Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Vol. 75, No. 460, February, 1854 (2024)

CONTENTS.

129

Locomotion, profitless and oftenaimless, is, in the opinion of Continentals,a condition of an Englishman’sexistence. Provided with adressing-case that would contain aFrenchman’s entire wardrobe, andwith a hat-box full of pills “to betaken at bedtime,” every son ofAlbion is supposed to perform, at someperiod of his life, a distant journey,with the sole apparent object of acquiringa right to say that he hasbeen “there and back again.” AnEnglishman, in the opinion of Europe,would be a miserable being, had henot continually present to his mindthe recollection or the anticipation ofa journey to the uttermost parts ofthe earth—to the North Pole or theSouth Seas, to the feverish heart ofAfrica or the scarcely less perilouswastes of Tartary. That opinion willbe strongly confirmed by the peregrinationsof Mansfield Parkyns.

There can be no reasonable doubtthat when the handsome volumes, fullof amusing letter-press and neatsketches, and externally decoratedwith a chubby and Oriental St Georgespearing a golden dragon, with bossyshields and carved scimitars, andlion’s mane and tail, which Mr Murrayhas just published, shall have been asgenerally read as they deserve to be,the tide of enterprising travel will setstrongly in the direction of Abyssinia.Everybody will take wing for theland of the Shohos and Boghos;African outfits will be in perpetualdemand; sanguine railway projectorswill discuss the feasibility of a “GrandCairo and Addy Abo Direct” line.Mr Parkyns tells us, in his preliminarypages, that he shall estimate thesuccess of his book, not by his friends’flatteries or his reviewers’ verdict,but by its sale. Sale!—why, it willsell by thousands, in an abridgedform, with a red cover, as the “Handbookfor Abyssinia.” Persons startingfor those parts will ask for Parkyns’Handbook, just as tenderertourists, who content themselves withan amble through Andalusia, inquirefor Ford’s. That many such startswill be made, we cannot doubt, afterreading the book in which are sovividly described the charms of thepleasant land of Tigrè, the delightsof the journey thither, and of theabode there. Never was anything sotempting. The mere introductionmakes us impatient to be off. MrParkyns is resolved to lure his readers,in his very first chapter, not onlyto read his book, but to roam in hisfootsteps. Werne’s Campaign inTaka gave us some idea of the advantagesenjoyed by those privilegedmortals to whom it is given to ramblebetween the Blue Nile and the RedSea; but the German’s narrative,which we thought striking and startlingenough when we read it, is throwninto the shade by the vivid and livelydelineations of the friend and comradeof Prince Shetou. The sanitary,dietetic, and surgical instructions,with which, for the benefit of futuretravellers in Abyssinia, he preludeshis subject, would alone suffice to inspireus with an ardent longing topass a season in the delightful regionswhere they are applicable. The preservationof health, he justly observes,should be every traveller’schief care, since, without it, pleasureor profit from the journey is alikeimpossible. Then he proceeds topoint out the chief dangers to healthin Abyssinia, and the means of wardingthem off. The highlands, hetells us, are highly salubrious, butunfortunately one cannot always abideupon the hills; and down in the valleysmalaria prevails, engenderingterrible inflammatory fevers, to whichfour patients out of five succumb, thefifth having his constitution impairedfor life, or at least for many years.Parkyns points out a preservative.Light two large fires and sleep betweenthem. They must be so closetogether that you are obliged to coveryourself with a piece of hide to avoidignition of your clothes. “Not veryagreeable till you are used to it,”says the cool Parkyns, “but a capitalpreventive of disease. Another plan,always adopted by the natives, is not,I think, a bad one:—Roll your headcompletely up in your cloth, whichthen acts as a respirator. You mayoften see a nigg*r lying asleep withthe whole of his body uncovered, buthis head and face completely concealedin many folds”;—a sort of woodco*ckingwhich may be pleasant, but canhardly be considered picturesque.Tobacco is indispensable; in thatcountry you must smoke abundantly.On the White Nile no negro is everwithout his pipe, which sometimesholds a pound of tobacco. “Thelargest I now possess,” says Parkyns,somewhat dolefully, “would not containmuch more than a quarter of thatquantity.” The sun, generally consideredformidable to travellers inAfrica, is disregarded by him to whomwe now give ear. “I never retiredinto the shade to avoid the noondayheat; and for four years I never woreany covering to my head except therather scanty allowance of hair withwhich nature has supplied me, withthe addition occasionally of a littlebutter. During the whole of that timeI never had a headache”;—an immunitywe are disposed to attribute lessto the sun’s forbearance than to somepeculiar solidity in the cranium ofParkyns. “In these climates,” henext informs us, “a man cannot eatmuch, or, even if he could, he oughtnot.” This probably applies exclusivelyto foreigners, for we are afterwardsintroduced to native dinners,where the gormandising surpassedbelief, and yet none of the guests werea pin the worse. Indeed, in the courseof the book, the Abyssinians are invariablyrepresented as enormousfeeders, capable of demolishing fouror five pounds of meat, more or less,raw, as one day’s ration, and withoutill effects. As long as you are moderatein quantity, the quality of whatyou eat is evidently unimportant in asanitary point of view. “A man whocares a straw about what he eatsshould never attempt to travel inAfrica. It is not sufficient to say, ‘Ican eat anything that is clean andwholesome.’ You will often have toeat things that are far from beingeither, especially the former. I haveeaten of almost every living thing thatwalketh, flyeth, or creepeth—lion, leopard,wolf, cat, hawk, crocodile, snake,lizard, locust, &c.; and I should besorry to say what dirty messes I haveat times been obliged to put up with.”As general rules for the preservationof health, we are instructed to avoidbad localities—the valleys, especiallyafter the rainy season, when the sunpumps up malaria from stagnantpools and decayed vegetable matter—tobe abstemious in all respects,and to follow the native customs withrespect to food, injunctions which appeardifficult to reconcile. Should allprecautions prove ineffectual, andfever or other ills assail us, kind, considerateParkyns, who himself, hetells us, has some knowledge of thehealing art, instructs us what to do.“Local bleedings, such as the nativespractise, are often highly advantageous;and firing with a hot iron mayalso be adopted at their recommendation.For severe inflammation of thebowels, when you cannot bear to betouched on the part, some boilingwater poured on it will be a ready andeffective blister,—a wet rag beingwrapped round in a ring to confinethe water within the intended limits.For bad snake-bites or scorpion stings,bind above the part as tightly as possible,and cut away with a knife; thenapply the end of an iron ramrod,heated to white heat. This, of course,I mean supposing you to be in thebackwoods, out of the reach of medicines.Aquafortis is, I have heard,better than the hot iron, as it eats fartherin.” Actual cautery, boiling-waterblisters, and “cutting away”really compose a very pretty basis fora surgical system. Professor Parkynsgives but few prescriptions, supposing,he says, that few of his readerswould care to have more, or be likelyto profit by them. Judging from theabove sample, we are inclined to coincidein his supposition.

Mr Mansfield Parkyns is an amateurbarbarian. Leaving England whena very young man, he plunged, aftersome previous rambling in Europe andAsia Minor, into the heart of Abyssinia,and adopted savage life with anearnestness and gusto sufficientlyproved by his book, and by the regretwith which he still, after three years’return to what poor Ruxton called“civilised fixings,” speaks of hisabode in the wigwams of Ethiopia,and of his hankerings—not after theflesh-pots of Egypt, but—after theghee-pots and uncooked beef he solong throve upon in the dominions ofthe great Oubi, Viceroy of Tigrè.Fancy a civilised Englishman, gentlynurtured and educated, pitching histent for three years amongst filthysavages, adopting their dress andusages, rubbing his head with butter,sleeping with the but of his rifle for apillow—the grease from his plaitedlocks being “beneficially employed intoughening the wood”—having himselfpartially tattooed, eating raw beef,substituting raw sheep’s liver sousedin vinegar for oysters, discarding hatsand shoes, and going bareheaded andbarefoot under the broiling sun andover the roadless wastes of Abyssinia,burning and gashing his flesh in orderto produce peculiar scars and protuberances,deemed ornamental by thepeople amongst whom he dwelt, and,upon his return home (to England,we mean to say, for the home of hispredilection is amongst the savourysavages he so reluctantly left, andamongst whom he evidently considershimself naturalised), coolly writingdown and publishing his confessions—inmost amusing style, we freelyadmit, but not without a slight dashof self-complacency, as if he wouldsay, See what a fine fellow I am tohave thus converted myself into agreasy, shoeless, raw-beef-eating savagefor a term of years! We havenothing in the world, however, to dowith Mr Parkyns’ peculiar predilections.This is a free country—as theYankee observed when flogging hisnigg*r—whose natives have a perfectright to exhibit themselves in anycharacter they please, from an Objibbewayto an alabaster statue, so longas they do not outrage decency, orotherwise transgress the law. Forour part, we should have been sincerelysorry if Mr Parkyns had noten-cannibaled himself, and told ushow he did it. We should have beendeprived of two of the most extraordinary,original, and amusing volumesthrough which we ever passed ourpaper-knife. We accept the book,and are grateful for it. With theauthor’s tastes, depraved though wecannot but consider them, we purposenot to meddle. Men of his stampshould be prized, like black diamonds,by reason of their rarity. We aremuch mistaken, or Mr Parkyns willbe the cynosure of all eyes during theapproaching spring—particularly ifhe condescends occasionally to exhibithis tattooed arm, and to bolt a rawbeef-steak. Gordon Cumming, onhis return from his South-Africanslaughterings, was the lion of theLondon season; Mansfield Parkynswill receive much less than his due ifhe be not made its hippopotamus.

