her arm-chair,
who neither seemed to hear nor see
him, all increased it to a kind of
embarrassment. In the highest drawing-rooms
in Europe, nay, in any
peasant’s cottage of his own country,
Sir Godfrey would have felt immeasurably
more at ease than he then
stood, hat in hand, in the attic of
these Parisian work-people. He had
hardly begun to address the person
before him, too, as Madame, ere the
child’s fretfulness in the arms of its
little nurse became a vociferous squall,
to which the elder woman turned her
head slowly, with an air of distress, her
features working, her body moving
and rocking in her chair, as she made
a humming, hushing sound to the infant.
Its mother snatched it next
moment from the girl’s arms, with an
angry exclamation. “Why do you remain
here under such pretences?” said
she, sharply; and the look of early cunning
had betrayed itself on the girl’s
face by her attempt to seem absorbed
in the child, with the hanging of the
head that succeeded. “Favour me,
little Pochon, by leaving us alone,”
continued the young woman, following
her as she slunk out: “Widow
Pochon is too good, inform her!”
And she slammed to the fragile door,
then returned near the visitor, with
her infant quietly held to the breast:
she was not much more than twenty,
and had well-shaped features, that,
with a happier expression, might have
been attractive; but in this slatternly
attire and attitude, her careless presence
was doubly disagreeable to Sir
Godfrey.</p>

<p class='c011'>He stepped nearer the sitting woman,
who, like a recent invalid, seemed still
not so much to attend as to be enjoying
the open air, the scent from
the flower-pot, and the streak of warm
sunshine that gleamed on the window-frame
and glowed across her clean
dress, on the old bright kerchief that
was pinned across her breast, and the
high white coif of some country fashion
which she wore close to her face; yet
in her face there was a healthy tint,
a little shrivelled, as on a well-kept
apple: so that it appeared to be more
from ignorance, or the awkwardness
of surprise, perhaps as much from his
own foreign accent, or some <i><span lang="fr">patois</span></i> to
which she might have been accustomed,
that, when Sir Godfrey went
on distinctly to explain his errand,
the woman Deroux looked sometimes
vacantly at him, sometimes away out
altogether to the open sky, again
irresolutely towards her daughter and
son-in-law, spreading her hands in
the feeble way of still more aged
persons, and smoothing her knees
with them by turns, more and more
restlessly as his voice grew distincter
in its emphasis. To the statement of
her former patron’s recent death, of
the omission or oversight which had
interrupted her allowance from him,
and of the nature and amount of the
present bequest, increased as it would
justly be by the addition of some recompense
for the intervening years—Suzanne
Deroux returned vague murmurs,
which might be taken for assent,
till her large mild face was at length
fixed towards Sir Godfrey’s, with a
light of greater comprehension than
before in her dim eyes; and he noticed,
for the first time, that one side
of her cheek and forehead was marked
by the white smooth seam of an old
scar—how large it was impossible to
see, for her cap; but frightful it must
have been once—taking, as it did, the
eyebrow away, and seeming to have
blanched the eye itself, where its
shining mark still crept out and curled
round, amidst the furrows and wrinkles
of otherwise healthy old age. She
<span class='pageno' id='Page_346'>346</span>said something in reply, but confusedly,
and with evident agitation,
while her shaking face seemed fascinated
to his—and with such a mixture
of <i><span lang="fr">patois</span></i>, as it seemed, whether of
idiom, pronunciation, or language—that
Sir Godfrey could merely infer it
to denote recollection of his brother,
with sorrow for his death, and gratitude
at the remembrance he had shown.
The young man had at length put by
his work, risen up, and approached to
listen, as he leant his elbows on the
broken deal-table.</p>

<p class='c011'>“She is weak in mind, the poor
woman—my mother,” said the
daughter, abruptly, though still engaged
in administering nourishment
to her infant; “it is useless to transact
anything with her, Monsieur.”</p>

<p class='c011'>“No, it is merely her memory that
is bad, Jeannette,” interposed the
son-in-law, who seemed scarcely his
wife’s age; and there was something
deferential in his look towards the
elder woman, with a comparative
kindliness of tone, as he turned to
address herself, putting his hand on
her arm-chair and his head near hers,
and using the respectful <i><span lang="fr">vous</span></i>—“and
she does not hear strangers very well—do
you, <i><span lang="fr">belle-mère</span></i>?”</p>

<p class='c011'>The elder woman smiled faintly in
return, her head still slightly trembling,
though the familiar voice seemed to
call up a degree of intelligence and
composure on her face, somewhat like
a child’s when it is commended: “no—no—not
very well, my son!” she
said; then drawing herself up and
spreading her gown with her hands,
sat full of silent importance.</p>

<p class='c011'>“She has always been weak in
mind,” coldly repeated her daughter,
paying no attention to them, “since
the accident by which she was so
injured. I am acquainted with the
circumstances, Monsieur, although
at that time but a child, and fortunately
not present with my mother in
the house where it occurred.”</p>

<p class='c011'>“You allude to the fire, above
nineteen years ago, in the house where
the family of her employer, my late
brother, had their apartments?” Sir
Godfrey asked, turning to her. She
made a simple assent. “Then your
mother, Suzanne Deroux, was a servant
living within the establishment?”
he continued.</p>

<p class='c011'>“Yes, she was the nurse—the wetnurse
(<i><span lang="fr">nourrice-à-lait</span></i>)” was the unembarrassed
answer—“for the infant
which perished along with its mother
and the other persons. She had remained
a considerable time, since it
was sickly. My mother had been a
peasant, you see, Monsieur.”</p>

<p class='c011'>She proceeded further of her own
accord, with an evident view to the
point of business.</p>

<p class='c011'>“My mother was certainly entitled
to this pension, notwithstanding her
indifference to it—her refusal, I believe,”
said the young woman, looking
for a moment at the elder, who
had listlessly turned again to the sunlight.
“Her wound, which was
shocking, confined her for weeks to
the hospital—her lover, my father, who
up to that time had still admired her,
and who was in the family of a nobleman,
returned, indifferent to her fate,
with his master to the provinces,
where his friendship for her had arisen.
As for her own infant, my brother,
whom at the risk of her own life she
had remained to save—its arm was indelibly
scorched, almost destroyed by
the flames which pursued her. She
ultimately relinquished it with apparent
unconcern, to the man who had
rescued them by a ladder at the window—an
Englishman, a servant who
had arrived with Monsieur Vilby, and
whose eccentricity made him desire to
adopt it. She has neither heard of,
nor seen her son, my brother, since.
She has never seemed even to wish
it, Monsieur. Certainly my mother
is weak in mind.”</p>

<p class='c011'>In most of this account the thread
was easily traceable; the baronet recalled
to mind some vague connection
of his brother’s late huntsman,
Griffiths, or “Welsh Will,” as he was
called, with the fatal incidents—he
had heard his son Francis talk years
before of a boy about Stoke, whom
the huntsman’s vixen wife persecuted
and kept out of doors. He had been
sent to some business, so far as Sir
Godfrey remembered, through Mr
Hesketh. The baronet stated as
much to the people before him.</p>

<p class='c011'>“Thou’rt wrong, though, Jeannette,”
said the son-in-law again,
with the same side-tone, irrespective
of their visitor’s presence, rather
through a dull incapability to acknowledge
it than from intention; “she
grieves for him. When thou’dst say,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_347'>347</span>remember, during the sharp winter,
thou wert glad thy brother’s mouth
was not here, did she not groan—and
when the fine time came again, while
thou wert so apt to taunt us about
her son being grown English, she
swung herself and wept! You feel
it, you wish your son back here,
<em>Marraine</em> (godmother), do you not?”</p>

<p class='c011'>The elder woman turned from the
light to him with a start and a stare;
perhaps it was the bright sunshine
that made her face seem faded beside
it, especially where the scar-mark
ran; she looked, to the stranger’s eye,
almost ghastly, as she replied, in a
less cracked and tremulous voice than
before—“Holy Virgin, yes! You
will send—you will take care of—ah!”
And as she stopped, perplexed
and troubled, the moisture sprang
from her dull-blue eyes into tears;
she passed one hand about the disfigured
place; she seemed nearer
clearness of speech on the subject than
hitherto, as if that had been a master-spring
to her scattered memories.</p>

<p class='c011'>“My good woman,” said the baronet
soothingly, as he stepped nearer, into
the recess where her easy-chair stood—“My
good Madame Deroux—if you
wish your son to return to you, it
shall be managed, of course! You
will see him, I hope, grown up and
prosperous, as well as able to assist
you! It would, no doubt, have been
a burden before!—She or you could
scarcely recognise him now, however,”
he added aside to the daughter,
in an undertone.</p>

<p class='c011'>“It is easy enough, Monsieur,”
was the careless answer, without any
responsive depression of voice, “since
the arm would not lose such a mark,
more than my mother’s visage—added
to the loss of the little finger. I was
too young to remember it, you see—but
the washerwoman who kept us
both, and who used privately to bring
the child at intervals to my mother,
leaving it for the night—she had
again seen it after its recovery, and
lodged along with us afterwards till
her death.”</p>

<p class='c011'>Suzanne Deroux had felt hastily
for something beneath the bosom of
her dress, and at length drew it forth;
a thin gold cross with black beads,
which she kissed with fervour, then
began eagerly to whisper and mutter
some scraps of prayer, that might
have been Latin or <i><span lang="fr">patois</span></i>, or both;
at each bead that fell from her fingers
her face seemed growing calmer.</p>

<p class='c011'>“She is quite well in other respects,
Monsieur,” continued the
daughter, turning impatiently from
her; “she still eats like a peasant,
she sleeps soundly, she prefers bright
colours for her dress to go to mass and
confession. As for that, she is so
superstitious, that when we were about
to starve, she would not permit her
little cross there to be pledged, nor
the dress in which she must frequent
Notre Dame—it was not she who suffered,
you see, but we—who endeavoured
to conceal it from her that we
endured so much!”</p>

<p class='c011'>A look of mild reproach was cast
by Suzanne towards her daughter,
while her lips still moved.</p>

<p class='c011'>“Well, well, Jeannette, going to
these affairs pleases her,” said the
young boot-closer, with the cub-like
leaning to his mother-in-law which
appeared through his uncouth exterior.</p>

<p class='c011'>“It is the priests who frighten
her,” went on his partner, her back
towards him, in perfect indifference
to his remarks; “her confessor, who
makes her tremble at the supposition
of crimes”—</p>

<p class='c011'>“Of which she is innocent!” observed
the son-in-law behind, in the
same disregarded way—“<i><span lang="fr">sacré nom!</span></i>
Jeannette is wrong about my mother-in-law,”
he added, looking awkwardly
for a moment at Sir Godfrey. “If you
would not call her Madame Deroux—it
confuses her ideas—it is Madame
Peltier she likes strangers to call her—do
you not, Marraine?”</p>

<p class='c011'>An air of childish pleasure spread
over the old woman’s features, and
she nodded graciously, and smiled.</p>

<p class='c011'>“See how she loves the child, too,
Jeannette!” said he, as the infant
stretched its shapeless arms and legs
from the maternal bosom, where it had
at length ceased to feed, towards the
grandmother’s bright kerchief and
white coif, that basked in outer sunshine.
She put out her hands to receive
it, and, with an aspect of complete
satisfaction, began dandling the
child towards the window, chirping to
it like a bird, or buzzing like a bee;
while the slatternly Jeannette applied
a careless touch to the disorder of her
dress.</p>

<p class='c011'><span class='pageno' id='Page_348'>348</span>“Peltier is the name of Jeannette’s
father, it seems,” resumed the bootmaker
more confidentially than before,
coming nearer the visitor;
“though for that—I and Jeannette
do not mind such ceremony—do we,
Jeannette? We are fond of each
other, you see.” The disdainful glance
which he received from his female
companion was sufficiently sharp-tempered
to make the fondness on her
side doubtful.</p>

<p class='c011'>“Do you not see that you infest
Monsieur with your absurd remarks!”
said she, angrily, when the pin had
been taken from her mouth, on which
her attire greatly depended; “and he
must naturally wish to escape from
a habitation so unworthy of him—favour
me by being silent, or going
out.” The bootmaker retreated towards
his original place again, while
his abler partner, with an intelligence
and quickness of apprehension, as well
as a collectedness, which might have
done credit to a higher station, proceeded
to take up the thread of their
visitor’s business with them.</p>

<p class='c011'>There was one precaution which
she requested him to afford them—a
signed paper in his handwriting, to
account for their possession of the
money, and state the ground of its
being given, in case of any accident
meanwhile from the police. And
while the bootmaker was absent in
search of ink-bottle and pen from
some neighbour, Sir Godfrey turned,
for the first time, from beside the elder
woman’s chair in its recess, toward
the attic casement which appeared as
fascinating to her as to her charge.</p>

<p class='c011'>“My mother is still a peasant,
Monsieur,” remarked the younger
woman, apologetically; “she is never
weary of admiring Paris!—Paris, with
which she has so little to do—of which
she knows nothing—which has kept
us so long miserable!”</p>