Mr Parkyns started from Smyrnafor a tour of the Nile, in companywith the poetical member for Pontefract,Mr Monckton Milnes, thenpondering his “Palm Leaves.” Ofthe Nile tour, so repeatedly made andso well described by others, he abstainsfrom speaking, in order the sooner toget to Abyssinia. After an agreeableboat voyage of two months’ duration,he parted from his companion atCairo. Mr Milnes must surely haveregretted quitting so lively and intrepida fellow-traveller, and Mr Parkyns,we cannot doubt, equally deploredtheir separation. The cool of theevening would have been so pleasantin the desert. But parliamentaryduties summoned one of the travellersnorthwards; the Wander-trieb, thevagabond instinct, impelled the othersouthwards, and so they parted. Adouble-barrelled gun, a single rifle, abrace of double pistols, and a bowie-knife,composed Mr Parkyns’ travellingarsenal; he also took with himthree pair of common pistols, a dozenlight cavalry sword-blades, some redcloth, white muslin, and Turkey rugs,as presents for Abyssinian chiefs, andin March 1843 he sailed from Suez forJedda, on board a miserable Arab boat,loaded with empty rice-bags and ahundred passengers. The throng wastoo great to be agreeable, but MrParkyns, who has evidently a happytemper and a knack at making himselfpopular amongst all mannerof queer people, was soon on mostfriendly terms with the Turks, Bedouins,Egyptians, Negroes, and otherswho composed the living freight ofthe clumsy lateen-rigged craft. Thevoyage from Suez to Jedda variesfrom nine days to three months. MrParkyns was so fortunate as to accomplish*t in little more than three weeks.We pass over its incidents, whichamused us when we first read them,but which have lost their piquancynow that we recur to them with thehighly-spiced flavour of the Abyssinianadventures hot upon our palate, andwe go on at once to Massawa Island,on the Abyssinian coast, whose climatemay be estimated from the remarkmade by an officer of the Indian navyto Mr Parkyns, to the effect that hethought Pondicherry the hottest placein India, but that Pondicherry wasnothing to Aden, and Aden a meretrifle to Massawa. “Towards thelatter end of May I have known thethermometer rise to about 120° Fahrenheitin the shade, and in July andAugust it ranges much higher.” Indoors,the natives, men and women,wear nothing but striped cotton napkinsround their loins. Most Europeanssuffer severely from the heat ofthe place. Mr Parkyns, who is firstcousin to a salamander, suffered notat all, but ran about catching insects,or otherwise actively employing himself,whilst his servants lay in theshade, the perspiration streaming offthem. He is clearly the very manfor the tropics. After ten days atMassawa, he started for the interior,previously getting rid of his heavybaggage, to an extent we should reallyhave thought rather improvident, butwhich, if he had already made up hismind to content himself with thecomforts, and conform to the customsof the people he was going amongst,was doubtless extremely wise. Wehave enumerated his stock of arms,and his assortment of presents for thenatives. The list of his wardrobe,after he had given away his Europeantoggery—partly at Cairo, and partlyto Angelo, a Massawa Jew, whomade himself useful and agreeable—isvery soon made out. When helanded on the mainland, oppositeMassawa, it consisted of “threeTurkish shirts, three pair of drawers,one suit of Turkish clothes for bestoccasions, a pair of sandals, and ared cap. From the day I left Suez(25th March 1843), till about thesame time in the year 1849, I neverwore any article of European dress,nor indeed ever slept in a bed of anysort—not even a mattress; the utmostextent of luxury I enjoyed, even whenall but dying of a pestilential fever,that kept me five months on my beam-endsat Khartoum, was a coverletunder a rug. The red cap I wore onleaving Massawa was soon borrowedof me, and the sandals, after a month,were given up; and so, as I havebefore said in the Introduction, formore than three years (that is, till Ireached Khartoum), I wore no coveringto my head, except a little butter,when I could get it, nor to my feet,except the horny sole which a fewmonths’ rough usage placed underthem.” The sole in question hadscarce put its print upon Ethiopiansoil when it was near meeting withan accident that would have necessitatedthe use of the sharp knife andwhite-hot ramrod. On his way to thehouse of Hussein Effendi, a governmentscribe, at the sea-coast villageof Moncullou, Mr Parkyns put hisbare foot near an object that in thetwilight had the appearance of a bitof stick or stone. “I was startled byfeeling something cold glide over it,and, turning, saw a small snakewriggling off as quickly as possible.From what little I could distinguishof its form and colour, it seemed toanswer the description I had heard ofthe cerastes, or horned viper, whichis about a foot and a half long, ratherthick for its length, and of a dirty,dusty colour, mottled. The hornsare nearly over the eyes, and aboutthe eighth of an inch in length. Thisis considered one of the most venomousof the snake tribe, and they are verynumerous in this neighbourhood. Itried to kill it, but without success.”He soon came to think very little ofsuch small deer as this. Snakes areas common as rats in those torridlatitudes, and about as little heeded.On his way to the hot springs of Ailat,a day’s journey from Massawa, hekilled another horned viper, as it wascoolly wriggling across his carpet,“spread in a natural bower formedby the boughs of a species of mimosa,from whose yellow flowers, which emita delicious fragrance, the Egyptiansdistil a perfume they call ‘fitneh.’”After this he makes no mention ofadventures with snakes on account oftheir frequency, until he gets to hischapter on the natural history of Abyssinia,towards the close of the secondvolume, to which we shall hereafterrefer. We are at present anxious toget up the country, to the court ofKing Oubi, whose capital, Adoua,was Mr Parkyns’ headquarters duringhis residence in Tigrè. There hehad what he calls his town-house, ofwhich he presents us with a plan andsketches. He remained for someweeks at Ailat, the Cheltenham ofAbyssinia, whose healing springsattract visitors from great distances.There he lodged in the house of a sortof village chief, called Fakak, andpassed his time shooting. It wasrather an amusing residence, caravansof Bedouins and Shohos frequentlypassing through on their way to andfrom Massawa, and he had excellentsport. The evening before startingfor Kiaguor, three days’ journey onthe road to Adoua,

“I went out to procure a supper formyself and numerous friends and attendants;and, to tantalise my English sportingreaders, I will tell them what bag Ibrought home in little more than an hour.My first shot brought down four guinea-fowl;my second, five ditto; third, afemale of the little Ben Israel gazelle;fourth, her male companion; and, fifth, abrace of grouse; so that in five shots Ihad as good a bag as in England onewould get in an average day’s shooting,and after expending half a pound ofpowder, and a proportionate quantity ofshot, caps, and wads. But I feel it myduty to explain that I never shoot flying,considering that unsportsmanlike. Atrue sportsman shows his skill by gettingup to his game unperceived, when, puttingthe muzzle of his gun as close to the tail-feathersas he possibly can, he blazesaway into the thick of the covey, alwayschoosing the direction in which he seesthree or four heads picking in a row!At any rate, this is the only way you canshoot in a country where, if you entirelyexpend your powder and shot, you muststarve, or else make more, as I have beenobliged to do many a time. I cannotunderstand how people in Europe can enjoyshooting, where one is dependent ona crowd of keepers, beaters, dogs, sandwiches,grog, &c.... My sole companionon ordinary occasions is a littleboy, who carries my rifle, whilst I carrymy gun, and we do all the work ourselves.His sharp eyes, better accustomed to theglare than my own, serve me in everypoint as well as a setter’s nose. Thecountry (about Ailat) is sandy and coveredwith large bushes. Most of the trees arethorny, being chiefly of the mimosa tribe,and their thorns are of a very formidabledescription, some of them being abouttwo inches and a half in length, and asthick at the base as a large nail; whileanother variety, called in Abyssinian the‘Kantàff-tafa,’ have thin short-curvedthorns placed on the shoots two and twotogether. These catch you like the clawsof a hawk, and if they enter your clothesyou had better cut off the sprig at once,and carry it with you till you have leisureto liberate yourself, otherwise you willnever succeed; for as fast as you loosenone thorn another catches hold.”

Some interesting sporting anecdotesfollow (they abound in MrParkyns’ book), told in off-hand characteristicstyle—encounters with wildpigs, rather dangerous animals to dealwith—and then we take the road toKiaguor. A night’s rest there, andwe are off to Adoua. HereaboutsMr Parkyns gives a sketch of “AbyssinianTravelling.” We presume thathe himself, somewhat tanned by theclimate, is the gentleman mounted ona jackass, with bare head and legs,and a parasol for protection from thesun. Suppress the donkey and supplya parrot, and he might very wellpass for the late Mr R. Crusoe.

Vague ideas of columns and obelisks,Moorish architecture and thelike, floated in Mr Parkyns’ fancy ashe drew near to the capital city of thekingdom of Tigrè, one of the mostpowerful of all Ethiopia. He found astraggling village of huts, most ofthem built of rough stones, andthatched with straw. The customhouse—theypossess that civilisednuisance even in Abyssinia—gavehim trouble about his baggage, whichit found exorbitant in quantity, andsuspected him of smuggling in goodson account of merchants. He explainedthat he had a supply of arms,powder, lead, &c., for two or threeyears’ consumption, besides presentsfor the prince, but the Tigrè douaniersinsisted on examining all hispackages. He would not submit, andset off to make an appeal to Oubi—nominallythe viceroy, but in realitythe sovereign of the country—whowas then at a permanent camp, at aplace entitled Howzayn. During thispart of his travels, Mr Parkyns wasin company with Messrs Plowden andBell; and on reaching Howzayn,which they did in a heavy shower ofrain, they went at once to the habitationof Càfty, the steward of Oubi’shousehold, who had been Mr Bell’sbalderàbba on a former visit. “It iscustomary for every person, whethernative or foreigner, after his first audiencewith the prince, to ask for a‘balderàbba,’ and one of his officersis usually named. He becomes a sortof agent, and expects you to acknowledge,by presents, any service he mayrender you—such as assisting you outof difficulties in which you may be involved,or procuring for you admissionto his master when you may desire it.Càfty was absent on an expedition.His brother, Negousy, was acting forhim, and he volunteered to procure usan audience of the prince withoutdelay.” Meanwhile the travellerswere not very comfortable. Somepoor fellows were turned out of theirhuts into the rain to make room forthem; but the huts let in water sofreely, that the new occupants werescarcely better off than those whohad been ejected. Only one hut, about7 feet in diameter, and 5½ feet high,had a water-tight roof. Imperfectshelter was but one of their annoyances,and a minor one. It is a customof that country for the king tosend food to travellers as soon as hehears of their arrival, and our threeEnglishmen, aware of this, had broughtno provisions. This was unfortunate,for Oubi neglected to observe thehospitable custom, and they werehalf starved. Instead of obtaining forthem an immediate interview with theprince, Negousy, who was fishing forpresents, put them off from day today. They were obliged to send a servantround the camp, crying out,“Who has got bread for money?”and offering an exorbitant price; buteven thus they could not obtain atithe of what they needed. To addto their vexations, Mr Parkyns’ servant,Barnabas, a negro whom he hadengaged at Adoua, was claimed as aslave by a man in authority, to whoseuncle he had formerly belonged. Atlast, on the fourth evening after theirarrival, Oubi sent them a supper.“It consisted of forty thin cakes,thirty being of coarser quality for theservants, and ten of white ‘teff’ forour own consumption. These wereaccompanied by two pots of a sort ofsauce, composed of common oil, driedpease, and red pepper, but, it beingfast time, there was neither meat norbutter. To wash all down there wasan enormous horn of honey beer.”On the morning of the sixth day Oubisent for them, and, escorted by Negousy,they hastened to the RoyalHovel. They had to wait some timefor admission, amidst the commentsof a crowd of soldiers—comments thenunintelligible to Mr Parkyns, butwhich he afterwards ascertained to befar less complimentary to the personalappearance of himself and companionsthan he at the time imagined—theireyes being compared to those of cats,their hair to that of monkeys, andtheir skin, to which the sun hadgiven a bright capsicum hue, beinggreatly coveted for red morocco sword-sheaths.

Oubi was reclining on a stretcher, ina circular earthen-floored hut, thirtyfeet in diameter. Although it wasthe middle of August there was afire in the apartment, and Mr Parkynswas almost blinded by the woodsmoke. When he was able to see, hebeheld “a rather good-looking, slight-mademan, of about forty-five yearsof age, with bushy hair, which wasfast turning grey. His physiognomydid not at all prepossess me in hisfavour. It struck me as indicative ofmuch cunning, pride, and falsity; andI judged him to be a man of sometalent, but with more of the fox thanthe lion in his nature. Our presentswere brought in, covered with cloths,and carried by our servants. Theyconsisted of a Turkey rug, two Europeanlight-cavalry swords, four piecesof muslin for turbans, and two orthree yards of red cloth for a cloak.He examined each article as it waspresented to him, making on almostevery one some complimentary remark.After having inspected themall, he said, ‘God return it to you,’and ordered his steward to give us acow.” The cow proved to be what aFar West trapper would call very“poor bull”—a mere bag of bones,which would never have fetched twodollars in the market (the value of afat cow in Abyssinia varies from 8s.to 12s. 6d.); but, such as it was, thetaste of meat was welcome to thehungry travellers, who devoured thebeast the same day they received it,so that by nightfall not an eatablemorsel was left. Oubi made a betteracknowledgment of their gifts bysettling their difficulty with the chiefof the customhouse, and not longafter this Mr Parkyns parted fromMessrs Bell and Plowden, their routesno longer lying together. “I preparedfor a journey into Addy Abo,a province on the northern frontier ofTigrè, then so little known as not tobe placed on any map. My principalobject in going there was the chase,and if possible to learn something ofthe neighbouring Barea or Shangalla—arace totally unknown, except bythe reputation they have gained inmany throat-cutting visits paid to theAbyssinians.” When recording hisparting from his two friends, both ofwhom he believes to be still in Abyssinia,he intimates his intention ofrevisiting that country. “It is notimprobable,” he says, “that we threemay meet again, and do what we haveoften done before—eat a raw beef-steak,and enjoy it for the sake ofgood company.”