<p class='c011'>A strange thrill of very novel feeling
ran through Sir Godfrey as he
pressed nearer, and looked. He almost
shrank back with an emotion of
awe, the sight was so unexpected, in
such extreme contrast to that mean
abode, from beside the unmeaning
vacancy of the elder woman’s pleasure,
the infant’s crowing sounds and
motions, the repugnance he felt for
the others, and his own engrossing
thoughts: otherwise, on Willoughby’s
single-minded, straightforward, unimpassioned
character, with a very
dormant fancy and but tardy movement
of association, it might have
struck with slight impress. Immense
and startling from that height, indeed,
was the prospect; nor the less so, that
here and there some huge pile of neighbouring
chimneys, some tower-top, or
a wreath of lazy smoke, broke it up
close at hand with a vividness of light
and shade, or a distinctness of detail,
that was thrust on the eye. Here
a sunny perspective of roof, garretwindow,
and chimney, ruddy at the
top against blue air, with basking
cats, and blooming pots, and garments
hung to dry, that fluttered cheerfully,
where the population of the upper
world of Paris, the boulevards of its
canaille and its unknown, showed
their faces in the sun,—there a vast
surging sea of slates, tossed hither
and thither into tower, steeple, and
shadowy dome, pierced by dusky
gulfs and glooms—while midway ran
out a dull thread of the Seine into a
bridge, and broke forth beyond in
dazzling splendour, where the reflection
of the houses blended with the
substance, so that all there seemed
shattered and dripping in silver and
gem-like radiance—with visionary
structures lifted farther off among unsubstantial
bowers, up to the sun’s
viewless glory where he stood high
in a blaze of light, as if clothed with
a great mantle of indistinctness, and
contemplated the vast city. Far beneath
him floated the Hospital’s golden
dome: the softened roar and clamour
of Paris rose clear to the open attic
casement, with sharper noises from
close below it; one saw straight
through an uninterrupted space, down
upon streets and openings, quays,
square, and garden-terrace, in a distinct
bird’s-eye view, alive with the
motion of minute citizens; scarce
could it have been thought that the
regal whiteness of the rich Louvre was
so near, and the tilted pavilion-roofs
of the great, gaunt, high-chimneyed
Tuileries. The various stages and
storeys of inhabitants descended beyond
sight, as to abysses that were
bottomless. The air felt clearer than
elsewhere, and the sky seemed nearer
in its blue purity. It was all such a
spectacle as might have absorbed the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_349'>349</span>faculties of a prophet; indeed the
thought could not but have struck a
mind used to interpret its own consciousness,
of how slightly human distinctions
might weigh, and in what
trivial account they would result,
could magnificence so beyond the furniture
of palaces be familiar, or often
accessible. With the English baronet,
it was rather the sudden perception of
what vast concerns were going on
the while, under necessity to be sustained,
round about the particular
affairs of his own business or experience:
added to which came emphatically
enough that strange sense,
sometimes resembling the superstitious,
of time gigantically pressing on
to destiny—when with a hurtling,
heaving sound before it, and a crash
that made all the chimneys vibrate,
the hard walls clang, the roofs rattle,
and the windows tingle and ring, the
clock of Notre Dame, hard by, sent
out its first stroke of the hour. The
elder woman let the child sink in her
lap, gravely crossing herself at every
stroke; here and there, outside, a
face could be seen turned to it involuntarily.
The bootmaker, setting
down the writing-materials he had
procured after a somewhat long absence,
appeared to hear with a savage
grin and gleam of satisfaction, whether
still caused by the money or by later
news; he nodded his head to each
long, artillery-like stroke, rolling and
reverberating away among the piles
of the Cité and St Louis, and made
a whistling noise of pleasure as he
looked, till it was done.</p>

<p class='c011'>“And now, my good woman,” said
Sir Godfrey, when he had written the
required paper, with an order for the
money, “let me bid you farewell.”
He took Suzanne’s shrivelled hand,
and she made a motion to rise up, with
decorous gravity. There was a confused
murmur of gratitude, as if appealing
to her daughter for fuller
explanation; but he saw her eyes
moisten again, silently, when he said
he would cause the means to be taken
for at least enabling her son to
communicate with and assist her.
Suzanne Deroux shook her head, she
seemed almost to groan; while the
same wavering feebleness of mind
again turned her to the window
and the child. It appeared doubtful
whether she really had a distinct
notion who Sir Godfrey was, or what
relation he bore to her former master.</p>

<p class='c011'>“Are you aware,” he added apart,
to the daughter, ere turning to the
staircase, “whether your mother ever
expressed any idea as to the cause of
the fire in the house—if it was accidental
or otherwise?” The answer
was in the negative.</p>

<p class='c011'>“Or on what floor—her master’s
apartments, or some other?” No.
Her mother was talkative enough,
sometimes, and she believed she
knew little of it, and remembered yet
less.</p>

<p class='c011'>“There was no other circumstance,
then, of any importance, in the matter,
which they were acquainted
with?” None, she reluctantly said,
after a minute’s reflection; and it was
evident that, if it had been otherwise,
she would have been eager enough
to make the most of it: even the
touch of English gold might have no
power to make such a woman as
Jeannette Deroux feel any sort of genial
emotion, but it had at all events
given the light of unsatisfied cupidity
to her hard grey Normandy eye. Sir
Godfrey descended alone, to find the
urchins beginning rather to dread the
impatience of their charge.</p>

<p class='c011'>The recent interview, making known
little of any additional importance, at
least convinced Sir Godfrey of the
judiciousness of a step he had hitherto
disliked, so long as it seemed possible
that unexpected facts might appear
from it—an examination for
himself, namely, of the original record
by the police, whose reputation
for exactitude and acuteness was so
proverbial. It now, indeed, assumed
the air of a somewhat superfluous
measure, when through all he
had heard from these people, with no
motive or means for deception, there
did not show the slightest trace of
anything unlike other disasters of the
kind—of anything equivocal, anything
suspicious. It was chiefly, therefore,
with the wish for complete reassurance,
and final dismissal of the unwelcome
subject, that he turned again,
on his way homeward, to the chief
bureau of police which he had previously
passed. He found prompt attendance
there, on producing his passport,
and the required volume, from
<span class='pageno' id='Page_350'>350</span>under the head of “Conflagrations
Domestiques,” soon lay open on a
high desk before him at the point he
was in search of, while the inspector
turned the leaves slowly, reading
aloud the passages he indicated, and
which the peculiar style of French calligraphy
did not tend to render lucid.</p>

<p class='c011'>The record of nineteen years ago
had been made under a different monarch,
according to the laboriously prolix
system of M. de Sartines, especially
when any foreign subject was concerned;
and it extended over many of the
large pages, betraying by its faint-brown
ink how considerable an interval
had elapsed. It set out with the
alarm being brought past midnight to
the residence of the commissary in the
Quartier faubourg St Germain, that a
house on the Quai d’Orcay was in
flames, and the endeavours made to
arrest them, as well as to succour the
inhabitants, who had been driven to
the garret windows, and were attempting
to pass to the contiguous roofs;
it stated the narrow escape of a maidservant
from a front window of the
first floor, where the whole of the
apartments were full of smoke, by the
aid of a gendarme with a ladder too
short to allow him to enter—and of a
woman in her night-dress, whose shrieks
had first given the alarm, but who had
disappeared; till she returned to a
corner window with a child in her
arms, actually pursued by a bursting
flame, but rescued by a man on the
top of a wall which abutted there on a
manufactory canal flowing at a right
angle into the Seine—also of the English
gentleman, the tenant of the first
floor, who had at first made his way
from the street into the basement, out
of a fiacre which had brought him from
the theatre, but who reappeared half
drenched, and panting for breath,
amidst the play of the fire-engines.
The state of the February night was
described as being very dark before
the occurrence, with a high wind
blowing up the river, where, from the
tide, and a period of unusual rain, the
water of the Seine made the canal
overflow, rising almost to a level with
its bridges, yet affording the greater
facilities for the jets from the fire-engines,
which succeeded ultimately
in saving the adjoining structures, and
the sheds of the tobacco-manufactory
adjacent, with the lower part of the
house itself. The situation of the
house was also minutely given, to the
very contiguity of the two poplar trees
growing outside the wall, up from the
canal, but by which the <em>pompeurs</em> had
found it impossible to climb in their
heavy accoutrements—the height of
the wall on that side, and the manner
in which the end of the house rose like
a continuation of it towards the quay,
rendering it apparently impossible,
even when one had gained the top of
the wall, to reach at all near the solitary
first-floor window, in the middle,
and higher up. Then followed a detail
of the various occupants of the three
floors and garrets—on the basement,
the proprietor, a widower, elderly and
of avaricious habits, whose warehouse
of furniture filled three apartments,
his sleeping chamber being a closet
attached—his clerk, an old man who
lived in a fourth apartment with his
wife, both acting as porters: above,
the family of Monsieur Vilby, the Englishman,
consisting at that time of
himself, his wife, and infant son, a
young female attendant, a child’s
nurse, and the man-servant or butler
of M. Vilby: on the third storey and
in the attics, a banker’s head-clerk,
with his wife, her maid, and three
young children—a journalist, a painter,
and an actor, living together—a single
young man, of no profession, (though
calling himself a poet), supposed subject
to harmless fits of lunacy, inhabiting
an attic where he was known frequently
to lock himself in. Of these
there had perished—the old proprietor
himself, M. Canrobert, in whose
apartment the fire was supposed to
have originated, since he warmed himself
only in bed, while supping alone,
by candle-light—and the portress,
whose husband, luckily for him, had
chanced to be absent on business of
his master’s,—the remains of both
being still distinguishable if only from
the place of their discovery: the English
lady, Madame Vilby—her infant,
at first supposed to have been the one
saved by the nurse, but found afterwards
to have perished in her embrace,
although the charred and mingled debris
of the whole upper storeys fallen
from above rendered it difficult to
distinguish one mass of human substance
from another: the man-servant
<span class='pageno' id='Page_351'>351</span>of the English gentleman, at one time
imagined identical with the person so
active on the wall;—also others, above,
who were enumerated. Then succeeded
the depositions of the various
individuals in evidence.</p>

<p class='c011'>“‘<em>Victorine Tronchet</em>, <span lang="fr">fille-de-chambre</span>
to the late Madame Vilby, declared,
that before ten o’clock her mistress signified
an intention to sit up for monsieur,
who had gone to a theatre at some
distance, and that she might retire.
Retired to bed, accordingly, in a closet
adjoining the nurse’s room—saw the
nurse, as she thought, carry out the
child as usual to her mistress—imagined,
while half asleep, or dreamt,
that her mistress herself afterwards
passed through the room, stooped over
the bed with the child in her arms,
and disappeared. But knew nothing
further until awoke by the suffocating
vapours. Could read—but
did not sit up in bed with a candle,
perusing romances. There was a
lamp always burning on the floor of
the nurse’s room. Was not aware,
that night, of the nurse having her
own child in the house. Believed her
mistress to be ignorant of it. Could
not tell why her mistress did not herself
suckle the child—knew nothing
of such affairs. Did not know that
Madame’s voice had been brilliant—had
heard her mistress sing to a musical
instrument, when M. Vilby was
at home. M. Vilby had returned home
that day, unexpectedly, from England.
He went to the theatre, accompanied
only by M. Adolphe, his servant—perhaps
because Madame had a headache.
They used frequently to go to
the theatre. Had heard that a new
actress of celebrity would perform.
The man-servant, M. Adolphe, returned
early with some message to
Madame, and retired up the outside
stairs to his attic at the top of the
house.’”</p>

<p class='c011'>“‘The examination of the stranger
who had been so active was made
through an interpreter. Stated his
name to be Guillaume Greefeeze.
Was not a native of England, but of
Wales. Knew nothing of the fire,
except that having followed M. Vilby’s
hackney-coach from the theatre, he
smelt smoke, and saw immediately
the fire lick out (<i><span lang="fr">se lécher</span></i>) through
the front-windows, when the doors
below were burst open—heard shrieks
at the further end—leapt down by the
canal, to climb the wall,—saw suddenly,
by the light of the fire, a
woman in white at the window a little
above—thought she had fallen down
inside, till she came back, holding out
a child and calling to him. Succeeded
in getting to the window by help
of the barred outside shutter on that
side, which swung with him, however—found
it impossible to get either of
them down to the wall, which did not
come near enough towards being under
the window—without firmly fastening
the outer edge of the shutter to a staple
already there. Refused to leave the
woman as she seemed to wish—signed
to her to hold the child fast—tore
down one end of the window-curtain,
which held firm—made her slip herself
down after him in the fold of
the curtain, while he held the end
firm with one hand, catching the
shutter by the other. On the top of
the wall, which was luckily broad
enough to hold them, the woman
seemed to faint away, so as nearly to
drag them off, when they would have
fallen into the canal—shouted for assistance
then—before that, all the
firemen and the crowd were in front,
making a noise—with the pumping,
the sound of the fire and wind, and
the falling of the roof, it was useless.
They were seen by chance, when the
woman and child were carried to the
hospital. Afterwards assisted at the
pumps till the end.’</p>

<p class='c011'>“The evidence of this witness was
extracted with difficulty, by fragments,
in spite of a somewhat sullen and
cynical air, almost cunning. He frequently
used the eccentric phrase ‘for
reasons of his own.’ It was thought
proper, from these and other suspicious
circumstances, to detain him in
the meanwhile.</p>