The road to Addy Abo took MrParkyns through Axum, the capitalof that part of Abyssinia untilsupplanted by Adoua. Axum containsa tolerably well-built church,probably of Portuguese construction,and some neatly-built huts, whilstbroken columns and pedestals tell ofthe civilisation of former ages. Itpossesses, moreover, a beautiful obeliskand a very remarkable sycamoretree, “both of great height, the latterremarkable for the extraordinary circumferenceof its trunk, and the greatspread of its branches, which casttheir dark shade over a space ofground sufficient for the camp of thelargest caravan. The principal obeliskis carved on the south side, as ifto represent a door, windows, cornices,&c.; whilst, under the protecting armsof the venerable tree, stand five orsix smaller ones, without ornament,most of which have considerably deviatedfrom the perpendicular. Altogetherthey form a very interestingfamily party.” Judging from the presentbook, antiquarian researches havenot much interest for Mr Parkyns,whose sympathies are with the living,his pleasures in the field and forest,and who seems more of a sportsmanthan of a student. It would be unfair,however, not to mention, thatwhilst enjoying himself in his ownpeculiar ways (and some of his wayscertainly were extremely peculiar), hekept less selfish aims in view, andexerted himself to make collectionsof objects of natural history, of costumes,arms, and other curiosities,besides investigating the history andgeography of the country. His collectionswere on a very large scale:unfortunately some went astray uponthe road; others, left for years in warehouses,and ill cared for by those towhom they were consigned, were plunderedof their most precious specimens.The latter was the case withhis first great shipment, of more thantwelve hundred birds, sent to Englandby way of Hamburg. Rats andmoths destroyed the contents of anothercase, left by mistake for fouryears at Aden; and another, containingarms, silver-mounted ornaments,and zoological specimens, its ownersupposes to be either at Bombay, Calcutta,or in some warehouse of the TransitCompany in Egypt. These lossesare the more to be deplored, that theycomprised that of many extremelyrare specimens of birds and monkeys,some of them from regions into whichit is probable that no European travellerever before penetrated. Tomake sure of not losing his collectionmade in Nubia and on the White Nile,Mr Parkyns himself went out to fetchit, and never lost sight of it till hehad it safe at home. It consisted of sixhundred birds, and of about a tonweight of negro arms and implements.He was still more unfortunate in geographicalthan in zoological matters,having lost the whole of the observations,maps, &c. made during his longresidence in Tigrè.

The Great Gondar road, alongwhich Mr Parkyns travelled for somedistance after quitting Axum, bearsabout the same resemblance to a civilisedEuropean highway that Oubi’ssmoky cabin bears to the Louvre orthe Escurial. High-roads in Abyssiniaare mere tracks worn by passage.“The utmost labour bestowed on anyroad in that country is, when sometraveller, vexed with a thorn thatmay happen to scratch his face, drawshis sword and cuts off the spray. Eventhis is rarely done. An Abyssinian’smaxim is, ‘I may not pass by thisway for a year again; why should Igive myself trouble for other people’sconvenience?’ The road, however,here as in many parts of Tigrè, isabundantly watered by several tolerablycopious streams, which flow allthe year round. These are most usefulto the numerous merchants whopass constantly between Gondar,Adoua, and the Red Sea, with largecaravans of laden animals, offeringnot only ready means for wateringtheir cattle, but often green food forthem near the banks, when all therest of the country is parched up anddry, and a cool grassy bed for theirown weary limbs to repose upon.”Hereupon Mr Parkyns breaks out intorapturous laudation of life in the wilderness,and advises his readers toshoulder their rifles, abandon civiliseddiggings, and take a few months’roughing and hardship in a hot climate.Only in such a life, he maintains, isreal happiness and enjoyment to befound. His arguments are as originalas his book. The principle that hegoes upon is, that one enjoys nothingthoroughly until one has suffered fromprivation of it. Shade, a patch ofgrass, a stream of water, a cloud, aretreasures in Africa, whilst in Englandthey are unheeded, because easily obtainable.A draught of water in thedesert, albeit dirty or tar-flavoured,is more precious than the choicestTokay in epicurean blasé Europe; apiece of scorched gazelle and an ill-bakedloaf, made by putting a red-hotstone into the middle of a lump ofdough, form a repast more luxurious,when hunger and exercise supply thesauce, than ever was placed beforeroyal gourmet by the most renownedof France’s cooks. There is not muchfruit in Abyssinia—but, oh! for a goodraw onion for luncheon! Scentingsome of those fragrant bulbs, greedyParkyns, during his residence in the“Happy Valley” of Rohabaita, onceran two miles up a hill, in the heat ofthe day. How he enjoyed himself inthat pleasant province of Rohabaita,hard by the banks of the Mareb, wherehe abode nine months, and to whichhe feels disposed to devote many chapters!He had the good fortune, hesays, during his long stay, to becomeconsidered as one of the country, andto be offered the government of thatand another province by H.R.H. DejatchLemma, Oubi’s eldest son, whoheld authority in the north-westerndistricts of Tigrè, but who had beenunable to acquire much influence overthe Rohabaitese—rough border-men,particularly averse to tax-paying, andwho, when pressed for the impost,fled with their movables across thefrontier. For, in Abyssinia, inattentionto the tax-gatherer’s claim isterribly punished. In the first instance,the offender is subjected to asort of dragonnade; soldiers are sentto live upon him, waste his substance,and treat him brutally; so that, if hecannot at once borrow money to payhis debt, he is speedily ruined. Anothermeans of extortion is still morebarbarous: the insolvent is cast intoprison, and chained by the arm. “Theiron round his wrist is not clasped,but is merely a strong hoop, openedby force to allow the hand to enter,and then hammered tight betweentwo stones. At first it is only madetight enough to prevent any possibilityof the prisoner’s escape. After sometime, however, if the sum required benot forthcoming, it is knocked a littletighter, and so, by degrees, the handdies, the nails drop out, and the poorprisoner is at best maimed for life.Death sometimes ensues from thistreatment.” Rather savage work,Mr Parkyns is fain to admit, whilstassuring us that this torture is notoften practised, and that his Tigrinefriends, with all their faults, havemany good qualities. Lofty were thecastles he built in Rohabaita (aërialones, of course, castles of more solidstructure being rare in a land whosesovereign is lodged as we have described)whilst waiting for Oubi’s permission,for which Lemma was obligedto apply before installing the Englishmanin his government. Besides thepayment of a tribute to Lemma, MrParkyns undertook to keep in orderthe neighbouring tribe of the Bàza,whom he more frequently speaks ofas the Barea or slaves, that being thename given to them in Abyssinia.He was very desirous to visit thatbrave and hardy tribe of savages, andhad made all his arrangements to doso, when Oubi unfortunately determinedon a razzia, in retaliation ofnumerous recent murders and robberiesperpetrated by them in hisdominions. In the last of their foraysthey had pillaged monasteries, andslain their holy occupants, whose bloodcried aloud for vengeance. His projectof a pacific ramble amongst theBarea being thus knocked on the head,Mr Parkyns hoped that the campaignitself would give him opportunities ofobtaining an insight into their manners.He was disappointed. Littleor nothing was seen of the nativesexcept at the sword’s point. Theyappear to be bold and wary warriors,skilled in the stratagems of savagewarfare. Mr Parkyns, when at Rohabaita,received a visit and presentsfrom a friend of his, one Obsabius, ahospitable old co*ck, and man in authority,whom, on his departure, he accompaniedfor some distance with asmall escort, Obsabius, when coming,having seen Barea sign upon the road.He was convinced that the blacks wereoutlying, and that he had escaped attackonly by having joined a numberof other travellers.

“Scarcely had we passed the brook ofMai-Chena when one of our men, a hunter,declared that he saw the slaves. Beingat that time inexperienced in suchmatters, I could see nothing suspicious.He then pointed out to me a dead treestanding on an eminence at a distance ofseveral hundred yards, and charred blackby last year’s fire. To explain this, Ishould remark that the rains cause tospring up a thick jungle of grass, canes,and bushes, which cover the whole surfaceof the country, growing to a heightof several feet. When this becomes dry,it is set fire to—in some places by thefarmers, as the readiest means of clearingthe ground; in others by hunters, toenable them to get at their game withgreater facility; and often accidentally....However, all that I saw was acharred stump of a tree, and a few blackenedlogs or stones lying at its foot. Thehunter declared that neither tree norstones were there the last time he passed,and that they were simply naked Barea,who had placed themselves in that positionto observe us, having no doubt seenus for some time, and prepared themselves....So confident was I of hismistake, that, telling the rest to go onslowly, as if nothing had been observed,I dropped into the long grass and stalkedup towards them. A shot from my rifle,at a long distance (I did not venture tooclose), acted on the trees and stones aspowerfully as the fiddle of Orpheus, butwith the contrary effect; for the tree disappeared,and the stones and logs, insteadof running after me, ran in the oppositedirection. I never was more astonishedin my life; for so complete was the deception,that even up to the time I fired,I could have declared the objects beforeme were vegetable or mineral—anything,indeed, but animal. The cunning rascalswho represented stones were lying flat,with their little round shields placedbefore them as screens.”

The presents brought by the obligingObsabius were a supply of food—cornand honey—for there was considerablehunger in the Happy Valleyjust then, the chase being unproductive,and the natives having fled fromthe apprehension of a tax-gatheringvisit from the troops of the extortionateOubi. Abstinence, however, is agood thing in that climate, and MrParkyns never felt himself betterthan during this tolerably long periodof semi-starvation. He was neverfatigued, and wounds of all kindshealed with wonderful rapidity. Heled a rough life in that frontier country,and wounds were common enough.“Once, in running down the stonyand almost precipitous path leadingto the Mareb, I struck my bare footagainst an edge of rock, which was assharp as a razor, and a bit of flesh,with the whole of the nail of my leftfoot little toe, was cut off, leavingonly the roots of the nail. This latterI suppose to have been the case, forit has grown all right again. I couldnot stop longer than to polish off thebit which was hanging by a skin, forwe were in chase of a party of Barea,who had cut the throats of three ofWaddy Hil’s nephews the night before,but was obliged to go on runningfor about twenty miles that afternoon,the greater part of the way up to ourankles in burning sand. Whetherthis cured it, I know not, but I scarcelysuffered at all from it the next day,and forgot it the day after.” Thornsin the feet—no trifling prickles, butthree or four inches long—were pickedout by the half-dozen at a time; andsuch, says Mr Parkyns, is the force ofhabit and the thickness of skin oneacquires, that such an operation isthought no more of than an Englishsportsman would of kicking away aclod of clay clinging to his shooting-shoes.But to return to the Barea.Oubi remained nearly two months intheir country, which he completelytraversed—so completely, indeed, as tohave unintentionally (?) committeddepredations on certain tribes to thenorth, claimed as tributary by theEgyptians. Although good fightingmen, the Bàza have too little idea ofunited action, and are too ignorant ofmodern improvements in the art ofslaughter, to make head against theirAbyssinian enemies when these takethe field in force. Their idea of cavalryis very ludicrous. They imagine themto be old or infirm men, carried byhorses because they cannot keep upwith their comrades on foot! “So intheir campaigns, whenever the Bàzaare met by cavalry, they amuse themselvesat their expense by facetiouslyplucking handfuls of grass and holdingthem towards the horses, and callingthem ‘Tish, Tish,’ &c. They appearnever able to understand how the firearmsof their adversaries kill them.Occasionally it has been noticed thatwhen a man has fallen among themby a gun-shot wound, his neighbourswill assist him up, imagining him tohave stumbled; should life be extinct,they manifest their astonishment atfinding him dead from some unseencause, and when, on examining hisbody, they discover the small roundhole made by the ball, they will stareat it, poke their fingers into it, andabsolutely laugh with surprise andwonder.” Notwithstanding these artlessways, the Bàza are ugly customersin a hand-to-hand tussle—oneof them usually proving more than amatch for two Abyssinians, and MrParkyns relates several anecdotesillustrative of their physical superiority.But we feel desirous to takea glance at his town life, which haseven greater novelty than his chaptersof wild adventure, and so we returnwith him to Adoua, whither he wentto pass the rainy season when he leftRohabaita. He waited several monthsfor Oubi’s consent to his installationas governor; but before it arrived hereceived long-expected supplies fromEngland, and abandoned his ambitiousand philanthropical schemes—unfortunatelyfor the Rohabaitese, to theimprovement of whose physical andmoral condition they tended, and fortunatelyfor the Barea, against whomhe proposed to organise a system ofmoss-trooping, to result in much profitin ivory and buffalo hides.

The delay of remittances from Europerendering it probable that MrParkyns would be detained for sometime in Abyssinia, he resolved completelyto domesticate himself withthe natives, as the best way of studyingtheir habits and mode of life.This he seems to us to have donefrom the very commencement; for, ashe justly observes, “there is nothinglike a civil tongue, and quiet unpretendingmanners, to get one on inthose countries;” so, upon principle,he always showed himself ready toanswer questions, and to do the amiable,and even to put up with savagefamiliarities and intrusions, which hewould gladly have dispensed with:as, for instance, during his stay atAddaro, a village of Addy Abo, formerlyan important market, but nowdecayed and almost deserted. It wasthere that he first saw the snake-killingsecretary bird, called Farras Seytan,or the Devil’s Horse, from theastonishing swiftness with which itruns. He was the first white manwho had ever entered the place, withthe exception of two French medicalmen, who had passed through someyears previously on their way to theMareb, and one of whom was carriedoff by fever, and the other by a crocodile,“picked out by the voraciousanimal from the colour of his skin,whilst swimming between two guides.”So a white skin was a great curiosityin Addaro; and here we come to aplate representing Mr Parkyns recliningon a settle, receiving perpetualvisitors, whilst he jots down in hisjournal the following memoranda:—“Blessedwith a swarm of bees thathave lodged in the house. They havestung me several times; but I canbear that, especially as they have alsostung some of my importunate visitors,who, by this means, are keptaway. In fact, the only method Ihave to rid myself of my friends is tostir up the bees—to rid myself of thebees, I am obliged to stir up the fire,which is kept burning all day for thecooking; but, by the time the beesare gone, the hut is intolerable. Fancya roaring fire, and lots of smoke, atnoon in one of the hottest places inAbyssinia.” His visitors were of amixed description, and not all of agreeableaspect; and, upon the whole,they bothered him no little with theirinterminable questionings, attemptsto extort presents, and squabblesamongst themselves; but it wouldhave been impolitic to turn them out,except by the indirect agency of thebees; and, moreover, he seems topossess one of those even, insoucianttempers, hard to ruffle, which we taketo be a prime requisite for a man whosojourns amongst savages, and withoutwhich he certainly would not havebeen able to say, at the end of hissecond volume, that, during nine years’travel, he never met with a companion,of whatsoever colour, station,or religion, who gave him a moment’scause to quarrel with him, or fromwhom he parted otherwise than withregret. Far be it from us to doubtthe word of Mr Parkyns; but we wouldask him if he really grieved at relinquishingthe society of an elderly warrior—his“friend,” he calls him—whosat close to him at Addaro, lookingover him as he wrote, and begging tobe set down in his book? “His nameis Welda Georgis. He is naturallyvery ugly; nor is his appearance atall improved by the want of his nose,which he says he lost in battle. Hecannot speak at all without stoppingthe holes with his fingers; hence hisvoice, especially when he speaks loud,is, as may be judged, not the mostharmonious; and just now he is raisingit to a considerable pitch, beingexcited to wrath by one of his companionsinsinuating that he was neverbut in one battle, and that then heran away before a blow had beenstruck.” An imputation not to beborne; and, accordingly, in the platewe see Welda Georgis and the othergentleman engaged in single combatupon the floor. Presently Mr Parkynsis disturbed in his writing by abang, by a scream from a woman whois boiling a pot (a child in a bag onher back), and by a “Wa!” fromWelda Georgis, who, ignorant of thedangers of a little knowledge, hasbeen retailing to his friends instructionshe had received the day beforein the art of co*cking double-barrelledpistols. He had co*cked both barrels,but had pulled the left trigger whilstholding the right hammer. A gourdfulof capsicum paste and a corn-jarwere mortally wounded, but no otherdamage was done. Welda laid downthe weapon, which he evidently suspectedof foul play, looked gravely atit, and apostrophised it as “a naughtydevil!” Easy-going Mr Parkynstook all these trifles with an excellentgrace, as became a man of strongnerves, who had gone out to rough it,and who had no desire to leave hisbones in Abyssinia, or to have hisphysical integrity in any way deteriorated.He smilingly put up with intruders,and even with spies. Hecould not go out for a walk withoutbeing followed. There is a notionabroad in those parts that Europeansmake money. This was confirmed,in the case of Mr Parkyns, by hishappening to have a great many newdollars. When he put one in circulation,the receiver would exclaim,“Wa! this is only just made; seehow it shines!” So somebody alwaysaccompanied him, when he strolledout with his gun, under pretence ofshowing him game, but in reality towatch his motions, thinking to catchhim in the very act of coining. It doesnot appear that these scouts tookmuch by their curiosity. “I oftenretire to the neighbouring hills” (thusruns one of the brief verbatim quotationsfrom his journal, occasionallygiven by Mr Parkyns) “when aboutto take an observation, or for someother reason wishing to be undisturbed,and seek out some snug little nookor corner amongst the rocks. Scarcely,however, have I time to make mypreliminary arrangements, when, lookingup, I find two or three heads curiouslypeering into my retreat, fullypersuaded that they are about to beholdthe entire process of extractingdollars from the earth, ready stampedwith the august head of her ImperialMajesty. Sometimes they were mostlaughably disappointed in their expectations.”All this was at an earlyperiod of Mr Parkyns’ abode in thecountry; the natives had not got usedto him, and he had not yet become acomplete Abyssinian; and, as wehave already seen, Addaro is an out-of-the-wayplace, where whites arerare. To see him to advantage, wemust accompany him to Adoua, notwithstandingthat he tells us he wasless happy there, and exerted himselfless to write down what he observed,than “in the more genial solitude ofthe backwoods;” the reason being,that “Adoua is a capital (!), thougha small one; and in all capitals, whethergreat or small, I feel out of myelement, losing at once my health,spirits, and energy and disposition forwork.” The force of imagination,the magic of a name, can hardly farthergo. Let us see what were theemployments and pursuits of this wildman of the woods in the village metropolisof Tigrè, in which the housesof the wealthy are square and flat-roofed,whilst those of the poorerclasses have a conical thatch of straw.They seem to have consisted in notingnative peculiarities, in taking part innative banquets and merry-makings,and in setting the fashion to YoungAbyssinia. It is time, by the by,that we should say a word of his intimatefriend, Shetou, a fine fellowand daring soldier, but no favouritewith his father, Oubi, who took everyopportunity of snubbing him, andshowed a marked preference for hispuny elder brother, Lemma. “Shetouhas rather a slang way of dressing,which greatly offends his father.Sometimes he comes in with one legof his trousers drawn up in the propermanner above his calf, and theother dangling down about his ankle.On such an occasion, it would not beat all extraordinary should Oubi,after looking at him fixedly, and inhis usual quiet smiling manner, begin,in the presence of all assembled,‘Well done, son of a Mahommedanmother! Pretty way of wearing yourbreeches, isn’t it? Some new fashionof your own, eh?’ And, turning tothe agafari (doorkeepers), ‘Turn himout! turn him out!’ The poor lad isput out in the most neck-and-cropmanner, and, returning to his tent, hebroods over this treatment, and vowsvengeance on his brother, Lemma,who, from being the favourite, is partlythe cause of it.” A prince of theblood-royal must naturally feel incensedat being ignominiously ejectedfrom the court of his despotic dad, forno greater offence than the fancifulsit of his breeks. But whose fault isit? No one’s, if not that of Mr Parkyns,the Brummel of that foreigncourt, the promoter of all manner ofsartorial extravagances and innovations.“This” (a particular cut oftrouser) “was considered so veryultra-fashionable that, except DejatchShetou, myself, and one or two others,few dared attempt it. It was I andmy friend Shetou who first introducedthe habit of allowing the sword toswing perpendicularly from the side,instead of its sticking out horizontally,like a dog’s tail; as well as of wearingthe belt over the hips, instead ofround the waist, and up to the armpits,as it was worn when I first arrived.These, with the increasedlength of trousers, reaching, as wewore them, nearly to the ankle, andso tight below that it took an hour todraw them over the heel, gave a very‘fast’ look.” Mr Parkyns has immortalisedhis name in Tigrè, andwill be spoken of with admiration byfuture generations, to whom his famewill be handed down by the dandiesto whom he set so bright an example.The incompatibility of cleanliness andelegance in Abyssinia rather shocksour European prejudices. The great“go,” we are told, amongst the dandiesin those parts, is “to appear inthe morning with a huge pot of butter(about two ounces) placed on thetop of the head, which, as it graduallymelts in the sun, runs over the hair,down the neck, over the forehead,and often into the eyes, thereby causingmuch smarting.” The grease iswiped from the brow and eyes withthe quarry or cloth, a garment comparedby Mr Parkyns to the Romantoga, and which it is the fashion towear dirty, a clean one being considered“slow.” But the town lifeof the young fashionables of rank inthe chief cities of Abyssinia, may bestbe summed up and exhibited in anextract from Mr Parkyns’ thirty-eighthchapter, where he shows himselfto us in all his glory as the D’Orsayof Adoua.