<p class='c011'>“The statement of the nurse,
Suzanne Deroux, was taken formally
by her bed-side, in a ward of the Hotel
Dieu, where the fever from her injuries
continued, while it was doubtful
whether her sight would again become
perfect. As for her child, whose
arm had suffered, hopes had only begun
to be entertained of its recovery.
‘Was a native of Normandy, unmarried.
Had two children—a girl of
four, and the young child which she
<span class='pageno' id='Page_352'>352</span>had left with a neighbour, to obtain
support by nursing that of Madame
Vilby. Had obtained the assistance
of the portress in having her own
child brought to her privately, at intervals,
that she might still contribute
to its health. Had thought it pining,
as her neighbour was a Parisian—was
very healthy herself, being originally
a peasant—but was not allowed to go
out, except with the child of Madame
Vilby in the daytime, accompanied
by her or a servant. On the night of
the fire, had had both the children
with her—and as usual, conveyed that
of Madame Vilby to her bed-chamber,
to be seen by her while awake. Did
not see Madame Vilby after that, but
fell asleep holding her own child in
her arms to lull an uneasiness it showed—while
that of Madame Vilby,
which was younger, slept soundly at
the other side of the large bed. The
suffocating smoke, and the shrieks
of Victorine, the fille-de-chambre,
made her rise bewildered, seizing
the child which she felt clasping her
and again uttering complaints. She
rushed to the nearest window, which
would not open—that of the opposite
room, however, yielded, admitting a
gust of wind by which the smoke appeared
to explode beyond into flame,
and showing a man attracted by her
cries to the adjoining wall. Confessed
that her recollection of the other infant
had not till then returned—that
her instinct urged her to return only
for her own, which she had let fall when
attempting to open the first window—that
she ran to search the bed, however,
in vain—concluded that Victorine or
some one else had snatched the child
immediately from the side of the bed.
Caught up her own infant from the
floor where she had dropped it, and
after both had been for a moment on
fire from the partition of the room,
was rescued by the window. Did not
yet know whether any one had perished.
Was certain the fire had not
begun in the nursery, from the lamp
on the floor—having distinctly recollected
awaking in complete darkness—the
lamp must have been overturned,
extinguished, or taken away.
Acknowledged, of her own accord,
that in secretly obtaining her own
infant she had committed a crime.
Always slept soundly at night, having
been a peasant. Did not know
anything more, and had no expectation
of her child living, it was so
sickly from the manner of nourishment.’</p>

<p class='c011'>“In reference to some of the remains
discovered, surgical testimonies
were opposed. Amongst several unclaimed
bodies deposited at La Morgue,
during the progress of this examination,
was that, evidently, of an Englishman,
whose blue coat and top-boots
betrayed his origin. Although swollen
and disfigured, while found naturally
at a distance down the Seine, yet no
other Englishman than the man-servant
of M. Vilby had disappeared.
The inference became certainty from
the subsequent declarations of many
pompeurs, gendarmes, and bystanders,
that after the rescue of the nurse with
her child, a figure had been seen to
leap from the pursuit of the flames out
of this window into the canal.</p>

<p class='c011'>“The declaration of M. Vilby, after
several days, was taken. ‘Believed
the fire to be accidental. Had left
Madame slightly indisposed, to see an
after-piece at the theatre, which he
particularly wished to see with her.
Had been somewhat annoyed at her
inability to accompany him. Had
met friends, and instead of remaining,
had sent home a message by his servant,
to say he might return late.
Had left them, however, earlier than
he at first intended—and’——the emotion
of the witness was at that point
more expressive than words. The
commissary-in-chief intimated that
no further evidence on the part of M.
Vilby would be necessary, unless on
inferior points. ‘He was aware of
the employment of Suzanne Deroux.
Did not know of her introduction of
her own infant on any occasion into
the house. During his absence on
business, his wife had gone out of
Paris for some days to visit a married
friend, leaving their child, with his
full approval. He had approved her
not nursing the child herself—nay,
had suggested it. He had considered
Suzanne a faithful servant, if not very
intelligent. Certainly, had she been
so, she might have saved his child,
without risking her own. He was
now about to visit the married friend
of his wife in the neighbourhood of
Paris.’</p>

<p class='c011'><span class='pageno' id='Page_353'>353</span>“Additional statement of M. Vilby,
‘Knew the young man <em>Greefeeze</em>.
Had seen him several times in England—was
unaware of any reason why
Greefeeze should follow him from the
theatre, or from the hotel of his friends.
There was no enmity between himself
and this man—on the contrary, he
had always found Greefeeze apparently
desirous to serve him—had at
one time intended to employ him, and
once recommended him as gamekeeper
to his brother in England. With regard
to the body found, had gone to
see it at La Morgue, and could trace
no resemblance to his servant, John
Adolphe. Adolphe never had worn
top-boots, that he was aware of.
Adolphe was not an Englishman; but,
he believed, a Swiss. Having been a
trooper in the regiment of his own
brother, a British officer, and been for
a time his brother’s servant, particularly
recommended by him when
leaving the regiment for private service,
this young man had had his perfect
confidence. Was convinced that
Adolphe must have lost his life in endeavouring
to save what was most
precious to his master. Had had him
some time before his own marriage,
and knew him well. Had <em>himself</em>
leapt out of the open window at the
end of the house, hardly knowing the
canal was below—after the utmost
hazard of his life. Had found the
whole interior a mass of smoke, bursting
into flame from near the staircase—the
wind from the open casement
alone saved him from suffocation. Had
heard no one—felt no one—all whirling,
crackling, burning—a hell out of
which he still wished he could have
thrown himself into annihilation. It
was, therefore, probably himself the
other witnesses had taken for his servant—or
for the dead body at the
Morgue. Had been carried into the
river, no doubt—but swam to the
quay—there was light enough, God
knew—came up the stairs without
even being noticed—was only sorry
that men were so mad as to cling to
life, when it was misery. Thought it
proper to comply with the forms of
law in a country, but considered them
often a mockery.’”</p>

<p class='c011'>Here ended the main portion of the
police record. A subsequent note in
red ink, however, directed farther on
to a later entry in the volume, with
the date of nearly six months after.
“The Englishman Greefeeze reappeared
at the bureau, with passports
to be viséd for England. ‘Stated
that he was in the service of M.
Vilby, who had suddenly become, by
the death of an elder brother, the possessor
of a title and estates. Desired,
in the indifferent manner of the English,
to know the state of the woman
Suzanne Deroux. Inquired for her
residence, on the ground that his
master would confer a pension on her
for her injuries.’ An inspector was
sent with him to the woman’s house,
where she had at length returned from
the hospital with her child. The emotion
of her gratitude on perceiving
Greefeeze was the more conspicuous
from his impassibility. Yet on the
following day, accompanied by the
woman and her child, now recovered,
Greefeeze presented himself at the
bureau, to declare his adoption of the
latter, under his own name. He was
required to procure a notarial and
ecclesiastical testification, as well as
to engage against the future return of
the child for subsistence from the
police—also the approval of his master,
Sir Vilby.—Sir Vilby indeed appeared
at the bureau, when about to
leave Paris in haste. His voice and
features were scarcely recognisable
from the effects of suffering. He disavowed
consent to the act of Greefeeze,
who followed him, and whom
he contemptuously called a fool. Sir
Vilby, however, intimated the right
of Greefeeze to pursue his eccentric
idea, if persevered in. The stubborn
Greefeeze alluded to a wife whom he
had left in his own country of Wales,
and who was unhappy from the absence
of children. His sentiments
had apparently been touched in the
act of rescuing this infant, which he
was about to intrust, on the journey,
to the female fellow-travellers who
might accompany them. The act of
adoption is consequently recorded as
follows——&#160;*&#160;*&#160;* Sir Vilby requested
to correct his statement on
the previous occasion, six months before,
with regard to the body at La
Morgue, since, on reflection, he was
decidedly of opinion that it was that
of the Swiss, John Adolphe, his servant.
This had already, indeed, been
<span class='pageno' id='Page_354'>354</span>perceived by the commissary—but the
retractation appeared more eccentric
than the denial. The pension, too,
which Sir Vilby now conferred on the
nurse, ought to have been given before,
as the very material injuries were
received at all events in his employment.”</p>

<p class='c011'>It was with no ordinary feelings
that Sir Godfrey Willoughby perused
or listened to this formal memorial of
an event that had been so long obscure
to him: it seemed, however, to leave
little now indefinite or concealed;
numerous though the details were,
which it presented for the first time,
they implied nothing really evil, or
extraordinary, save as most human
calamities might; and the result was
rather satisfactory than otherwise.
But the afternoon was now far advanced,
and he rode homeward, to dine
alone, to finish an uncompleted packet
to his Exeter lawyer, with information
and inquiries about the so-called
young Griffiths, as well as in regard
to his adoptive father—then to set
off, a little later than he had expected,
to meet his returning party on the
Versailles road.</p>

<p class='c011'>The circumstances of their late
dilemma were soon related—rather
tending to Charles’s disadvantage in
the eyes of his father, who, amidst
all his general mildness, was inclined
to look upon the youth’s disposition
with occasional severity; seeming,
as it did to him, at that half-formed
stage, when lads are least agreeable
in the paternal view, to indicate some
traits, both erratic and froward,
though at times brilliant, of his second
uncle, John. He scarce listened to
the boy’s explanation, and checked
his self-justifying arguments somewhat
abruptly; to the silent chafing of his
son’s spirit, and the mother’s still
more silent concern. But at their late
coffee-table, all being apparently forgotten
with Sir Godfrey’s expressed
resolution never to trust the carriage
in future apart from his own
guidance, they sat pleasantly talking
by candle-light. “So soon as
Frank arrives, my dear Kate,” said
Sir Godfrey, from his arm-chair to the
sofa where his wife leant near, recovering
from her fatigues, “we shall
leave forthwith for the country. I
have scarcely any further business in
Paris. And you have seen here, I
daresay, all that is to see?” She
assented perfectly. Mr Thorpe had
launched out almost in a dissertation
to the governess and Miss Willoughby,
the fruit of his late rural notices, on
agriculture and ecclesiastical arrangements;
led on by Mrs Mason’s attentive
air, and the apparently intelligent
interest of Rose. It was with a
mild confusion that he heard the
young lady’s abrupt doubt as to the
sufficiency of sugar in his cup, followed
straight by the addition of another
lump from the silver tongs in her
hand; and while Mr Thorpe stirred,
and tasted, she had quietly escaped
from the room, perhaps to re-read her
dearest friend’s epistle. So Sir Godfrey,
who not merely treated the tutor
with the utmost deference as a graduate
and a deacon of the Church of
England, but entertained great respect
for him as a learned and good man—at
once joined himself to the topic—differing
slightly from the view that
English plans, even English Protestantism,
would improve Frenchmen.</p>

<p class='c011'>“I, of course, have happened to
come a good deal in contact with
them abroad, my dear sir,” added he,
“particularly in North America,
during the late war, and I assure
you they have many generous, noble,
and honourable qualities, peculiarly
their own, which would perhaps be
lost in any forced imitation of us.
When I was taken prisoner by our
own rebels there, I really believe,
Thorpe, that but for the clear and gentlemanly
conviction of some French
naval officers, who came up at the
time, I should have been summarily
hanged on the spot as a spy. I had
sought to escape in the uniform of a
dead Frenchman, from a band of
savages, and colonials more brutal by
far—though, among my captors, there
were some who ought to have known
better. Nothing saved me, in fact, but
the ready quickness of these officers,
whom I had never in my life seen
before. They immediately claimed me
as a prisoner who had broken parole
from their frigate, by swimming to
the river bank—a charge which I, of
course, indignantly disowned. I was,
however, taken on board in their
boat, when the assertion was persisted
in by the captain, a French nobleman,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_355'>355</span>on the suggestion of his officers, so
that the ship set sail with me beyond
colonial reach. In the fleet of Count
de Grasse I was indebted for the utmost
kindness to the captain of the
frigate; and when, not long after, at
the defeat by Lord Rodney, he himself,
with his ship, was captured, I
was enabled, in some degree, to repay
the obligation. We contracted the
warmest friendship. Indeed, I regret
not having heard from the Count for
many years, and his estates, I believe,
are not near Paris.”</p>

<p class='c011'>“Observe, however,” persisted Mr
Thorpe, stubbornly, “the extreme
want of principle which, in the bulk
of the population, must be a thousand
times more egregious. A Protestant,
Sir Godfrey, would rather have”—</p>

<p class='c011'>“My dear Thorpe,” eagerly interrupted
the baronet, “the Count deplored
the necessity, or rather the action,
so deeply, as never, I do believe,
to have succeeded in reasoning the
painful recollection away. It clung to
him like a superstition, in fact—for
you must notice, he had sacrificed, as
it were, his hereditary honour to save
me—a thing perhaps more fanciful,
less dependent on personal character,
and more on externals and reputation,
than with us. Yet so delicate
was his feeling, and his wish to conceal
it from me—that it was only by further
acquaintance with his character
I could observe it—or understand the
restless tread on that poop at midnight—the
frequent abstraction and
sudden fitfulness of his conduct towards
the officers who had first suggested
his conduct—mixed with a
singular regard towards myself—notwithstanding,
nay, as if <em>because</em> of
all. Nothing, as he afterwards confessed
to me, almost with tears, could
have induced it, except his recognition
in me of an officer and a gentleman,
an unfortunate stranger, whose
country had been gratuitously opposed
and defeated by French aid—when
those of his own race were about
to murder him ignominiously. His
sword, however, he said, should have
been trusted to alone, at all hazards;
or, as he afterwards recollected, the
frigate’s guns might have been turned
toward the neighbouring town; indeed,
next morning he had even sent
to acknowledge the deception, with a
refusal to give me up, and an offer of
personal satisfaction to the American
in command. Still, not only to have
destroyed for ever the prestige of
French honour, with all its securities,
but to have falsely pledged the escutcheon
of his own family, never before
soiled, was a thought which enraged
him against himself, against others,
almost beyond control. It was useless
to reason with my friend; it was
perfectly hopeless to attempt consoling
him; in truth, during the quiet of
our voyage, a kind of insanity seemed
to possess him, the only lucid intervals
in which were our conversations on
subjects as remote as possible from
that. I think he secretly abhorred
the manners of the colonials, like the
American alliance, and saw a degree
of retribution in the terrible defeat by
Lord Rodney. I myself have reason
to recollect America with mingled
feelings of horror and satisfaction”—he
glanced for a moment towards his
wife, whose placid features betrayed
no consciousness of the allusion to her
first conjugal letters—“so that, my
dear Thorpe, you may easily believe I
could not help sympathising with him!”</p>

<p class='c011'>“But surely, Sir Godfrey,” continued
the graduate, with very logical
insensibility, “you must be of opinion
that this country, inclined, as it now
seems, to copy England, will be”—</p>