“I was leading,” he says, “the life ofan Abyssinian gentleman ‘about town,’my hair well tressed, my pantaloons alwaysof the newest, frequently of anoriginal cut; in dull weather settingfashions, disputing and deciding on themerits and demerits of shields and spears;in fine weather swelling about the townwith a quarter of a pound of butter meltingon my head, face, neck, and clothes,and with a tail of half a dozen well-got-upand equally greasy soldiers at myheels; doing the great man, with mygarment well over my nose, at everyfestival and funeral worth attending;‘hanging out’ extensively when I had afew shillings to spend; sponging on myneighbours when, as was oftener the case,I had nothing;—in fact, living a mostagreeable life on a very limited income.I cannot deny that I look back to thosetimes with a certain feeling of regret.It was the only period of my life in whichI ever felt myself a really great man. I‘cry very small’ in England, with a muchgreater expenditure. The men will notlook after me with admiration, nor thegirls make songs about me here.”

Poor Parkyns! fallen from yourhigh estate, dwindled from an Africansavage into an English gentleman!We wretched, civilised Europeans arerather in the nil admirari vein, butwe will answer for your being “lookedafter” with curiosity and wonderment,by all who have read your book, ifyou will but adopt some distinguishingmark by which you may be recognisedwhen you walk abroad. Asto the songs, whose absence you deplore,we can only say that if youare not taken for the subject of romanticditties by the poetesses ofEngland, as you were by those ofTigrè, it will certainly not be becausethe theme is unsuggestive. Innumerableincidents in your Abyssiniancareer deserve to be commemorated inflowing metre, and sung by Ethiopianserenaders to banjo accompaniment,and to the ancient and pathetic melodyof “The King of the Cannibal Islands.”And this reminds us to accompanyyou to one of the festivals you aboveallude to—a dinner party at Adoua—firstadvising ladies to have their saltsat hand, and permitting squeamishreaders to pass over a page if it soplease them. Here are a score ofAbyssinian gentlemen squatted, swordin hand, on cut grass round a lowtable. It is perhaps unnecessary tomention that the tablecloth has beenforgotten, and that napkins are absent,their place being supplied bycakes of bread, on which the guestswipe their fingers after dipping themin the dish or smearing them withthe blood of the raw meat. Thecooked dishes are first brought in andtheir contents distributed by waiters,who cut the meat or tear it withtheir fingers into pieces of a convenientsize. They also take a piece ofbread from before each person, sop itin the sauce, and return it to him.“The guests take their bread andsauce and mix them together into asort of paste, of which they makeballs, long and rounded like smallblack puddings (black enough, wedoubt not); these they consider itpolite to poke into their neighbours’mouths; so that, if you happen to bea distinguished character, or a strangerto whom they wish to pay attention,which was often my case, you are ina very disagreeable position; for yourtwo neighbours, one on each side,cram into your mouth these largeand peppery proofs of their esteem soquickly, one after the other, that, longbefore you can chew and swallow theone, you are obliged to make roomfor the next.” Surely these can hardlybe included amongst the “happymoments” Mr Parkyns so patheticallyregrets, when recording, towards theclose of his work, his tearful partingfrom his Adoua friends—the first time,he says, since his arrival in the country,that he felt the want of a pocket-handkerchief.Let us, however, proceedwith our repast, after a glanceat the accompanying plate of the“Dinner Party,” where a favouredguest, with distended jaws, is undergoingthe cramming process. Thisfirst course, of cooked dishes, is usuallymutton; whilst it is being gobbledup, a cow is killed and flayed outside,and as soon as the first course is removed,in comes the raw meat—thebroundo, as it is called—brought in byservants in quivering lumps.

“There is usually a piece of meat toevery five or six persons, among whomarises some show of ceremony as to whichof them shall first help himself; thisbeing at length decided, the person chosentakes hold of the meat with his left hand,and with his sword or knife cuts a stripa foot or fifteen inches long from the partwhich appears the nicest and tenderest.The others then help themselves in likemanner. If I should fail in describingproperly the scene which now follows, Imust request the aid of the reader’s imagination.Let him picture to himselfthirty or forty Abyssinians, stripped totheir waists, squatting round the lowtables, each with his sword or knife or‘shotel’ in his hand, some eating, somehelping themselves, some waiting theirturn, but all bearing in their features theexpression of that fierce gluttony whichone attributes more to the lion or leopardthan to the race of Adam. The imaginationmay be much assisted by the idea ofthe lumps of raw pink-and-blue fleshthey are gloating over.”

Some still more full-flavoured detailsfollow, which we abstain fromextracting, thinking we can fill upthe space remaining to us better thanby their transcription, and referringthose curious in such matters to chapterxxvii., “Manners and Customs,”where they will see how the pepperballsalready spoken of are got rid ofby those into whose mouths they arethrust, how boys lie under the tableand act as scavengers, and how MrParkyns expresses his belief that rawmeat, eaten whilst yet warm, wouldbe preferred to cooked meat by anyman who from childhood had beenaccustomed to it. In the chapterheaded “Religion, &c.,” which “&c.”comprises a variety of strange things,we are told of “a small entertainment”he gave to a select party of friendson the occasion of the great festivalof Mascal or the Cross, a season celebrated,like Christmas in England,by hospitality and good cheer. He sentout his cards for an early hour, knowingthat his guests would have severalother feeds to attend in the courseof the day. But when he had donethis, his conscience smote him, for hereflected that, with half a dozen otherbreakfasts and dinners in view, hisfriends would but take the sharpedge off their appetites in his wigwam,and husband their masticatoryand digestive powers for the subsequentbanquets. “My rather savagefeelings of hospitality,” he says, “werepiqued at the idea of their leaving mewithout being well filled. But trulyI was agreeably disappointed; for afine fat cow, two large sheep, andmany gallons of mead, with a proportionatequantity of bread, disappearedlike smoke before the twelveor fourteen guests, leaving only a fewpickings for the servants.” Mr Parkynsmet several of these hungrygentlemen at other dinners in thecourse of the same day, and wasutterly confounded to observe thatmost of them played as good a knifeand fork (we mean sabre and fingers)at every ensuing repast as they haddone at his. The capacity of anAbyssinian stomach is evidently incalculable.

The 19th and 37th chapters of MrParkyns’ work are amongst those thatplease us best. In the earlier of thetwo he is on his way from Axum toAddàro, across a vast open plain,embellished with a great variety offlowers; amongst them a kind of scarletaloe, met with in most parts ofTigrè, and flowering at all seasons,and countless mimosas, pink, yellow,and white, some of them so fragrantas to scent the whole neighbourhood,adding their perfume to that of a profusionof jessamine. “There is alsoa beautiful parasitical creeper, growing,like the mistletoe, from the barkof other trees. It has a bright dark-greenfleshy leaf, with brilliant scarletflowers.” But Mr Parkyns is notmuch of a botanist; zoology, andespecially ornithology, are his favouritepursuits, and, a capital shot, hebagged as many specimens as hechose. “Rifle-shooting,” he modestlysays, “was about the only thing inthe world I could do well.” The wasis to be deplored. It is thus accountedfor. Near Addàro, a hunter, eitheraccidentally or mischievously, set fireto the jungle. Mr Parkyns was thenstaying in a hamlet, situated on asmall hill. It consisted but of threecompounds, one of which he and hisservants occupied; another was inhabitedby a farmer named Aito Hablo,with his wife and family; and in thethird dwelt a cast-off wife and childrenof the same Aito. Divorces arenot difficult to obtain in that country.One morning, all hands were rousedby the crackling of flames close athand. The hillock was surrounded byfire, gradually creeping up the slope.The huts were roofed with sticks andstraw, and the ground was coveredwith long dry grass. There was notime to lose. Tearing down greenboughs from the trees, the men, whilstthe women and children lit counterfiresupon the plan usually adopted insuch cases, “made rushes at theflames, whenever a lull of the windallowed them to approach them, and,by beating them with the boughs, insome measure impeded their progresstill the space was cleared and the hutswere out of danger. I and one of myservants happened to rush at the fireat an unlucky moment; for a breezerising drove the flames towards us justas we got near them, and we werebadly scorched.” Besides other injuries,the optic nerve of Mr Parkyns’right eye was damaged, and thisspoiled his rifle-shooting. “Formerly,”he says, “I managed occasionallyto shoot from my left shoulder—ahabit which I found useful in stalking,as in some positions you mustnecessarily expose yourself before youcan bring your right shoulder forward.Now that I am obliged to trust to myleft alone, I find it a very poor substitutefor the right.” Even after thisunlucky accident, however, we findMr Parkyns very dexterously pickingoff bird and beast, to supply his tableor enrich his collection. He tells somecapital sporting anecdotes, and others,equally good, of his queer pets, andof his experience amongst the monkeys.About half-way across themimosa-scented plain, he came to awell-wooded ravine, the trees in whichswarmed with the “tota” or “waag,”a beautiful little greenish-grey monkey,with black face and white whiskers,which allows men to approach verynear to it. But the cleverest of thisclass of animals met with in Abyssiniais the Cynocephalus, or Dog-facedBaboon, a formidable animal,of extraordinary sagacity, to which itis really difficult to refuse the possessionof reasoning powers. Mr Parkynssketches these creatures on a foray.“Arrived at the corn-fields, the scoutstook their position on the eminencesall around, whilst the remainder ofthe tribe collect provisions with theutmost expedition, filling their cheek-pouchesas full as they can hold, andthen tucking the heads of corn undertheir armpits. Now, unless there bea partition of the collected spoil, howdo the scouts feed? for I have watchedthem several times, and never observedthem to quit for a momenttheir post of duty till it was time forthe tribe to return, or till some indicationof danger induced them to taketo flight.” Outlying one night on thefrontier, Mr Parkyns was roused bymost awful noises, and started up inalarm, thinking the Barea were uponhim. It was but the baboons. Aleopard had got amongst them. Theyhabitually dwell in lofty clefts of therock, whither few animals can followthem; but the leopard is a goodclimber, and sometimes attacks them.The Abyssinians say that he seldomventures to attack a full-grown ape—and,judging from the formidablecanine teeth displayed in the skullsketched by Mr Parkyns, the leopardis in the right. Driven to stand atbay, these baboons are dangerous opponents,but they have not sufficientcourage to act on the offensive.“Were their combativeness proportionedto their physical powers, comingas they do in bodies of two orthree hundred, it would be impossiblefor the natives to go out of the villageexcept in parties, and armed; and,instead of little boys, regiments ofarmed men would be required to guardthe corn-fields. I have, however, frequentlyseen them turn on dogs, andhave heard of their attacking womenwhom they have accidentally metalone in the roads or woods. On oneoccasion I was told of a woman whowas so grievously maltreated by them,that, although she was succoured bythe opportune arrival of some passers-by,she died a few days after, fromthe fright and ill-treatment she hadendured.” We are reminded of Sealsfield’sstriking Mexican sketch of thezambos. Mr Parkyns had a femaledog-face as a pet. She was youngwhen he got her; and, from the first,her affection for him was ludicrouslyannoying. As she grew older shewas less dependent, and cared lessabout being left alone. The masterof a German brig who went up thecountry for a cargo of animals, gaveMr Parkyns a copy of “Peter Simple.”Besides the Bible and the “NauticalAlmanack,” this, he says, was the firstEnglish book he had seen for twoyears, and he sat down greedily todevour it. “‘Lemdy’ was as usualseated beside me, at times lookingquietly at me, occasionally catching afly, or jumping on my shoulder, endeavouringto pick out the blue markstattooed there.” The group is suggestivefor a sculptor; a thousandpities no Abyssinian Canova was athand to model it. Mr Parkyns wentto light his pipe, imprudently leavingthe book and the monkey together.On his return he found the latterseated in his place, and gravely turningover the leaves of Marryat’s novel;but, not understanding English, sheturned them too quickly, and had tornout half the volume. “During mymomentary absences she would takeup my pipe and hold it to her mouthtill I came back, when she would restoreit with the utmost politeness.”At Khartoum, some time after thetermination of his Abyssinian wanderings,Mr Parkyns became very intimatewith three large monkeys ofthis intelligent species, and with theirshowman—“so much so, that I travelledwith them for some days, actingas his assistant, my duty being tokeep the ring, which I did by gracefullyswinging round me two woodenballs covered with red cloth, andfastened, one at each end, to a ropesimilarly ornamented—and occasionallyto assist the monkeys in collectingcoppers. I passed a very agreeabletime with him, and he told me manyanecdotes of monkeys, as well as theusual tales of ghouls, fire-worshippers,&c., for which all Egyptians, especiallyof his erratic habits, are celebrated.”If this be not a joke—andthere is no reason to take it for one,since Mr Parkyns, who is a sort ofAfrican Gil Blas (only more scrupulousin certain respects than hisSpanish prototype), was evidently,at that time of his life, eccentric andadventurous enough to adopt on theinstant any wild freak that enteredhis head—we hope to have a moredetailed account of his associationwith the showman when he favoursus with the narrative of his post-Abyssiniantravels, not forgetting theanecdotes of monkeys (he tells two orthree very good ones), and the traditionsof ghouls and fire-worshippers.We are sure that he must there havematerials for at least one long chapter;and we feel particular curiosityabout the traditions, because the supernaturalseems to partake, in tropicalAfrica, of the strange, fantastical,exaggerated character of the animaland vegetable productions of thecountry. Extraordinary stories arethere current of tribes of monsters,semi-human, dwelling in the unexploredparts of the country—such asthe Beni-Kelb or Dog-men (mentionedby Werne), “whose males aredogs, and females beautiful women;and the Beni-Temsah (sons of thecrocodile), who have human bodies,but heads like those of their ancestor’sfamily. I have heard of the formerof these nations in almost every countryI have visited in Africa, fromEgypt to the White Nile, includingKordofan and Abyssinia, and even inArabia, whither their fame has beencarried, doubtless, by pilgrims. Theyare, by most, believed to exist nearthe Fertit country (south of Darfour),where there are copper-mines, and thepeople of which file their teeth topoints, saw-fashion.... Thereis no tribe in this part of Africa, indeedscarcely an individual, but believesin the existence of a race ofmen with tails. For my own part, Ihave heard so much of them that Ican scarcely help fancying there mustbe some foundation for such verygeneral belief.” Great diversity ofopinion exists as to the whereaboutsof these tail-bearers, some placingthem to the north, others to the southof Bàza, and others in the centre ofAfrica—convenient, because unexplored.A black Fàky or priest, aspeculative genius, whose acquaintanceMr Parkyns made in Abyssinia,gave him some information about hisfuture route across Africa, and warnedhim against certain cannibal tribessouth of Darfour, by whom whitemeat, being a rarity, is much esteemed,as having a fat delicate look.“He told me that a brown man, aMahommedan priest, who went therefrom his country, in the hope of convertingthe people to Islamism, was—thoughprotected from actual dangerby his sanctity—a very temptingobject among them, so much so, thatwhenever he went out the little childrencame about him, poking him withtheir fingers in the ribs, feeling hisarms and legs, and muttering to oneanother, ‘Wa-wa, wa-wa!’ (meat,meat), with their mouths watering,and their features expressive of thegreatest possible inclination to tastehim.” We will back Mr Parkynsagainst the field for the humorousdressing-up of extravagant stories ofthis kind, and for an occasional dashof dry comical exaggeration, too obviousto mislead. His choice of petanimals was rather of the strangest.For some time he kept a “tokla”(Canis venaticus), which was as nearlytame as its wild vicious nature admitted.

“In appearance Tokla was more curiousthan beautiful. He had a littlelean body, which no feeding could fatten,covered with a darkish brindly-spottedcoat not unlike a hyena’s, and supportedby legs as unlike those of any other animalas possible, being in colour white,with dark leopard spots, the hind-legsremarkably long, and so doubled underhim that when walking, or rather prowlingabout, it was doubtful if he touchedthe ground oftenest with his feet orelbows.... To account for his perpetualthinness, it only requires to statehis mode of feeding. He would take ahuge piece of meat or offal, and put itinto his stomach at once, seemingly entire,for he never appeared aware thathis wonderfully muscular jaws and doublerow of teeth were at all available formastication. Having thus bolted hisdinner, his belly became distended till itnearly touched the ground; then hewould go and lie down for twenty-fourhours or more, according to the quantityhe had eaten; after which he would returnto be fed, as empty and starved-lookingas ever.”

A useful, profitable, and agreeableinmate must the said Tokla havebeen. Mr Parkyns’ regard for himseems to have arisen from a sort ofsympathetic feeling for the unflinchingpluck and endurance displayedon various occasions by the ill-conditionedlittle brute. A friend of his,knowing his partiality to pet animals,made him a present of a youngjackal, which he had knocked overwith a stick, when it was labouringunder the effects of a surfeit of locusts.Jackal was hospitably received, anda bed of cotton wool made up forhim.

“Rising early one morning, I foundthat he and Tokla had entered into analliance most offensive to the fowls, oneof whom they had caught, and weredragging about the yard—the one holdingby a foot, the other by a wing. Themoment I appeared, Cobero (the jackal)let go the fowl and limped back to hiscorner. Tokla, more determined, I hadto beat off, which I did with great difficulty,and not until the poor fowl was solacerated that I was constrained to killit. Excited by its death-struggles, heagain laid hold; so I held up the fowlwith him dangling to its wing until I wastired, and then swung him round andround, over and over, in hopes of his jawstiring; but in this I was disappointed,for he held on till the wing breaking offthrew him heavily on his back to a distanceof several yards. Even in his fallhe was great, for he neither uttered asound of pain nor loosened his hold, but,getting up, stalked away quite proudlywith the wing in his mouth. I was somuch pleased with him that I gave himthe body and all. In this, perhaps, Iacted wrong, for we afterwards foundthat if we didn’t kill all the poultry hewould, and so I gave up ever keepingany more. Poor little Tokla! I grewvery fond of him, for, though rough andugly, he had such pretty winning ways—heseemed always hungry, and wouldoften bite people’s legs, occasionally myown, not at all from vice, but sheer appetite.”

Upon the whole, life in Abyssiniabears much resemblance to life in amenagerie, so familiar and intrusiveare the wild beasts of the field.Hyenas prowl about the villages, andenter houses in quest of a supper.They are far from dainty in theirdiet, and will eat leathern bags andwearing apparel. “It once occurredto me,” says Mr Parkyns, “as it hasoften to people I have known, to beawakened by one of them endeavouringto steal my leathern bed fromunder me.” They are too cowardlyto attack anything capable of defence,but occasionally they take a bite outof a sleeper and run away—firstscratching him with their paw (sothe Abyssinians assert) to be surethat he sleeps soundly, and thensnatching their mouthful. As forlions, they frequently prowled aroundMr Parkyns’ bivouacs, but were notaggressive, and it was not even necessaryto light fires to keep them off.The buffalo-hunters of Rohabaitaused, upon the contrary, to lighttheir camp-fires in holes, and concealtheir glare with branches of trees,that the blaze might neither scarethe buffalo nor bring down theBarea.

“I never killed a lion during all mystay in Africa,” says Mr Parkyns, withmeritorious candour—seeing that hemight, without fear of contradiction, haveset down to his own rifle any number ofthe kings of the forest. “I perhapsshould have done so, had I known whata fuss is made about it at home; but inAbyssinia it is not an easy thing to accomplish....At night I have oftenwatched for them, but generally withoutsuccess; and when they did come, it wasnext to impossible to shoot them. Besides,it is an awkward thing for a man,armed only with a single rifle of lightcalibre, to take a flying shot at a lion inthe dark, especially when he has no oneto back him on whose courage or shootinghe can rely. You hear a lion roar in thedistance; presently a little nearer; thenyou start up at hearing a short bark closeby; and if there be a fire or moonlight,perhaps you may see a light-colouredobject gliding quickly past from one bushto another. Before you are sure whetheror no you saw anything, it is gone. Yousit watching for a moment, rifle in hand,expecting him to appear again, when(how he got there you know not) his roaris heard at a considerable distance off inan opposite direction; and thus you goon for an hour or two, when, gettingsleepy, you politely request him to takehimself off to a certain warm place, and,returning your rifle between your legs,roll over and go to sleep.”

Long habit and strong reliance onthe mansuetude of the Abyssinianlions must, we should think, be indispensableto slumber under such circ*mstances.We can hardly fancy aman’s being lulled to rest by a lion’sroar, and sinking into one of the deepand heavy sleeps common in thatcountry, with the consciousness thatwhen he awakes he may possibly beholda hyena gallopping off with hischeek in its mouth,[2] or find a fewscorpions walking over his body,leisurely stinging him. “Scorpionsare abundant everywhere in the hotdistricts; no house but is full of them.I have been stung several times bythem, but without any serious consequences,though I have heard of manyinstances which have ended fatally.”Mr Parkyns, we presume, at onceapplied the keen blade and actualcautery recommended in his Introduction.What with incidental scars ofthis kind, his tattoo decorations, andthe scars he voluntarily made uponhis arm by an Abyssinian processsimilar to the moxa of European surgery,and which is done by thosepeople partly as ornamental andpartly to show their fortitude underpain, his epidermis must have rathera remarkable appearance when exposedby the scantiness of costume inwhich he informs us that he sometimestravelled—en cueros, namely,when on solitary roads, and with apiece of rag or hide round the loinswhen in populous districts. We certainlynever met with or heard of anytraveller who embraced savagery withsuch earnestness and hearty goodwillas Mr Parkyns; and we sincerelycongratulate him upon his escape withtrifling detriment from the perils andexposure he not only encountered butenthusiastically sought.

Tigrè is rich in reptiles. Of theextent of this undesirable wealth, afew lines, culled here and there fromthe chapter on Natural History, willgive a vivid idea. “The crocodile isplentiful in every brook or hole wherethere is water enough to conceal him.”A poor German, who attached himselffor a time to Mr Parkyns, andtended him carefully when he waslaid up with a terrible attack of ophthalmia,imprudently walked into ariver to cool himself, and suddenlydisappeared, either sucked in by awhirlpool or carried off by a crocodile—thelatter, Mr Parkyns thought,most probably the case; notwithstandingwhich, we come, a few pagesafterwards, to a plate of the bold travellercrossing the same rapid anddangerous stream, aided by half adozen swimming blacks, and apparentlyheedless of the fact that crocodiles,like the cannibals south of Darfour,show a decided preference forwhite meat. “There are many snakes,centipedes, and large venomous spiders,of the tarantula kind, in the hotlow districts. There is a great varietyin the smaller sort of snakes: the cerastesor horned viper, asp, a speciesof cobra, the puff adder, and manyothers of all sizes and colours, from apale pink to the brightest emeraldgreen, are met with in Abyssinia andthe adjacent countries. I was toldof a horned serpent that was killedsome years ago, which appears tohave been a monstrosity, either inreality or in the imagination of myinformants. They describe it asabout seven feet long, nearly twofeet in circumference, with scarcelyany diminution towards the tail, andwearing a pair of horns three inchesin length. It is commonly reportedthat dragons, or rather flying lizardsof very venomous nature, are to bemet with in Walkait.” A pleasantcountry for pic-nics in the woods.Going one day to shoot at a mark ina long narrow gully close to Rohabaita,where the village wells were,Mr Parkyns had just paced off thedistance, and was building a roughtarget of stones, when his servantstarted back, and pulled him withhim, calling out, “Temen, temen!”(snake). There was a rustling in thejungle that rose abruptly on eitherside of the watercourse, which wasonly a few feet wide. Not knowingwhat temen meant, but supposing itwas some wild animal, Mr Parkynscalled loudly to his second attendantto bring the gun. “All this passedin a moment’s time; and althoughonly one hundred and fifty yards off,long before the gun arrived I had seentwo magnificent boa-constrictors, oneabout ten yards from the other, quietlyleave their places, without attemptingto molest us, and ascend the hill, tillthey were lost in jungle, whither Inever cared to pursue them. Thefirst thing I saw after the rustle wasa head, which appeared for a momentabove the canes, then a body, nearlyas thick as my thigh, and then theydisappeared, the movement of thecanes alone marking the direction theyhad taken.” What Mr Parkyns sayshe himself saw we duly credit, whilstfully sharing his intimated incredulitywith respect to the winged dragons,and the apocryphal horned monster.Before believing in them, we shouldlike to see them—not, by any means,roaming at large in the state of vigourpromoted by their own burning climate,but properly stuffed, or carefullywrapped in flannel and securely caged,in the gardens of the Zoological Society.