<p class='c011'>“Like the Count de Charlemont
and his friends, I should think, with
their English riding-coats and bulldogs!”
involuntarily broke in Charles
Willoughby, with a laugh: he had
been listening very intently; but the
laugh ceased at his father’s sudden look.</p>

<p class='c011'>“Do not interrupt Mr Thorpe,
boy!” said the latter, rather sternly;
then relaxing next minute at the
abashed and flushed look, which made
him feel as if his tone had been too
harsh—“what do you mean—what
Count—what did you say?”</p>

<p class='c011'>“The mayor I had to visit this
evening, you know, sir,” replied
Charles, “the Comte de Charlemont,
I mean—Charlemont is the village
we got mobbed in.”</p>

<p class='c011'>“De Charlemont?” repeated his
father slowly, looking at him, “de
Charlemont? You mistake, my boy—or
is this some silly presumption of
yours? That name I thought I had
not allowed to slip from me. I never
have permitted myself to mention it.
Pronounce the name again.”</p>

<p class='c011'>Charles did so distinctly and firmly.
“That is curious,” said his father,
rising from his seat. “Were you
listening to what I told Mr Thorpe
just now, Charles?”</p>

<p class='c011'>“Yes, sir,” said the boy, frankly.</p>

<p class='c011'>“And I think I uttered no such
name?” added the baronet.</p>

<p class='c011'>“No,” said his son with gravity,
“there was no name mentioned, except
the Count de Grasse and Lord
Rodney—I particularly noticed.”</p>

<p class='c011'>“Ah—well,” was the only additional
remark, as his father turned to
the old stove-filled hearth-place, and
leaning his arms above, stood plunged
in thought; Mr Thorpe calmly reasoning
on, till it was past time for
prayers to be read, and for retirement.
“I shall call on the Comte de Charlemont,”
said Sir Godfrey, the last
thing, to Lady Willoughby.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_356'>356</span>
  <h2 class='c002'>THE SPANISH REVOLUTION.</h2>
</div>

<div class='lg-container-r c005'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'><em>Madrid, 14th August 1854.</em></div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c011'>Dear Ebony,—My last letter was
dated immediately after the first circulation
in Madrid of a document,
which had a most important effect on
the fate of the military insurrection,
that soon grew into a popular revolution.
You will remember that after
the action of Vicálvaro, on the 30th
June, the insurgent generals drew
their forces southwards, still lingering,
however, within a few leagues of
Madrid, as if in hopes that the capital
would make a demonstration in their
favour. But Madrid remained tranquil—almost
indifferent; and every
post brought accounts of similar apathy
in large provincial towns, on
whose rising in arms O’Donnell and
his friends had doubtless reckoned.
A few small bodies of troops and some
armed civilians repaired to the insurgent
banner; there were trifling disturbances
in the Huerta of Valencia;
a daring partisan, one Buceta, surprised
the slenderly garrisoned but
strongly situated town of Cuenca.
But these incidents were unimportant;
without co-operation on a far larger
scale, it was evident the insurrection
was a failure, and that O’Donnell and
his little army, isolated in the midst
of a population which seemed to have
lost all spirit (even that of revolt),
must soon either make for the frontier,
or risk an action with the greatly superior
forces concentrating to oppose
them. But O’Donnell had a card in
reserve, which he was perhaps unwilling
to play, but yet was resolved to
risk before abandoning the game as
lost. In a proclamation, dated from
Manzanares, a town nearly half-way
on the road from Madrid to Granada,
and whither a division under General
Blaser was proceeding, although slowly,
to operate against him, he issued
a declaration in favour of the National
Guard, of provincial juntas, and
of the assemblage of the Cortes, in
which the nation, through its representatives,
should fix the basis of its
future government. The effect of this
profession of faith was soon seen. So
long as the generals had limited themselves
to invectives against Sartorius
<span class='pageno' id='Page_357'>357</span>and his colleagues, and against the
system of corruption and immorality
they had fostered into a monstrous
development, the nation had
remained inactive, because it saw no
assurance of gain in a mere change of
men, and because no prospect was
held out to it of a complete change of
system. But when O’Donnell spoke
out, and threw himself frankly into
the arms of the popular cause, he had
not long to wait for backers. On the
15th, 16th, and 17th July, Valencia,
Valladolid, Barcelona, Zamora, and,
most important of all, Saragossa, declared
against the government, and the
fall of the ministry was inevitable. On
the morning of the 17th, Madrid received
the double intelligence of some
of these <i><span lang="es">pronunciamientos</span></i>, and that
the Sartorius cabinet was out. It
was understood that General Cordova,
a statesman without talent, and
a general without resolution, was to
head the new ministry, to which end
he had long been intriguing, currying
favour with the King-consort, and
with a less legitimate influence at
court. There was to be a bullfight
on the afternoon of Monday the 17th
July—the first fight that had been
permitted since O’Donnell’s insurrection;
and it became known in the
morning that Cordova and his friends
intended getting up a small <em>emeute</em> or
demonstration, when, between seven
and eight o’clock, the streets should
be thronged with the ten or twelve
thousand spectators issuing forth from
the bull-ring. The intention of this
was doubtless twofold—to let off a
little of the popular steam, and to
give an air of popularity to the incoming
ministry. But Cordova and
his advisers had not sufficiently felt
the pulse of the people, or duly estimated
the possible results of so imprudent
a manifestation. It was like
exploding fireworks in a powder-magazine;
and the moment selected
made the trick still more hazardous.
On the sultry evening of a burning
July day, when several thousand men
of the middle and lower classes should
just have quitted the spectacle which
excites them to the utmost, and habituates
them to bloodshed, to raise, in
the streets of Madrid, even the simulacre
of a riotous banner, and that at
a time when the people were galled
by a long period of oppression and
misrule, and when an insurrectionary
army was in the field, was surely an
act of as self-destructive madness as
ever a doomed and blinded man was
afflicted with. Early in the day, one
or two leaders of the liberal party in
Madrid had spoken to me of the proposed
demonstration, and had intimated
their intention of being on the
watch to improve it, should circumstances
turn favourably for their
views. Evening came, and the bullfight
took place; after it, as usual, the
streets were crowded, especially the
Puerta del Sol and adjacent thoroughfares.
It was about eight o’clock
when the first symptoms of disturbance
were apparent.  Numerous
groups were formed in the streets,
and parties of men marched through
them at a rapid pace, shouting <i><span lang="es">vivas</span></i>
for liberty, and down with the ministry.
The resignation of the ministry,
I must observe, had not yet been
officially published, but it was well
known to have been accepted, and
that, as far as the cabinet went, Spain
was in an interregnum. This was the
moment chosen by General Cordova
for the farce which was to prove a
tragedy.  I was reminded, as I
watched the proceedings of the night,
of the Italian robber story, in which
a party of practical jokers, and very
<i><span lang="fr">mauvais plaisants</span></i>, having gone out
with corked faces and leadless pistols
to frighten some friends abroad on a
pic-nic, suddenly find amongst them
the chocolate visages, fierce whiskers,
and blunderbusses charged to the
muzzle of the genuine brigand and his
band, and heartily deplore the sorry
plight in which their folly has put
them. So it was in Madrid on the
17th July.</p>

<p class='c011'>The armed police, up to that evening
so numerous that nowhere could
you walk ten yards without encountering
them, were withdrawn from
the streets; the soldiers were all in
their quarters—the very sentries had
disappeared: the main guard, which
mounts at a large solid building on
the Puerta del Sol, used by the ministry
<span class='pageno' id='Page_358'>358</span>of the interior, but best known as
the <em>Principal</em> (chief guard-house), had
closed the strong gates of the edifice,
and gazed listlessly through the windows
at the movements of the mob.
Every precaution was taken to avoid
collisions between the authorities and
the harmless rioters who were to
carry out Cordova’s plan. But its
execution had scarcely begun when
the mockery was turned into earnest—so
much so, that I am still at a loss to
explain, except by the confusion consequent
on a change, and the real
absence for some hours of all government
in Madrid, the want of any
opposition to the insurgents. At
first, however, the disturbance was a
mere riot, although it soon grew into
a political revolt. The bands of men
that roamed the streets, with shouts,
sticks, and a few with arms, presently
began to seek modes of actively employing
themselves. Long before the
hour (between ten and eleven o’clock)
at which, as I afterwards ascertained,
the Progresista chiefs in Madrid had
decided on an outbreak, the people
were busily at work. Before nine
o’clock they repaired to two public
offices where they knew there were
arms—the house of the political governor
and the town-hall—and, without
opposition from the municipal
guards they found there, got possession
of between seven hundred and
eight hundred muskets. These were
regularly served out to the people by
the leaders of the movement; and
soon, on the Puerta del Sol, an immense
crowd, in great part armed,
besieged the doors of the Principal.
The soldiers within had their orders
not to oppose the people, but they
did not think proper to admit them
into their guard-house. Hard by was
an enclosure of planks, placed round
some of the demolitions going on in
the Puerta del Sol (a flagrant job of
Señor Sartorius), and there were also
beams from the falling houses. Planks
and beams were seized by the mob,
piled against the doors of the Principal,
and set on fire. The dry wood,
parched by the summer sun of Madrid,
burned like straw. There was danger
of the whole building being consumed.
The military evacuated it,
and the mob took possession. It
would have saved a great deal of
fighting, and not a few lives, if they
had kept it when they once held it;
but, as I have already shown, there
was a want of organisation at this
early period of the night, and no definite
intention, on the part of the
masses, of accomplishing a revolution.
Even up to eleven or twelve
o’clock that night, many persons not
inexperienced in such movements
thought that the disturbance was a
mere popular effervescence—the expression
of the joy and relief felt by
the people at being rid of their tyrants—and
by no means anticipated the
serious events that were to grow out
of it. The Principal was abandoned
by the people, and again occupied by
troops. Meanwhile, at other points,
the mob was actively mischievous, or,
I should perhaps rather say, it actively
employed itself in revenging its wrongs
on the authors of much of its misery.
Below a window, in one of the most
frequented and central thoroughfares
of Madrid, which I occupied at intervals
during the great part of that
evening, the passage of strong bodies
of the people continued. A great
many weapons were now to be
seen amongst them—muskets, fowling-pieces,
blunderbusses, antiquated
firearms of all kinds. At the same
time the great majority were unarmed;
but their blood was up, their
will was strong, and their hands were
ready for anything. That night was
so full of events that few thought of
looking at watches, and I cannot
therefore give you the hour at which
incidents occurred, or set them down
in the exact order of their occurrence,
especially as I often changed my place
between the hours of eight and two,
making excursions into different parts
of the town, but frequently returning
to the window before mentioned,
which, as headquarters and central
post of observation, was an excellent
position. One of the first acts of
violence committed was an attack on
the house of Don Luis Sartorius,
Conde de San Luis, a man whose
name will ever be pre-eminently infamous
in the annals of political
crime. On their way to his house
the people got a ladder, set it against
the front of the Principe theatre, which
had been endowed when he was in
office, and broke to pieces a stone
<span class='pageno' id='Page_359'>359</span>over the entrance on which his name
was carved. On reaching his residence
they turned his furniture, pictures,
and valuable library into the
street, and made a bonfire of them.
I know of literary amateurs who, on
hearing of this, hurried to the spot,
hoping to rescue some of the rare and
curious books he was known to possess:
but their efforts were in vain;
the people would allow nothing to be
taken away, everything was for the
flames. At first the second floor of
the house was respected, but presently
it was known that it had lately become
the residence of Esteban Collantes, the
minister of public works, who had sent
in, it is said, only a few days before,
twelve thousand dollars’ worth of furniture.
After Sartorius, Collantes,
Domenech minister of finance, and
Quinto the civil governor, were the
three men in Madrid most detested by
the people. Collantes was the <i><span lang="fr">gamin</span></i>,
the mischievous scapegrace, of the San
Luis cabinet, devoid alike of dignity,
morality, and common decency. The
discovery that he abode above his
chief colleague was a godsend to the
enraged mob, and his chattels quickly
shared the fate of those of Sartorius.
Similar destruction proceeded at the
houses of the renegade liberal Domenech,
of the Marquis de Molins,
minister of marine of Count Vista-hermosa,
who had commanded under
General Blaser at the action of
Vicálvaro, and who was then following
up with a division O’Donnell’s
retiring forces; and at those of the
well-known capitalist, Salamanca, and
of Count Quinto, the alcalde-corregidor,
and governor of Madrid. At
these two last houses, especially, great
destruction of property took place.
Rich furniture, pictures of high
value, plate, costly ornaments, jewels
(especially at Salamanca’s), to the
amount of many thousands of pounds,
valuable papers, government securities,
and even, it is said, bank notes
and coin, were destroyed by fire.
There is reason to believe, however,
that some of the more portable of these
things, particularly the jewels, were
stolen—not, as I believe, by the people,
who, throughout the whole revolution,
set an example of honesty and disinterestedness—but
by the professional
thieves, who are always on the look-out
upon such occasions, and by servants
in some of the houses attacked, who,
knowing where their masters kept
their most precious effects, had great
facilities for purloining them. A
friend of Salamanca’s went to his house
to rescue some valuable papers, and
also, if possible, some jewels of great
price, which were in an iron chest under
a bed. Amongst these jewels was
a diamond of remarkable beauty,
whose history is rather curious. It
had been given, set in a ring, by Count
Montemolin, to an attached and faithful
follower of his and his father’s
fortunes. This gentleman afterwards
desired to dispose of the stone, retaining
the ring as a memorial, and addressed
himself, with this object, to a
well-known London jeweller. The
jeweller advised him to retain the gem,
for that, being of a most unusual size,
he should have difficulty, if he bought
it, in selling it again—should, perhaps,
have to cut it down, &#38;c. &#38;c., and
ending by naming a sum, which he
acknowledged to be less than its value,
as the most he could afford to give for
it. The offer was accepted. Señor
Salamanca afterwards paid £3000 for
it. This ring, with other valuable
jewellery and a number of unset stones—worth
altogether many thousand
pounds—were in the iron chest. Salamanca’s
friend reached the house,
secured the papers, and went to the
chest. It was open and empty.</p>

<p class='c011'>Meanwhile the people continued in
motion in almost every part of the
town. It was by no means the rabble
that were abroad and stirring; many
persons of the better classes were active
in promoting the tumult. In the
streets the leaders could be heard
consulting together, and planning
whither they should proceed. One
party went to the Saladero prison to
release the political captives detained
there; another strong band, including
general officers and persons of
note and rank, repaired to the town-hall,
appointed a committee, and drew
up a representation to the Queen,
which was delivered to her by a deputation.
She promised to give it favourable
consideration. Before this time
there had been movements of troops
in the town, but no hostilities. Towards
two in the morning, however,
a decided change took place in the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_360'>360</span>aspect of affairs, and firing commenced
at two points. After the deputation
had returned from the palace, and reported
the result of its mission
(amongst other things, the Queen had
expressed her earnest desire that there
should be no effusion of blood), the
committee, which was soon to be a
junta, exhorted the crowd assembled
in the square of the town-hall to return
home and await the result of
what had been done. They were disposed
to do this, when in the Calle
Mayor several companies of infantry
opened fire upon them. This roused
their indignation and anger, and thenceforward
a struggle was inevitable.
About the same time as those volleys
were fired there was an affray around
the princely mansion, or as it is
usually called the palace, of Queen
Christina. There, too, the people had
assembled (throughout the night,
“Death to Christina!” had been one
of the most frequently repeated cries),
had stoned and smashed the windows,
forced their way into the house,
thrown out furniture and valuables,
and lit an immense bonfire with them—finally
setting fire to the house
itself. The scene presented by the
triangular <em>plaza</em> in front of the
dowager-queen’s residence was striking
enough. The wild figures and
furious activity of the insurgents—amongst
whom were not a few women
inciting the men to mischief—contrasted
with the passive attitude of a
small body of infantry, which tranquilly
looked on at the proceedings of
the mob. At last, when a considerable
portion of the furniture of the
right wing was blazing in the plaza,
making it as light as day, and illuminating
the half-curious, half-frightened
physiognomies that peered from the
windows of the neighbouring houses,
the handful of troops were reinforced
by two companies, which at once
fired on the people. Two or three
volleys cleared the plaza; a tolerable
number of persons were killed and
wounded. There was firing at about
the same time in other parts of the
town—in the Calle Mayor, as already
mentioned—and skirmishing between
the troops and people, the latter of
whom had begun to assume the offensive;
and from that moment it was
pretty evident that a sharp conflict
was at hand. But it was not yet
fairly engaged in, owing to the absence
of orders for the military, and of
leaders and organisation for the mob.
A new and most unsatisfactory ministry,
with General Cordova and the
Duke of Rivas at its head, had been
appointed, but could not be said to
have as yet assumed command. And
there was also mistrust as to the extent
to which the troops might be depended
upon to act against the people.
On the other hand, the movement had
commenced so suddenly, and so many
incidents had filled the few hours that
had since elapsed, that nothing like
method had as yet been introduced
into the proceedings of the insurgents.
On the 18th there was a good deal
of desultory fighting, and in several
places severe conflicts took place; but
few barricades were thrown up, and
the skirmishing was chiefly from street
corners, and from the doors of houses.
It was easy to see that the inhabitants
of Madrid sympathised with the
revolution, and wished well to the insurgents.
In many places, when these
were hard pressed, and compelled to
run, doors were seen suddenly to open
to receive them, and again were quickly
closed. The insurgents were as yet
but imperfectly armed. You might
see groups of half a dozen standing at
the corner of a cross street, with perhaps
two muskets or fowling-pieces
amongst them, the others having sticks
and swords—the latter often strange
old-fashioned weapons, that looked as
if they had belonged to the middle ages,
and picked out of a curiosity-shop.
These gentry would protrude their
heads into the main thoroughfare, and
watch the favourable moment for a
shot at some military post or passing
picket. If the shot drew pursuit upon
them, they were off into the doors of
neighbouring houses, like rabbits into
their burrows, or else away through a
labyrinth of lanes to harass some other
point. A glance at a map of Madrid,
if you chance to have one at hand,
will show you how well adapted this
most irregularly built capital is to the
operations of a body of insurgents
perfectly acquainted with its intricacies.
The uneven surface—the
town being built on a collection of
small hills—the narrow crooked
streets, jumbled together without any
<span class='pageno' id='Page_361'>361</span>sort of order or system—the numerous
small squares or open places, in
passing over which troops are liable
to find themselves under a cross fire
from half a dozen different corners—the
whole configuration of Madrid,
in short, greatly favours its inhabitants
when they choose to rise in
arms against the garrison. Amongst
the most remarkable events of the
18th was the desperate fight maintained
by the people against a body
of gendarmes, who, all old soldiers,
defended themselves with signal valour,
but were finally overcome, some
of them killed, and the rest disarmed.
These gendarmes, or civil guards, as
they are here called, were in some
sort the Swiss guards of the Madrid
July revolution—equally firm in duty
and discipline, and almost equally
odious to the people, whom they
punished pretty severely, and who
did not always give them quarter,
when vast superiority of numbers
at last gave them the advantage
which they certainly would not have
had in more equal conditions of
force. One of the most dashing
things done by the insurgents on the
18th was clearing the Plaza del Progreso
(one of the larger squares in the
heart of the town) with the bayonet,
after firing had for some time gone
on. The soldiers were fairly driven
out by the civilians, and the square
and adjoining streets were quickly
converted into a fortress, into which
there was little probability of the
military again penetrating. On the
afternoon of the same day a number
of lives were uselessly sacrificed,
owing to the recklessness and vindictive
spirit of a retired officer, a
friend of Cordova’s. This person,
although no longer in the army, obtained
command of a couple of guns,
some infantry, and a few dragoons,
and, proceeding to the Calle Atocha,
one of the principal streets of Madrid,
opened a heavy fire of artillery and
musketry, firing round shot into the
houses, and grape down the street.
He did a great deal of damage—some
of it to private houses in which no
insurgents were or had ever been—killed
a few persons, most of them
persons who had nothing in the world
to do with the insurrection, but who
were sitting, inoffensive and terrified,
in their houses—lost thirty or forty
of his own men, and finally cleared a
few hundred yards of street. But
this was small gain to the cause he
defended, for the insurgents he drove
away merely changed their place,
and when he departed they returned
to contemplate the ravages he had
committed in the dwellings of peaceable
citizens, and to go forth upon
the morrow more embittered than
ever to the fight.</p>

<p class='c011'>It was the 19th, however, that was
by far the most important and interesting
day of the revolution. The
aspect of the night that preceded it
was very singular. The day had
been hot and bright, as usual in
Madrid at this season, and from
early in the morning until half-past
eight at night the firing had been
incessant and frequently very sharp
in one or other part of the town.
When night fell, the noise and glare
were suddenly succeeded by profound
silence and darkness. There was no
moon; except in a very few streets
not a lamp was lit, and the inhabitants
received hints to show no lights
in their windows. The streets, which
during the latter part of the afternoon
had been little frequented, owing
to the numerous shots that were flying
(the soldiers, in some places, firing
on every civilian they got sight of),
were now almost deserted. There
was something very strange and
alarming in the complete stillness
and gloom prevailing in this densely
peopled capital, which in ordinary
times is all bustle and blaze until
midnight or later. Looking from a
first-floor window, nothing was to be
seen, except now and then a dark
figure gliding stealthily along or darting
across the street; but, on venturing
out, you soon saw that the people
were neither idle nor off their guard.
They were in groups behind their
barricades—which began to be numerous,
although few of them were as
yet of a formidable aspect. Meanwhile
the revolutionary junta was sitting
at the house of Sevillano the
banker, a wealthy man, of liberal
politics, who had been an object of
suspicion and persecution to the Sartorius
government. A depot of arms
was ordered to be formed there, a
well-organised system of defence was
<span class='pageno' id='Page_362'>362</span>decided upon, the barricades were
ordered to be strengthened and new
ones to be made. Within two or
three hours after daybreak on the
19th, there were hundreds of barricades
in Madrid, many of them of
great height and strength. The town
presented a most singular spectacle.
The whole of its central portion, with
the exception of the Principal, which
was garrisoned and stoutly defended
by a few companies of grenadiers, was
soon in the hands of the insurgents.
These displayed astonishing activity
and readiness of resource. Everything
was converted into means of
offence or defence. Those of the inhabitants
who took no part in the
fray, yet did all they could to assist
those who did. The enthusiasm was
general. In the street in which I
that morning found myself, there were
several barricades.  Most of these
were commenced after five o’clock.
As soon as the neighbours saw two
or three men at work, raising the
pavement with picks and crowbars,
they hastened to supply them with
materials, running out of their houses
with empty boxes, dilapidated furniture,
and old matting. When mattresses
were asked they were freely
given, and many hundreds of them
were used in the barricades. A patriotic
carpenter, nearly opposite to
where I was stationed, who usually
occupies his time in making coffins for
the dead and trunks for the living,
brought out of his yard some heavy
boards, of great length, which extended
completely across the street,
and formed an excellent skeleton for
a barricade.  Before eight in the
morning, the firing had begun on all
points, and the bullets were singing
through the streets in every direction.
Besides defending their positions and
attacking those of the military and
civil guards—who had taken possession
of houses here and there in the
districts occupied by the people, and
held them with great tenacity—the
insurgents busied themselves in various
other ways, completing and
strengthening the barricades, collecting
arms, making cartridges, preparing
the houses for defence in case the
soldiers forced their foremost defences.
Quantities of paving-stones were taken
up to the roofs and higher floors of
the houses, to throw down upon the
enemy. Women and children assisted
in this labour. It was curious to observe
the women. Notwithstanding
danger from bullets, they were all at
their doors and windows. Some of
them—these were the younger ones—seemed
to think it great fun; some
of the older ones looked ghastly and
terrified enough; whilst others, chiefly
of quite the lower orders, were fierce
partisans—as much so as their husbands
and brothers, who in perfect
silence, but with deadly resolution,
were loading and firing from barricade,
window, and house-top. I heard
one sturdy dame, crimson with exertion
and excitement, who bore in her
brawny arms a basket of supplies to a
barricade then under fire, express her
determination, should the troops get
into the street, to shower upon their
devoted heads the whole of her kettles
and crockery. When a thrifty housewife
comes to such extremes as this,
it is evident her blood is up. But the
forced loan imposed by Sartorius had
come home to the pockets of the lower
classes of tax-payers, and had greatly
exasperated the women.</p>

<p class='c011'>I profess to send you mere sketches
of the revolution—not its history,
which the newspapers have already
in great measure supplied—and therefore
I do not consider myself bound to
trace all its events, but limit myself
chiefly to what I saw. An artist who
should have perambulated Madrid
during the 19th and 20th July would
have found abundant and striking
subjects for his pencil. Feverish activity
was the characteristic of the first
day, armed and vigilant repose of the
second. Repose from fighting, but not
from toil, for, although there was a
cessation of hostilities—the Principal
having surrendered (not, however,
until the afternoon of the 20th, when
its garrison was literally starved out),
the whole town, with the exception
of a few barracks and buildings at its
extremities, being in the possession of
the insurgents, and the Queen having
sent for Espartero, which was all
that Madrid asked—the insurgents
were still mistrustful, and in no way
relaxed their watchfulness. The medley
of arms amongst them—particularly
on the 19th, for on the 20th they
were better supplied with muskets—was
<span class='pageno' id='Page_363'>363</span>curious to observe. Many had
scabbardless swords, which they used
as walking-sticks, thereby greatly improving
the point; others had pistols,
some of tremendous length and most
antiquated construction. There were
not a few <i><span lang="es">trabucos</span></i> to be seen. These
are tremendous blunderbusses, wide
at the mouth, which scatter a handful
of <i><span lang="es">postas</span></i> (large slugs), or carry a ball
full four times the size of a musket-ball.
Here is a man with a curved
scimitar, which must have been handed
down to him from some Moorish ancestor,
bound to his waist by a bit of
old sash; yonder, on a door-step, out
of the exact range of fire, but the
bullets striking from time to time the
balcony above her head, sits a woman
playing with a dagger, which she
looks quite capable of using. I write
only what I myself observed. On the
morning of the 20th I walked round
many of the barricades when their
defenders were breakfasting. One
group had got a guitar for a table. It
rested on the knees of a circle, and
supported their bread and sausage.
There was great sobriety; during the
whole of the revolution I saw no case
of drunkenness.</p>