Although it may with perfect truthbe said that no chapter of Mr Parkyns’book is devoid of strong interestof one kind or other, all are not equallyattractive; and we have preferreddwelling at some length upon the sectionof natural history to extractingany of the horrible stories of Abyssiniancruelty which he relates underthe head of “Anecdotes of Character.”He himself seems to doubtwhether they might not have beenas well omitted, but perhaps he wasright in deciding to give them, in orderto supply data for a fair estimate ofthe national character of that singularpeople, which he might otherwise havebeen suspected of placing in too favourablea light. Persons to whomnarratives of murder, torture, barbarousmutilation, and savage crueltyare odious and intolerable, have onlyto treat the pages 187 to 222 ofthe second volume as the monkeytreated those of “Peter Simple”—turnwithout reading them, althoughwe warn them that by so doing theywill miss some very characteristic andcurious matter. Portions of the chapterdevoted to “Physical Constitution,Diseases, &c.,” may be tryingto delicate stomachs, but for such MrParkyns has not written—as may bejudged from one or two extracts alreadygiven. Amongst the traits ofcharacter, &c., we find some remarkableanecdotes of Arab swordsmanship.An Abyssinian having treacherouslymurdered one of the Araballies of the Tigrè chiefs (merely forthe sake of gratifying the exorbitantvanity inherent in all those people,by displaying the barbarous trophiestaken from his victim), the murderedman’s friends claimed the assassin’sblood.

“The crime being proved against him,Oubi gave him over to their tender mercies.His punishment was most summary.Before they had left the presenceof the prince, one of the relations of thedeceased, drawing his heavy two-edgedbroadsword, cut the culprit through withone blow; and, turning to Oubi, said, inArabic: ‘May God lengthen your life,oh my master!’—just as he would havedone had he received a present from hishands; and then, picking up a wisp ofgrass from the floor, walked away, wipinghis blade with as much sangfroid as ifnothing had occurred. Oubi is said to haveexpressed much admiration at the manlyoff-hand way in which this was done, aswell as at the wonderful display of swordsmanship.I know, from very good authority,that the facts of the Arab being murdered,and the subsequent execution of the criminal,are true, though I was not presentwhen it occurred. I do not dispute thefact; I do not wish any of my readers, whothink such a feat impossible, to believe itin the present instance. I have knownfor certain of the same feat being performedby Turks with their crookedsabres, but never by an Arab with hisstraight sword.”

Mr Parkyns subjoins a note relatingto the campaign in Taka in whichWerne shared.[3] Some of the prisonersthen made were, as recorded by Werne,treated with great barbarity. We donot remember his mentioning the exactcirc*mstances now recorded; but heseparated from the Egyptian army beforeits return to Khartoum, in orderto join the expedition up the WhiteNile. Certain chiefs, Mr Parkynstells us, being marched off to be madeexamples of on the marketplace ofKhartoum, paused on the road and refusedto proceed. “Suliman Cushif,who commanded the escort, havingorders that all such should be put todeath on the spot, is said to havepractised his swordsmanship on themby cutting them through at the waistas they stood. My friend, MoussaBey, in the same expedition, unintentionallycut a horse’s head clean off....Seeing one of his men turnhis horse’s head and make for thejungle, he determined to check sodangerous an example by summarymeans, and so gave chase to the fugitive.Being better mounted, he sooncame up with him; but the Arab, notliking his appearance as he stood upin his stirrups with his nasty littlecrooked olive-brown blade, ready fora back-stroke, threw his horse suddenlyback on his haunches, and droppedoff; the horse’s head went up just intime to receive the blow aimed athis master”—and dropped off too, itwould appear. Mr Parkyns knows,he says, plenty more such anecdotes—andindeed such anecdotes are plentifulenough in other countries thanAfrica—but nothing is more difficultthan to sift the inventions from theverities. Haydon the artist, whoseems to have been partial to suchtales, and ready enough to creditthem, relates some astounding exploitscollected from his model life-guardsmen—amongstothers a story ofa cut received by a French dragoonat Waterloo, which went throughhelmet and head, so that the severedportion dropped on the shoulder likea slice of apple. We have not thevolume at hand to refer to, but thisis the substance of the incident, toldnearly in the same words. Such cutsas that—like the flying dragons ofAbyssinia—we must see before believingin them. At the same time,a swordsman’s power depends somuch more upon the mode in whichhis cuts are delivered than upon merebrute strength—upon skill than uponviolence—that it becomes difficult toassign exact limits to the possibleeffect of a good blade in adroit andpractised hands. The cutting through,at the waist, of a slender Oriental, willhardly appear an impossibility to thosewho have seen the now commonplacefeat of severing a leg of mutton at ablow. Moussa Bey’s “nasty littlecrooked olive-brown blade” must unquestionablyhave been dexterouslywielded to decapitate, at a single blow,his fugitive follower’s charger, allowingeven that the latter was the slenderestand most ewe-necked of itsrace. Oubi’s admiration of the sweepingblow of his Arab auxiliary wasnot surprising, since his own subjectshave difficulty in inflicting a seriouswound with their clumsy sickle-shapedfalchions, of great length of blade, andwith hilts of such awkward and inconvenientconstruction as to paralyse theplay of the swordsman’s arm. Thesehilts are cut out of solid pieces ofrhinoceros horn, at great waste ofmaterial, and a handsome one costsas much as £2 sterling. The swordis worn on the right side, that theAbyssinian warrior may not, when hehas thrown his lance, have to disturbthe position of his shield, and so uncoverhimself, whilst drawing hisweapon across his body. Such, atleast, is the explanation Mr Parkynsgives. But the whole military equipmentof the Abyssinians is far fromformidable. They are tolerably expertin throwing the javelin, but withfirearms they are extremely clumsy;and, notwithstanding their large buffalo-hideshields, a European, who hasany knowledge of the sword, is morethan a match for the best of them.

“It was my original intention” (werevert to Mr Parkyns’ Introduction)“to write solely on the habits of thepeople, without bringing myself intonotice in any part of the story; butfrom this I was dissuaded by beingtold that, without a little personalnarrative, the book would be unreadable.I have, therefore, divided thesubject into two parts—Travel, andManners and Customs.” Your dissuasivefriends, Mr Parkyns, were inthe right, and you showed your goodsense by taking their advice—in formas regards the first volume, in factas regards also the greater part of thesecond. Personal narrative is evidentlyyour forte; a humorous, rollicking,letter-writing style, the oneyou have most at your command.The “exuberant animal spirits, notdependent on temporary excitement,but the offspring of abstemious habits,combined with plenty of air and exercise—thefeeling which inspires a calfto co*ck his tail, shake his head, kickand gallop about—which swells apigmy into a Hercules, and causes ayoung hippopotamus to think of adoptingthe ballet as his profession,”—whichyou declare to be the reason ofyour addiction to savage life, andwhich you so enjoyed in Abyssinia,had evidently not abandoned youwhen dressing up your journal forthe press within the civilised precinctsof the Nottinghamshire County-hall,whence you date your dedication toLord Palmerston. Your style, ofwhich you unnecessarily deprecatecriticism, is spirited, racy, and abundantlygood for the subject. Whenthe mass of your book is so highlyinteresting, it may seem unkind tomention that a few of your jokes area little the worse for wear, and remindus too strongly of the departedMiller to add much to the originalityof your otherwise extremely originaland capital volumes; and if we touchon that point, it is merely in the hopethat you will take the hint in a kindlyspirit, and profit by it when preparingfor the press the “ponderous heap ofpapers” you inform us you accumulatedduring four and a half years’travel in Nubia, Kordofan, and Egypt.Prepare them by all means, at yourleisure, and with care, and let us havethem in type at the earliest convenienceof yourself and publisher. Afteryour present work, we shall expectmuch from them, and do not fear beingdisappointed. As to attacking yourstatements, in the way of impugningyour veracity, such temerity wouldnever enter our minds. We will notsay that we have not at times beenstartled, almost staggered, as we readwith foot on fender, and much enjoyment,the narrative of your strangeexperience; but, as you justly observe,stay-at-home critics sometimesget hold of the wrong end of the stick,and sneer at truth whilst swallowingexaggerations. We beg, then, to assureyou that, until we ourselves havepassed a season in Abyssinia, withbutter on our hair, and nothing on ourfeet—until we have dined upon rawbeefsteaks, with fingers for forks, anda curved sabre for a carving-knife—weshall never venture to question thestrict correctness and fidelity of anyportion of your singular narrative—anassurance you may safely accept asa guarantee of impunity at our hands,even though you should draw a farlonger bow than we believe you tohave done in the case of the countryof which you have so pleasantly written.Of one thing we are convinced,and that is, that few who take upLife in Abyssinia will lay it downwithout reading it through, and withoutexclaiming, when they come tothe end, “What an amusing bookthis is, and what an agreeable savageis Mansfield Parkyns!”

PART III.—CHAPTER XI.

“My patience! but ye’ll no tellme, Miss Menie, that yon auld antickis the doctor’s aunt?”

“She was no older than my father,though she was his aunt, Jenny,” saidMenie Laurie, with humility. Meniewas something ashamed, and had notyet recovered herself of the firstsalute.

“Nae aulder than the doctor!—Iwouldna say; your mamma hersel isno sae young as she has been; butthe like of yon!”

“Look, Jenny, what a pleasantplace,” said the evasive Menie;“though where the heath is—but Isuppose as they call this Heathbankwe must be near it. Look, Jenny,down yonder, at the steeple in thesmoke, and how clear the air is here,and this room so pleasant and lightsome.Are you not pleased, Jenny?”

“Yon’s my lady’s maid,” said Jenny,with a little snort of disdain.“They ca’ her Maria, nae less—sether up! like a lady’s sel in ane ofyour grand novelles; and as muckledress on an ilkaday as I’ve seenmony a young lady gang to the kirkwi’, Miss Menie—no to say your ainvery sel’s been plainer mony a day.Am I no pleased? Is’t like to pleasefolk to come this far to an outlandishcountry, and win to a house at lastwith a head owre’t like yon?”