<p class='c011'>I leave you to imagine the alarm
and confusion at the palace during
all this time. The poor, feeble, helpless
Queen was distracted by many
counsellors. Her evil genius, the
Duchess of Rianzares, was at her
elbow, urging her to resist to the
utmost; for Maria Christina well
knew that, if her daughter yielded
to the revolution, she herself would
have to quit Spain or do penance.
She neglected to do the first until
it was too late, and must now submit
to the second. Then, however,
aided by such bad advisers as Roncali,
Cordova, Gandara, she excited the
Queen to resist and fight, or, if necessary,
to fly from Madrid and plant
the royal standard elsewhere. There
were about 3000 soldiers in and near
the palace, in the Retiro gardens,
and in two or three barracks—every
day the palace cooks provided dinner
for 3500 mouths;—these troops,
which included a powerful artillery,
were to form the nucleus of a force
speedily to be assembled, and which
was to crush the revolution. A civil
war might in this way have been
brought about, but the universal
spirit of opposition to the Queen, and
of indifference—if not dislike—to the
dynasty, that the Spaniards have
since shown, sufficiently proves that
it would not have been of long duration;
and its end would inevitably
have been the ejection of Isabella II.
from her dominions. It was written,
however, that the misguided Sovereign
should have another chance of
retaining the crown to which she has
done so little honour. If there were
some persons at court who desired
to see her leave Madrid for a fortified
place—or for any place where she
would not be exposed to the pressure
of that revolution which they dreaded—there
were others who dissuaded
her from departure, and even resolutely
opposed and forbade it. The
ladies of honour, the officers of the
halberdiers—that corps which in 1841,
under the command of General (then
Colonel) Dulce, so stoutly and successfully
resisted an attack upon the
palace—protested that the Queen
should not leave; and one of the
former went so far as to seek an
interview with a well-known liberal
and promoter of the revolution, and
to inform him of what was planning.
The Marquis of Turgot, the French
ambassador, being consulted, advised
the Queen by all means to remain
where she was. Even the Queen’s
husband, poor, feeble, ill-treated Don
Francisco de Assis, showed spirit in
the cause of prudence, and vehemently
protested against her removal from
Madrid. Then came—from Saragossa,
the eastern stronghold of Spanish
liberalism—not Espartero, as was
expected, but a messenger, bearing
the conditions on which the man of
the day, whom all demanded and
desired, would come to Madrid. The
exact contents of these conditions
have not transpired, but, from what
has since passed, we may presume
that they were tantamount to giving
Espartero almost unlimited power,
and that, by accepting them, the
Queen bound herself to be guided in
every respect by him and the cabinet
he should form. Few hours were
passed in deliberating whether or no
they should be accepted, but those
were hours of storm and strife within
the palace. The wicked, finding their
<span class='pageno' id='Page_364'>364</span>projects ruined and their power gone,
fell out amongst themselves. There
are strange stories of what then occurred,
especially between the Queen,
her husband, and her mother; of
high words and bitter recrimination,
and even of blows struck and swords
drawn. The exact truth is difficult
to ascertain, for scandal, very rife in
Madrid, has distorted it into various
forms; but I believe there is no doubt
that Christina, furious at seeing her
daughter about to accept conditions
most unpalatable to herself, suffered
her Italian blood to move her to unbecoming
violence. On the other
hand the King, reflecting how much
of the unpopularity and difficulty that
now overwhelmed his wife was due
to the boundless cupidity and unscrupulous
manœuvres of the Duchess of
Rianzares and her husband, is said
to have vented his indignation on the
latter, and even to have drawn a
sword upon him.</p>

<p class='c011'>The ten days that elapsed between
the summons sent to Espartero and
his arrival at Madrid, were days of
much anxiety, and even of serious
apprehension. The junta governed,
but its authority was not strong, and
there was danger of excesses by the
democratic and turbulent population of
the low quarters of Madrid. The greatest
danger was of an attack on Queen
Christina’s house. For two or three
days this was seriously talked of. The
people were bent upon burning it.
To do this would have been to entail
the destruction of a street that runs
at the back of the dowager’s palace,
and one side of which forms part of
the same block; probably, also, the
destruction of the British Embassy,
which is separated from it but by an
interval of a few feet. Fortunately,
things occurred to distract the attention
of the people, and no attempt
was made to carry out the imprudent
design. The only acts of violence
that had to be deplored were the
shooting of three or four obnoxious
persons belonging to the secret police.
One of these was the infamous Francisco
Chico, the chief of that institution,
who certainly richly deserved
the fate he met, for he had committed
many and heinous crimes. A strict
watch was kept for the ex-ministers,
and had they been caught, in those
first moments of excitement and fury,
when the people were still hot from
the fight, they assuredly would have
been killed.</p>

<p class='c011'>To keep the people employed, the
temporary authorities rather encouraged
the building and strengthening
of barricades. The Spanish nation
has been so often cheated out of the
results of its insurrections, and has so
repeatedly beheld a half-effected revolution
converted into a reaction,
that it was determined this time to
guard against such delusions and disappointments.
Such, at least, was
the case in Madrid. Under a broiling
sun, they toiled as if life and death
depended on their exertions. Most
of the barricades, at first constructed
of very heterogeneous materials, and
without much regard to symmetry,
were taken down, and rebuilt of paving-stones
and earth. The operation
was a great nuisance. The town was
continually in a cloud of dust; passage
through the streets, obstructed
by these temporary fortifications, was
extremely slow; at night one risked
breaking his legs by tumbling into
holes, or his shins by stumbling over
huge blocks of stone and other building
materials. The result of all this
labour and inconvenience was, that,
by the 25th of July, Madrid contained
upwards of two hundred and eighty
barricades of the first magnitude, each
one of which was the centre of (on
an average) eight or ten smaller redoubts
and defences. Besides stones,
of which the principal parapets were
chiefly composed, the materials used
were bricks, tiles, bags of sand,
beams, mortar, diligences, private
carriages, carts, and furniture. On
the first days of the revolution, it was
curious to observe how, in the haste
and enthusiasm of the moment, good
and even handsome furniture was
taken out into the street by its owners
to be knocked to pieces in the
barricades. Flags and streamers
adorned them all, and at nearly
every one, raised upon altars covered
with coloured cloths, were portraits
of Espartero—horrible caricatures,
many of them, but nevertheless
the objects almost of adoration
on the part of the people. After
nightfall there were lights placed
round these portraits, which in some
<span class='pageno' id='Page_365'>365</span>instances were accompanied by others
of O’Donnell, Dulce, and latterly (but
only in a few cases) of the Queen,
and music of every kind, from excellent
bands down to a single cracked
guitar, played behind the barricades,
in front of which the people assembled
in crowds. The revolution, serious
enough at first, had now become a
sort of festival. The people were too
unsettled to return to their customary
occupations; business of all kinds was
suspended; the streets were continually
crowded with men of the lower
orders, armed, idle, but very well-conducted;
whilst the better classes,
to whom, now that the preliminary
object of the revolution (the placing
of Espartero at the head of affairs)
was gained, the whole thing was an
intolerable nuisance, longed for the
arrival of the man whose presence
alone would content the multitude,
and restore Madrid to its normal condition.</p>

<p class='c011'>At last he came, and certainly his
reception was a triumph. The road
was lined with people for miles without
the town. The military and civil
authorities went out to meet him as
far as the <i><span lang="la">Venta</span></i> of the Holy Ghost,
half a league from Madrid. The garrison
was formed up on the right hand
outside the Alcala gate, and the National
Guard on the left. His approach
was announced by a general
peal of all the church bells of
Madrid. There were triumphal arches,
and every balcony in the town was
draped with coloured hangings. But
the glorious part of the ovation was
the unmistakable and irrepressible
joy of the people, and their demonstrations
of affection. The whole
population of Madrid was either outside
the town or in the streets.
Women of all classes abounded in the
crowd, and were vehement in the welcome
they gave to the popular hero.
His carriage could hardly proceed for
the people that thronged around it,
eager to touch his hand or even the
skirt of his garment. This continued
the whole of the way to the palace,
which is at the opposite extremity of
the town to that at which he entered,
and all the way back to Espartero’s
temporary residence near the Puerta
del Sol. The Duke de la Victoria is
far too warm-hearted a man not to be
deeply moved by such a reception,
and I saw him more than once wipe
the tears from his eyes.</p>

<p class='c011'>The good effects of Espartero’s presence
in Madrid were soon apparent.
Confidence returned, and in a short
time we got rid of the barricades.
There was more difficulty in disarming
that portion of the population
unfit to be trusted with arms,
but this too was effected by advertising
for their purchase. Thereupon
musket and carbine, rifle and
blunderbuss, came quickly into store.
The ministry which Espartero formed
did not at first give general satisfaction
to the liberal party, for the political
views of some of its members
were at least doubtful; but soon its
prompt and judicious measures won
it good opinions. Its first and greatest
difficulty was the Queen-mother. On
this point the people would not give
way, or listen to reason. A few
words from Espartero had sufficed to
make them remove their beloved barricades,
but with respect to Maria
Christina they were inexorable.
Armed men beset the gates of the
town and the avenues to the palace,
and swore she should not depart till
she had rendered an account of her
stewardship, and refunded at least a
part of her plunder. Night after
night, and till past daybreak, Espartero
and the ministers, and the veteran
patriot San Miguel—who, after rendering
immense services to the cause
of order during the revolution, had
been appointed captain-general of the
province—remained at the palace,
anxious to effect the departure of the
Dowager Queen. But when she could
have gone she would not; and when
she would, it was no longer possible.
At first her escape might have been
managed, had she consented to go off
quietly in a post-chaise, without state
or many attendants. But this did
not suit her. She had two enormous
diligences at her daughter’s palace, to
convey herself and her family, her
suite and her baggage. And on the
night that she might have gone, she
made various difficulties, like a person
who was being forced to go, instead
of one whose safety depended on
speedy flight. She seems to have
been completely infatuated, and she
dallied and lingered until it was too
<span class='pageno' id='Page_366'>366</span>late. It became impossible to remove
her from Madrid without a serious
collision with the people. The systematic,
persevering, and determined
manner in which they kept watch
was attributed to higher instigations
than that of their ordinary chiefs.
It was said, with what degree of
truth it is impossible to ascertain, that
they were prompted and directed by
persons in authority, who thought it
unfair that the cause of so much evil
to Spain should be allowed to escape
with her spoil to live luxuriously in a
foreign land. O’Donnell was mentioned
as one of those who would
gladly see justice done on the unscrupulous
and heartless Duchess of Rianzares.
The character of that general
renders this not unlikely; but there
is no proof of it, and it is a mere report.
What is certain is, that Espartero,
whose fault it is to be too easy
and forgiving, rather than severe and
vindictive, was very desirous to get
the Queen-mother away,—possibly not
only out of pity and consideration for
her daughter, but because he felt that
her detention in Spain would be an
additional embarrassment to his government.
He did not conceal his
opinion of her; he would not even
have seen her, had she not, one night,
after he had repeatedly refused her an
interview, abruptly entered a room
where he and the other ministers were
assembled with the Queen. But he
would have facilitated her departure.
Amidst her delays, pretensions, and
indecision, the moment passed, and
even his power and influence were
insufficient to secure her exit from
Spain without a combat and a sacrifice
of life; or, at the least, without
deeply offending the people, and imperilling
the tranquillity of Madrid—if
not of the whole country. When
things came to this, persons at the
palace proposed various plans for
escape in disguise. Such escape was
not easy, for the people rigidly scrutinised
all who left the palace, and
armed parties outside the town examined
every vehicle that passed. It
is said that some one proposed to
Christina to disguise herself as a black
woman (there are a great many negresses
in Madrid), and answered for
her escape if she would do so, but that
she refused, on account of two remarkable
dimples in her cheeks, which she
made sure would betray her. The
poor lady begins to have more wrinkles
than dimples; but she was doubtless
right not to risk detection in such
ignoble disguise. Her features are of
course extremely well known here,
and had the people caught her making
off in masquerade, she certainly would
not have escaped rough usage, and
perhaps her life would have been sacrificed.
What could her daughter then
have done? Hardly have retained
her throne, already slipping from under
her—and her crown, whose brightness
is so grievously dimmed by the
humiliation her errors have brought
upon her. It seems incredible that
a sovereign should be found sufficiently
wanting in pride to put pen
to such a manifesto—I should rather
say to such an apology—as was signed
by Isabella II. on the 26th July
last. Doubtless nothing less would
do; but surely most princes—or they
are meaner than the world believes
them—would have preferred abdication
to so humbling themselves. In
that notable proclamation, she completely
cried <i><span lang="la">peccavi</span></i>, promised better
behaviour, and protested her entire
adherence to Espartero’s political
principles. Since he has been here,
her conduct towards him has been
such as to make it appear miraculous
how she ever managed to do without
him. She constantly requires his
presence, and, notwithstanding the
immense deal of business he has to
attend to, he is obliged to go daily to
the palace. Doubtless she has not
yet quite recovered from the alarm of
the revolution, and looks upon Espartero
as her best safeguard. I will
not attribute any covert or perfidious
motive to a sovereign who has suffered
severely for her errors, and has
pledged herself to amendment. But
it would be very desirable to separate
her from her mother, whose intriguing
spirit will never be at rest so long as
there is life in her body, and a possibility
of her working evil. She
continues at the palace, instead of
being sent away from Madrid, and
guarded in some castle or royal residence.
Of course, there are difficulties
in the way of removing her, and it
seems cruel to separate her from her
daughter, from whom, perhaps, before
<span class='pageno' id='Page_367'>367</span>long, she may be separated for ever.
But the paramount consideration is
the welfare of Spain; and, moreover,
in reality, the links that bind the two
ladies to each other are of a less tender
nature than may be supposed, or
would seem natural. Christina, it is
well known, has never loved this
daughter, whom she shamefully neglected,
and, it may almost be said,
wilfully corrupted, with a view to
place upon her throne the Duchess of
Montpensier. She has that influence
over Isabella which long habit, and
the ascendancy of a strong mind over
a weak one, naturally give to her.
And probably the Queen hangs more
than ever upon her mother, now
that her lover has been sent away,
and her palace cleared of that crew of
supple courtiers, ready for any base
subserviency or corrupt complaisance,
who have so long infested it. “It is
absolutely necessary,” the venerable
San Miguel is reported one day to
have said to the Queen, “that the
Señor de Arana should go on a mission
to Ciudad Rodrigo. There he
will be very near to Portugal, and
may easily pass into that country.”
This caused instant anxiety and
alarm. “You answer to me for his
life,” was the reply. “It runs not
the slightest risk,” said the old general,
and so the thing was arranged.
The favourite departed, and is perhaps
already as completely forgotten by
the person most interested in retaining
him here as he appears to be by
everybody else. He is not likely to
be recalled, so long as Espartero is in
power, and it is to be hoped he will
not be replaced. The clearance of the
court was left for the Duke de la
Victoria, who assumed the office of
governor of the palace, and speedily
dismissed the titled and embroidered,
but impure, crowd that haunted its
halls and avenues.</p>

<p class='c011'>Availing myself of the roving and
desultory license conceded to the
letter-writer, I step back a few weeks
to note some small but not uninteresting
circumstances, which I find I
have omitted to mention. When
O’Donnell’s outbreak occurred, not
only were the civil guards removed
from their duty on the roads and concentrated
in the capital, and at other
points, to act in bodies as troops
against the insurgents and against the
people, but the numerous police of
Madrid became too much engrossed
by their political avocations to heed
the ordinary objects of their solicitude.
The proper regulation of the streets
was neglected, and a prodigious
swarm of beggars, emerging from
their habitual lurking-places, spread
itself over the town. The streets
were infested by the most revolting
deformities. The least disagreeable
section of the mendicant mob was
that consisting of the blind men, who,
always numerous in Madrid, were
now apparently in redoubled strength.
There is an independent spirit amongst
these <i><span lang="es">ciegos</span></i>, and they seldom beg, but
poke their way about with a big stick,
or are led by a friend, and sell newspapers,
flying sheets, and extraordinary
supplements. Since the revolution
there has been much work for
them, and from seven in the morning
until late at night one hears their discordant
cries, consisting generally of
the names of new newspapers, (many
have been started within the last
month), the <cite>Esparterista</cite>, the <cite>Independencia</cite>,
the <cite>Sentinela del Pueblo</cite>,
or of the announcement of the “latest
news from the palace,” “the departure
of the <em>tia Cristina</em>,” or “the life
of the robber Sartorius,”—all for two
<i><span lang="es">cuartos</span></i>, or one halfpenny. It were
unjust to these benighted dispensers
of intelligence to class them amongst
the beggars, although they certainly
are a nuisance, owing to their straightforward
manner of perambulation,
which compels everybody to keep out
of their way who does not desire to
have their heavy feet stamped upon
his, or their protruded stick thrust
against his shins. But the blind are
quite agreeable and ornamental compared
with the maimed, the diseased,
the shrivelled, the distorted, who lie
under walls and upon the staircases of
public buildings, station themselves at
street corners, ride about on donkeys,
and everywhere disgust you with
their nauseous presence, and pester
you with their piteous whine. The
Spaniards are charitable—that is to
say, they are great alms-givers—and
this of course encourages street-begging.
There are places of refuge and
humane establishments in Madrid
whither all destitute persons have a
<span class='pageno' id='Page_368'>368</span>right to repair—whither, indeed, it is
the duty of the police to compel them
to betake themselves. But for some
time past it can hardly be said that
there has been any police in this
capital; and I assure you that a
walk through it is anything but a
gratification, either to the eyes or the
olfactories. It is full of strange,
complicated, and most unfragrant
odours, to which the puzzled and
tortured nose involuntarily and in
vain attempts to ascribe an origin.
And it is plentifully besprinkled with
objects that should never be seen
out of an hospital. Here, seated or
squatted on the pavement of one of
the most crowded thoroughfares, is a
wretch with an arm shrivelled to the
bone; here another whose leg grows
up behind his back, his foot appearing
over his shoulder. Here is an unfortunate
creature who almost reminds
us of the days when lepers sat by the
road-side and implored alms. A little
farther on a man, in an old soldier’s
coat, displays the hideous stump of
his amputated leg; and in this narrow
passage we run up against a
boy leading a donkey, on which is
stretched, upon his belly, a shapeless
mass of humanity, his limbs naked,
and every one of them in some way
or other distorted and deformed. And
here—haunting the narrow court that
leads to the post-office, and whose asphalt
pavement, most injudicious in this
climate, grows sticky and stinking beneath
the beams of the August sun—is
a tall young fellow without any arms
at all, who, in the names of many saints,
entreats pity upon a <i><span lang="la">pobre joven</span></i>, unable
to work, and expects you to put
your coppers into his waistcoat pocket.
As if political revolutions and vagabond
music had some mysterious connection,
the number of street bands,
Italian harp-players, organ-grinders,
and guitar-strummers, that have deafened
us during the last six weeks, is
something extraordinary. It was
noticed by persons here that on one
particular day, early in July, all these
itinerant professors disappeared, and
it was inferred that an outbreak was
close at hand. But either the musicians
had been falsely alarmed, or a general
feast or fast held by them was
the cause of the suspension of their
hostilities against the tympanum of
Madrid, for no insurrection occurred at
that time, although we had not very
long to wait for it.</p>

<p class='c011'>The Spanish revolution of 1854 has,
I need hardly say, not been accomplished
without some expense. Revolutions
are costly amusements: from
the State they take money, and from
the people days of labour. Although
this one has, up to the present time,
especially as regards Madrid, and in
all Spain except Catalonia, been particularly
orderly for a movement of
the kind, and remarkably free from
excess and riot, there still is a bill to
pay. The provincial juntas, during
their few days of local but almost
absolute power, issued various decrees
that would have played havoc with
the finances had they not been
promptly repealed by the regular
government established under Espartero,
to which, however, even up to the
present moment, some of these juntas
refuse to give up. In many provinces
important taxes were taken off, without
any measures being adopted to
replace the heavy deficit their abolition
would occasion in the public
revenue. And some of these taxes
were of daily collection, as, for
instance, duties on goods entering
towns. Then there were barricades
to be paid, damages to be repaired,
streets to be repaired, and many other
charges. And the outgoing ministers,
when they saw their political end
approaching, took scandalous liberties
with the public money. Of the portion
of the forced loan that had been
collected, but a few thousand reals
were to be discovered, although at
least half a million sterling had been
got in, and paid at Madrid into the
coffers of the State. In short, as
regards finance, the new government
has entered office under most unfavourable
circumstances. But the
purses of Progresista capitalists, rigidly
closed to the Sartorius ministry,
are freely opened to that of Espartero.
And no time has been lost in effecting
savings in various departments.
Numbers of useless clerks and government
officials have been dismissed;
and although, according to the very
bad rule here observed, all these men
are entitled to more or less retiring
pension, to be more or less punctually
paid, still the economy is considerable.
<span class='pageno' id='Page_369'>369</span>But the great saving will
result from the character of the men
who have come into office, and who
are all respected for their integrity.
O’Donnell, it is true, made his fortune
in no very reputable way—by the
slave-trade, when he was governor of
Cuba—but that has been such a
common and received practice that it
would be erroneous to infer, from his
having followed it, that he would
necessarily take bribes in Madrid, or
defraud the country he assists to
govern. A Spanish general, sent out
to command at the Havanna, sees nothing
improper—as there is certainly
nothing extraordinary—in receiving
his ounce or two of gold for every
slave landed. Don José Concha, now
on the eve of embarking for Cuba to
resume the post he formerly held
there, is almost the only instance, for
many years, of resistance to the
temptation held out to West Indian
captain-generals by the importers of
the raw article from Africa. In
Spain, however, O’Donnell passes for
an honourable man, who keeps his
word when it is pledged, and is incapable
of the baseness and peculation
of which Spanish ministers have
been too often guilty.</p>

<p class='c011'>Although formed and headed by
the most popular man in Spain, and
composed of men by no means unwelcome
to the nation, the present
ministry, brief though its existence
yet has been, has not escaped censure
for some of its acts. Of course, all
the persons whom the revolution has
upset, all the employés who are put
on half-pay, all the friends of the
polacos, the partisans of Sartorius,
Bravo Murillo, Roncali, and other
notorious ex-ministers, who now find
themselves sunk in the slough of
despond, are furious against the new
order of things, and spare no pains
to damage the government by propagating
false reports and malicious inventions.
On the other hand, the
ultra-liberals, the republicans and
clubbists, look upon the present men
as a mere compromise, and declare
that the revolution has been nipped
in the bud, and has not gone half far
enough. They have faith in Espartero,
and discretion enough not violently
to agitate, at least for the
present, against his government; but
here there are clearly the elements of
two oppositions, one factious and reactionary,
the other, by its impatience
for progress, nearly or quite as dangerous.
The most recent and the principal
ground of complaint the latter
party has found, is the intimation in
a ministerial document published two
days ago in the <cite>Madrid Gazette</cite>, and
which preludes to a decree regulating
the mode of convocation of the Constituent
Cortes—that the government
intends to admit no discussion
as to the permanence of Isabella and
her dynasty on the Spanish throne.
There is at present a very strong
feeling in Spain against the Queen
personally, and against the race to
which she belongs; and those who
desire to see her compelled to abdicate,
or dethroned by the vote of a
National Convention—the proper
name for the single popular chamber
that is to assemble on the 8th of next
November—do not perhaps sufficiently
reflect on the difficulties to which
such a measure would give rise. They
are ready to remove, but are they prepared
to replace, the erring daughter
of the treacherous Ferdinand? My
belief is, that were Isabella to-morrow
to sign her act of abdication, it would
be joyfully received by a large portion
of the nation, but that discord would
ensue as to who or what should replace
her. During the latter days of
the Sartorius ministry there were
seven or eight candidates in the field
for the premiership—as soon as it
should be vacant. There have lately
been nearly as many named for the
throne, should the present sovereign
quit it. First there is her daughter,
with a long regency—probably that of
Espartero. But this would only lead to
fresh complications. The Princess of
the Asturias is a puny, unhealthy
child; besides which there are reasons,
known to all, and which I need not
particularise, that make it extremely
doubtful whether the Spanish nation
would accept her as their sovereign
even in name. This admitted, there
are still many to choose out of, but
there are difficulties and objections in
every case. There are Montemolin,
Montpensier, Don Pedro of Portugal:
a federative republic has been talked
of, and some have ventured to hint
even at Don Enrique, the Queen’s
<span class='pageno' id='Page_370'>370</span>cousin and brother-in-law. The two
last, however, are out of the question.
The priest party would give all its
support to Montemolin, and, were an
attempt made to change the dynasty,
he might possibly find sufficient adherents
to commence a civil war,
whose duration and consequences to
Spain it would be impossible to foresee.
Montpensier would find few partisans.
Brought into Spain by intrigue, and
against the wish of the people, he has
wanted either the tact or the opportunity
to gain their esteem and affection.
Living in retirement at Seville,
he has been little heard of, and the
general opinion of his abilities is decidedly
poor. I say nothing of the
Spanish dislike to a French sovereign,
or of the opposition that the present
ruler of France would probably make
to his elevation to the throne of Spain.
Amongst the better classes here there
is decidedly a leaning to the young
King of Portugal. The favourable
accounts received of his talents and
character, the increase of importance
that would be given to Spain by the
union of the two countries into the
kingdom of Iberia, the commercial
advantages to be derived from the
command of the whole course of the
two great rivers that traverse Portugal
and the greater part of Spain,—these
are some of the circumstances
that induce many here to cast wishful
looks in the direction of the young
heir of Braganza. Pedro V., they
say, would suit them well. And even
some of the objections urged against
the scheme, such as the vast difference
in customhouse tariffs and religious
tolerance in the two countries, are set
down by them amongst the advantages
and inducements to their union.
The converts in Spain to such a reduction
of the imports on foreign
manufactures as should destroy smuggling,
benefit the treasury, and produce
an increase of the demand for
Spanish produce, daily augment in
numbers. As to religious tolerance,
the Spaniards begin to see that it is
inseparable from true liberty, and to
be ashamed of the system of bigotry
that disgraces their country. The appointment
of Don José Alonso, a most
determined opponent of ultramontane
influence, to the ministry of Grace
and Justice, is significant of the feeling
prevailing here, and of a probable
move in the right direction. The
liberals all declare the existing concordat
to be doomed, and if the Pope
opposes the great alterations that will
be made in the present system, and
which will doubtless include the expulsion
of the Jesuits, and a great
reduction in the hierarchical establishment
in Spain, it is by no means
impossible that the whole fabric of
papal interference will be swept away,
and that Spain will have the Spanish
church as France has the Gallican.</p>

<p class='c011'>There still are certainly considerable
difficulties in the way of the
union of the two crowns and countries.
In the first place, is it sure
that the King of Portugal would
accept the arduous task of governing
Spain? Would it be wise of him to
exchange his present humble but safe
and respectable position amongst the
sovereigns of Europe for one certainly
much more exalted, but also infinitely
more arduous, and even dangerous?
Admitting, however, that he made up
his mind to this, how would the Portuguese
like the plan? Waiving the
question of national antipathies, to
which exaggerated weight has been
given, how would Portuguese pride
endure that Portugal should be absorbed
in Spain, even whilst giving
her a king? And what would they
say to the loss of the valuable smuggling
trade of which Portugal is now
the depôt, and which is carried on
through her ports and territory? If
there be not a customs union, there can
be no real union between the countries.
It is not likely, however, that Portugal
will long benefit in the way it now
does by the absurd Spanish tariff, of
which a reform is inevitably approaching.
<span class='pageno' id='Page_371'>371</span>That tariff is doomed by the
increasing good sense of the nation
and by the example of others, and its
existence can be a question only of
time. There are other difficulties,
such as the fusion of the two debts
and the election of one capital (is
Madrid or Lisbon to be sacrificed?)
but it is thought that all these things
might be reconciled and arranged in
a satisfactory manner. It is hoped
France would not object, and England’s
co-operation and aid are reckoned
upon—as they are admitted to
be indispensable. The Iberian monarchy,
with Pedro V. on the throne
and an English princess for his wife—such
is the dream of many here.
That at least a part of it may be realised,
is certainly not improbable.
And I have reason to know that such
a plan has occurred, some years since,
to persons in high places, not in this
country, whose influence, if steadily
and perseveringly applied, would go
far towards carrying it out. No time
could be more favourable for that
than the present, when England and
France are bound in close alliance
and cordial amity, and when Spain
is thoroughly disgusted with the
dynasty that has so long misruled
her.</p>

<p class='c011'>There is much more to be said on
this subject of a change of dynasty,
but for the present I must conclude,
for here is the middle of the month;
and moreover writing long letters
with the thermometer at fever-heat is
almost too much exertion. And so,
for at least another moon, I quit the
complicated question of Spanish politics,
and bid you a hearty farewell.</p>

<div class='lg-container-r'>
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    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'><span class='sc'>Vedette.</span></div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c005'>
    <div><span class='small'><em>Printed by William Blackwood &#38; Sons, Edinburgh.</em></span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<hr class='c023'>
<div class='footnote' id='f1'>
<p class='c011'><a href='#r1'>1</a>. <cite>Narrative of a Journey through Syria and Palestine in 1851 and 1852.</cite> By Lieut.
<span class='sc'>Van de Velde</span>. 2 vols. Edinburgh, 1854.</p>
</div>
<div class='footnote' id='f2'>
<p class='c011'><a href='#r2'>2</a>. The old name for Corinth. The famous rock of the Acropolis is 1800 feet high,
and is a most prominent object from Athens, and all the open country to the east.</p>
</div>
<div class='footnote' id='f3'>
<p class='c011'><a href='#r3'>3</a>. The landscape here described is well known to travellers, being on the road between
Corinth and Mycenæ. The Apesantian mount, with its broad, flat, tabular
summit, overhangs Nemea, where three magnificent Corinthian pillars are all that
remain to proclaim, amid the solitude, the once splendid worship of Nemean Jove. The
defile of <em>Tretus</em> is described by Pausanias (ii. 15), and by Colonel Mure in his Travels.</p>
</div>
<div class='footnote' id='f4'>
<p class='c011'><a href='#r4'>4</a>. The temple of Juno, near Mycenæ, of which the remains have lately been discovered.</p>
</div>
<div class='footnote' id='f5'>
<p class='c011'><a href='#r5'>5</a>. The well-known ruins of Tiryns, at the head of the Argolic gulf, between Nauplia
and Argos. The “galleries” make a fine figure in illustrated tours; but
Tiryns, situated on a low elliptical hillock, will disappoint the traveller. Not so
<em>Mycenæ</em>, of which the remains are truly sublime, and well worthy to be associated
for ever with the memory of the “king of men.”</p>
</div>
<div class='footnote' id='f6'>
<p class='c011'><a href='#r6'>6</a>. The old name of Ægina, whose maritime strength and commercial dignity are
celebrated by Pindar. (Ol. viii.)</p>
</div>
<div class='footnote' id='f7'>
<p class='c011'><a href='#r7'>7</a>. Naxos.</p>
</div>
<div class='footnote' id='f8'>
<p class='c011'><a href='#r8'>8</a>. The climate of Rhodes is delightful. The Atabyrian mount is mentioned by
Pindar, in the famous ode to Diagoras (ol. vii.), <span lang="grc">αλλ ὦ Ζεῦ πάτερ νὡτοισιν Αταβυριου.
κ. τ. λ.</span></p>
</div>
<div class='footnote' id='f9'>
<p class='c011'><a href='#r9'>9</a>. On the subject of <em>Lycia</em>, and the topography of this part of the poem, it is perhaps
superfluous to refer our readers to Sir Charles Fellowes’ works, and the travels,
in the same district, of Professor Edward Forbes, now of this city.</p>
</div>
<div class='footnote' id='f10'>
<p class='c011'><a href='#r10'>10</a>. A warlike people in Lycia mentioned by Homer—<span lang="grc">Σολύμοισι κυδαλἰμοισι</span>.</p>
</div>
<div class='footnote' id='f11'>
<p class='c011'><a href='#r11'>11</a>. So Homer. Arrian, in his life of Alexander (ii. 5), alludes to this plain, or one
bearing the same name, near the river Pyramus in Cilicia.</p>
</div>
<div class='footnote' id='f12'>
<p class='c011'><a href='#r12'>12</a>. Colonial Land and Emigration Commissioners’ Report, 1853.</p>
</div>
<div class='footnote' id='f13'>
<p class='c011'><a href='#r13'>13</a>. <cite>Of the Plurality of Worlds; an Essay. Also a Dialogue on the same subject.</cite>
Second Edition. Parker and Son, 1854.</p>

<p class='c011'><cite>More Worlds than One, the Creed of the Philosopher, and the Hope of the Christian.</cite>
By Sir <span class='sc'>David Brewster</span>, K.H., D.C.L. Murray, 1854.</p>

<p class='c011'><cite>The Planets: Are they Inhabited Worlds?</cite> Museum of Science and Art. By
<span class='sc'>Dionysius Lardner</span>, D.C.L., Chapters i., ii., iii., iv. Walton and Maberly, 1854.</p>
</div>
<div class='footnote' id='f14'>
<p class='c011'><a href='#r14'>14</a>. <span class='sc'>Herschel</span>, <cite>Astron.</cite>, § 592.—[We quote from the first edition.]</p>
</div>
<div class='footnote' id='f15'>
<p class='c011'><a href='#r15'>15</a>. <cite>Age of Reason.</cite></p>
</div>
<div class='footnote' id='f16'>
<p class='c011'><a href='#r16'>16</a>. <cite>More Worlds than One</cite>, p. 199.</p>
</div>
<div class='footnote' id='f17'>
<p class='c011'><a href='#r17'>17</a>. <em>Ibid.</em>, p. 202.</p>
</div>
<div class='footnote' id='f18'>
<p class='c011'><a href='#r18'>18</a>. <cite>More Worlds than One</cite>, p. 230.</p>
</div>
<div class='footnote' id='f19'>
<p class='c011'><a href='#r19'>19</a>. <cite>Essay</cite> (2d edition), p. 261.</p>
</div>
<div class='footnote' id='f20'>
<p class='c011'><a href='#r20'>20</a>. <cite>Dialogue</cite>, p. 37.</p>
</div>
<div class='footnote' id='f21'>
<p class='c011'><a href='#r21'>21</a>. <cite>Essay</cite>, pp. 133, 134.</p>
</div>
<div class='footnote' id='f22'>
<p class='c011'><a href='#r22'>22</a>. <em>Ibid.</em>, pp. 299, 300.</p>
</div>
<div class='footnote' id='f23'>
<p class='c011'><a href='#r23'>23</a>. <em>Ibid.</em>, pp. 308, 309.</p>
</div>
<div class='footnote' id='f24'>
<p class='c011'><a href='#r24'>24</a>. Psalm cxv. 16.</p>
</div>
<div class='footnote' id='f25'>
<p class='c011'><a href='#r25'>25</a>. Isaiah, xlii. 5.</p>
</div>
<div class='footnote' id='f26'>
<p class='c011'><a href='#r26'>26</a>. Isaiah, xlv. 12, 18.</p>
</div>
<div class='footnote' id='f27'>
<p class='c011'><a href='#r27'>27</a>. <cite>More Worlds than One</cite>, p. 17.</p>
</div>
<div class='footnote' id='f28'>
<p class='c011'><a href='#r28'>28</a>. <cite>Essay</cite>, p. 359.</p>
</div>
<div class='footnote' id='f29'>
<p class='c011'><a href='#r29'>29</a>. <cite>Essay</cite>, p. 359.</p>
</div>
<div class='footnote' id='f30'>
<p class='c011'><a href='#r30'>30</a>. <em>Ibid.</em>, pp. 94, 95.</p>
</div>
<div class='footnote' id='f31'>
<p class='c011'><a href='#r31'>31</a>. <em>Ibid.</em>, pp. 98, 99.</p>
</div>
<div class='footnote' id='f32'>
<p class='c011'><a href='#r32'>32</a>. <em>Ibid.</em>, p. 103.</p>
</div>
<div class='footnote' id='f33'>
<p class='c011'><a href='#r33'>33</a>. <em>Ibid.</em>, p. 104.</p>
</div>
<div class='footnote' id='f34'>
<p class='c011'><a href='#r34'>34</a>. <cite>Essay</cite>, p. 360.</p>
</div>
<div class='footnote' id='f35'>
<p class='c011'><a href='#r35'>35</a>. <em>Ibid.</em>, p. 360 (Professor Owen).</p>
</div>
<div class='footnote' id='f36'>
<p class='c011'><a href='#r36'>36</a>. <em>Ibid.</em>, p. 362.</p>
</div>
<div class='footnote' id='f37'>
<p class='c011'><a href='#r37'>37</a>. <em>Ibid.</em>, pp. 364, 365.</p>
</div>
<div class='footnote' id='f38'>
<p class='c011'><a href='#r38'>38</a>. <cite>Essay</cite>, pp. 370, 371.</p>
</div>
<div class='footnote' id='f39'>
<p class='c011'><a href='#r39'>39</a>. <cite>Essay</cite>, pp. 371, 372.</p>
</div>
<div class='footnote' id='f40'>
<p class='c011'><a href='#r40'>40</a>. <em>Ibid.</em>, pp. 375, 376.</p>
</div>
<div class='footnote' id='f41'>
<p class='c011'><a href='#r41'>41</a>. Matt. xvi. 26, 27.</p>
</div>
<div class='footnote' id='f42'>
<p class='c011'><a href='#r42'>42</a>. <cite>Dialogue</cite>, pp. 53, 54.</p>
</div>
<div class='footnote' id='f43'>
<p class='c011'><a href='#r43'>43</a>. <cite>Sunny Memories of Foreign Lands</cite>.  By Mrs <span class='sc'>Harriet Beecher Stowe</span>.  2 vols.
London: 1854.</p>
</div>
<div class='footnote' id='f44'>
<p class='c011'><a href='#r44'>44</a>. <cite>An Apology for the Colouring of the Greek Court.</cite> By <span class='sc'>Owen Jones</span>. London,
1854.</p>
</div>
<div class='footnote' id='f45'>
<p class='c011'><a href='#r45'>45</a>. White marble.—This contempt of white marble is about as wise as Walpole’s
contempt of white teeth, which gave rise to his well-known expression, “The gentlemen
with the foolish teeth.” Yet though a people have been known to paint their
teeth black, white teeth, as white marble, will keep their fashion.</p>
</div>
<div class='footnote' id='f46'>
<p class='c011'><a href='#r46'>46</a>. “<em>Circumlitio.</em>”—See Mr Henning’s evidence before Committee of House of Commons
on the preservation of stone by application of hot wax penetrating the stone,
and his mode of using it, similar to the encaustic process.</p>
</div>
<div class='footnote' id='f47'>
<p class='c011'><a href='#r47'>47</a>. In the <cite>Clouds</cite>, Aristophanes makes Socrates swear by the Graces—<span lang="grc">σοφῶς γε νῆ
τάς χαριτας</span>—twitting him, as the scholiast remarks, upon his former employment, alluding
to his work of the Graces.—<cite>Clouds</cite>, 771.</p>
</div>
<div class='footnote' id='f48'>
<p class='c011'><a href='#r48'>48</a>. “<span lang="la">Inter <em>statuas</em> Græci sic distinguunt teste Philandro, ut statuas Deorum vocent
<span lang="grc">ἔιδοιλα</span>; Heroum <span lang="grc">ξοἄνα</span>; Regum <span lang="grc">ἄνδριαντας:</span> Sapientum <span lang="grc">εἴκελα</span>; Bene-meritorum
βρενεα; quod tamen discrimen auctoribus non semper observatur.</span>”—<span class='sc'>Hoffmann’s</span>
<cite>Lexicon</cite>.</p>
</div>
<div class='footnote' id='f49'>
<p class='c011'><a href='#r49'>49</a>. We do not presume to be critical upon the Bœotian schoolmaster’s Greek; but
no modern student would take him for an authority in prosody. He says the impetuosity
of the genius of Homer hurried him into a false quantity in the first line
of the <cite>Iliad</cite>, in the word <span lang="grc">Θεὰ</span>. Plutarch was forgetful of the rule of <i><span lang="la">a purum</span></i> in the
vocative. His prejudice is sufficiently shown in his essay <cite>On the Malignity of Herodotus</cite>,
whom he disliked, because the historian did not speak over favourably of the
Bœotians. “Plutarch was a Bœotian, and thought it indispensably incumbent on
him to vindicate the cause of his countrymen.”—<span class='sc'>Beloe’s</span> <cite>Herod</cite>.</p>
</div>
<div class='footnote' id='f50'>
<p class='c011'><a href='#r50'>50</a>. The “devotion”—the estimation in which the Athenians held their gods, at the very
time of their building magnificent temples, and of their highest perfection in art, we
may fairly gather from their dramatic performances. If Zeus himself was treated
with little reverence, other deities to whom they erected statues fared worse. Bacchus
is exhibited on the stage as a coward—Hercules as a glutton.—<i><span lang="la">Vide</span></i> Aristophanes
and Euripides. So much for the motives invented for the Athenians by Mr Jones.
Had such motives been appealed to, not a drachma would have been obtained.</p>
</div>

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<div class='chapter ph2'>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c007'>
    <div>TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES</div>
  </div>
</div>

</div>

 <ol class='ol_1 c005'>
    <li>Silently corrected obvious typographical errors and variations in spelling.

    </li>
    <li>Retained archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed.

    </li>
    <li>Re-indexed footnotes using numbers and collected together at the end of the last 
    chapter.
    </li>
  </ol>

</div>

<div style='text-align:center'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BLACKWOOD'S EDINBURGH MAGAZINE, VOL. 76, NO. 467, SEPTEMBER 1954 ***</div>
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