“Whisht, Jenny!” Menie Lauriehas opened her window softly, with aconsciousness of being still a stranger,and in a stranger’s house. The prettywhite muslin curtains half hide herfrom Jenny, and Jenny stands beforethe glass and little toilet-table, takingup sundry pretty things that ornamentit, with mingled admirationand disdain, surmising what this, andthis, is for, and wondering indignantlywhether the lady of the house canthink that Menie stands in need ofthe perfumes and cosmetics to whichshe herself resorts. But the room isa very pretty room, with its lightly-drapedbed, and bright carpet, andclear lattice-window. Looking round,Jenny may still fuff, but has no reasonto complain.

And Menie, leaning out, feels thesoft summer air cool down the flushupon her cheeks, and lets her thoughtsstray away over the great city yonder,where the sunshine weaves itselfamong the smoke, and makes astrange yellow tissue, fine and lightto veil the Titan withal. The heat isleaving her soft cheek, her hair playson it lightly, the wind fingering itsloosened curls like a child, and Menie’seyes have wandered far away withher thoughts and with her heart.

Conscious of the sunshine here,lying steadily on the quiet lawn, themeagre yew-tree, the distinct garden-path—consciousof the soft bank ofturf, where these calm cattle reposeluxuriously—of the broad yellowsandy road which skirts it—of thelittle gleam of water yonder in a distanthollow—but, buoyed upon joyouswings, hovering like a bird over anindistinct vision of yonder pier, anddeck, and crowded street—a littlecircle enclosing one lofty figure, out ofwhich rises this head, with its naturalstate and grace, out of which shinethose glowing ardent eyes—andMenie, charmed and silent, looks onand watches, seeing him come and gothrough all the ignoble crowd—thecrowd which has ceased to be ignoblewhen it encloses him.

And voices of children ringingthrough the sunshine, and a sweet,soft, universal tinkle, as of some fairymusic in the air, flow into MenieLaurie’s meditation, but never fretit* golden thread; for every joy ofsight and sound finds some kindredin this musing; and the voices growinto a sweet all-hail, and the hum ofdistant life lingers on her ear like thesilver tone of fame—Fame that iscoming—coming nearer every day,throwing the glow of its purple royal,the sheen of its diamond crown uponhis head and on his path—and thegirl’s heart, overflooded with a lightmore glorious than the sunshine, forgetsitself, its own identity and fate,in dreaming of the nobler fate towhich its own is bound.

“A young friend of yours?—youmay depend upon my warmest welcomefor him, my dear Mrs Laurie,”says a voice just emerging into theair below, which sends Menie back ingreat haste, and with violent unconsciousblushes, from the window.“Mr Randall Home?—quite a remarkablename, I am sure. Something inan office? Indeed! But then, really,an office means so many very differentthings—may be of any class, in fact—anda literary man? I am delighted.He must be a very intimatefriend to have seen you already.”

Menie waits breathless for the answer,but in truth Mrs Laurie is verylittle more inclined to betray her secretthan she is herself.

“We have known him for manyyears—a neighbour’s son,” said MrsLaurie, with hesitation; “yet indeedit is foolish to put off what I musttell you when you see them together.Randall and my Menie are—I supposeI must say, though both soyoung—engaged, and of course it isnatural he should be anxious. I haveno doubt you will be pleased withhim; but I was hurried and nervousa little this morning, or I should havepostponed his first visit a day or two,till we ourselves were less perfectstrangers to you, Miss Annie.”

“I beg——” said Miss Annie Laurie,lifting with courteous deprecation herthin and half-bared arm. “I feltquite sure, when I got your letter,that we could not be strangers halfan hour, and this is really quite a delightfuladdition;—true love—younglove!—ah my dear Mrs Laurie, wherecan there be a greater pleasure thanto watch two unsophisticated heartsexpanding themselves? I am quitecharmed—a man of talent, too—andyour pretty little daughter, so youngand so fresh, and so beautifully simple.I am sure you could not haveconferred a greater privilege upon me—Ishall feel quite a delight in theiryoung love. Dear little creature—shemust be so happy; and I am surea good mother like you must be asmuch devoted to him as your darlingMenie.”

Mrs Laurie, who was not used tospeak of darling Menie, nor to thinkit at all essential that she should bedevoted to Randall Home, was considerablyconfused by this appeal,and could only answer in a very quiettone, which quite acted as a shadowto Miss Annie’s glow of enthusiasm,that Randall was a very good youngman, and that she had never objectedto him.

“The course of true love never didrun smooth,” said the greatly interestedMiss Annie. “My dear MrsLaurie, I am afraid you must havehad some other, perhaps more ambitiousviews, or you could not possibly—withyour experience, too—speakwith so little interest of your dearchild’s happiness.”

Here Menie ventured to glance out.The lady of the house swayed lightlyback and forward, with one foot onthe ground and another on the closeturf of the little lawn, switching theyew-tree playfully with a wand ofhawthorn; and the wind blew MissAnnie’s long ringlets against herwithered cheek, and fluttered the laceupon her arm, with a strange contemptfor her airy graces, and for thelevity so decayed and out of datewhich Menie felt herself blush to see.Opposite, upon the grass, stood MrsLaurie, the sun beating down uponher snowy matron-cap, her healthfulcheek, her sober household dignity.But the sun revealed to Menie somethingmore than the natural goodlooks of that familiar face. MrsLaurie’s cheek was flushed a little.Mrs Laurie’s fine clear dark eye wandereduneasily over the garden, andMrs Laurie’s foot patted the grasswith a considerable impatience. Halfangry, disconcerted, abashed, annoyed,Menie’s mother could but half-concealan involuntary smile of amusem*nt,too.

“Yes, my child’s happiness is verydear to me,” said Mrs Laurie, withhalf a shade of offence in her tone.“But Menie is very young—I am inno haste to part with her.”

“Ah, my dear, youth is the time,”said Miss Annie, pathetically—“thefirst freshness, you know, and thatdear, sweet, early susceptibility, ofwhich one might say so many charmingthings. For my part, I am quitedelighted to think that she has givenher heart so early, so many experiencesare lost otherwise. I remember—ah,I remember!—but really,Mrs Laurie, you surprise me. I seeI must give my confidence to Menie.Poor little darling—I am afraid youhave not encouraged her to confideall her little romantic distresses toyou.”

“I have always respected Menie’sgood sense,” said Mrs Laurie hastily.Then she made a somewhat abruptpause, and then glanced up with herlook of disconcertment and confusion,half covered with a smile. “I amMenie’s mother, and an old wife now,Miss Annie. I am afraid I have losta great deal of that early susceptibilityyou spoke of—and I scarcelythink my daughter would care to findit in me—but we are very good friendsfor all that.”

And Mrs Laurie’s eye, glisteningwith mother pride, and quite a differentorder of sentiment from MissAnnie’s, glanced up involuntarily toMenie’s window. Menie had but timeto answer with a shy child’s look oflove out of her downcast eyes—for Menieshrank back timidly from the moreenthusiastic sympathy with which hergrand-aunt waited to overpower her—anddisappeared into the quiet of herroom to sit down in a shady corner alittle, and wind her maze of thoughtsinto some good order. The sun wasdrawing towards the west—it wastime to descend to the shady drawing-roomof Heathbank, where Randallby-and-by should be received forthe first time as Miss Annie Laurie’sguest.

CHAPTER XII.

It is very pleasant here, in theshady drawing-room of Heathbank.Out of doors, these grassy slopes,which Menie Laurie cannot believe tobe the heath, are all glowing with sunshine;but within here, the light fallscool and green, the breeze playsthrough the open window, and goldenstreaks of sunbeams come in faintlyat one end, through the bars of theVenetian blind, upon the pleasantshade, touching it into character andconsciousness. It is a long roomwith a window at either end, a roundtable in the middle, an open piano ina recess, and pretty bits of feminine-lookingfurniture straying about inconfusion not too studied. Thewalls are full of gilt frames, too, andlook bright, though one need not beunnecessarily critical about the scrapsof canvass and broad-margined water-colourdrawings which repose quietlywithin these gilded squares. Theyare Miss Annie Laurie’s pictures, andMiss Annie Laurie feels herself a connoisseur,and is something proud ofthem, while it cannot be denied thatthe frames do excellent service uponthe shady drawing-room wall.

Mrs Laurie has found refuge in thecorner of a sofa, and, with a very finepicture-book in her hand, escapes fromthe conversation of Miss Annie, whichhas been so very much in the style ofthe picture-book that Menie’s motherstill keeps her flush of abashed annoyanceupon her cheek, and Menieherself lingers shyly at the door, halfafraid to enter. There is somethingvery formidable to Menie in the enthusiasmand sympathy of her aunt.

“My pretty darling!” said MissAnnie—and Miss Annie lifted herdainty perfumed fingers to tap Menie’scheeks with playful grace. Menieshrank back into a corner, blushingand disconcerted, and drooped herhead after a shy girlish fashion, quiteunable to make any response. “Don’tbe afraid, my love,” said the mistressof the house, with a little laugh.“Don’t fear any jesting from me—no,no—I hope I understand better thesesensitive youthful feelings—and weshall say nothing on the subject, mydear Menie—not a word—only youmust trust me as a friend, you know,and we must wait tea till he comes—ah,till he comes, Menie.”

Poor Menie for the moment couldhave wished him a thousand milesaway; but she only sat down, verysuddenly and quietly, on a low seatby the wall, while Miss Annie trippedaway to arrange some ornamentalmatters on the tea-table, where herlittle china cups already sparkled, andher silver tea-pot shone. Menie tookcourage to look at her kinswoman’sface as this duty was being performed.Withered and fantastic in its decayedgraces, there was yet a something ofkindness in the smile. The face hadbeen pretty once in its youthful days—asad misfortune to it now, for if itwere not for this long-departed, dearlyremembered beauty, there might havebeen a natural sunshine in Miss AnnieLaurie’s face.

As it was, the wintry light in itplayed about gaily, and Miss Anniemade very undeniable exertions toplease her visitors. She told Menieof her own pursuits, as a girl mighthave done in expectation of a sharerin them; and to Mrs Laurie she gavea sketch of her “society,” the fewfriends who, Menie thought, made upa very respectable list in point ofnumbers. Mrs Laurie from her sofa,and Menie on her seat by the wall,looking slightly prim and very quietin her shy confusion, made brief answersas they could. Their entertainerdid not much want their assistance;and by-and-by Menie wokewith a great flush to hear the littlegate swing open, to discern a loftyfigure passing the window, and thesound of a quick step on the gravelpath. Randall was at the door.

And Randall, looking very stately,very gracious and deferential, camethrough the shower of “delighteds”and “most happys” with which MissAnnie saluted him, with a bow ofproud grace and much dignity ofmanner, to Mrs Laurie’s extremesurprise, and Menie’s shy exultation.Another hour passed over very well.The strangers grew familiar with MissAnnie; then by-and-by they strayedout, all of them, into the sweet eveningair, so full of charmed distantvoices, the hum and breath of far-offlife; and Menie found herself, beforeshe was aware, alone under a skyslowly softening into twilight, in apretty stretch of sloping turf, wheresome young birch-trees stood aboutgracefully, like so many children restingin a game, with Randall Home byher side.

And they had found time for variouspieces of talk, quite individualand peculiar to themselves, beforeMenie lifted her face, with its flush offull unshadowed pleasure, and, glancingup to the other countenanceabove her, asked, “When is the nextbook coming, Randall?”

“What next book, May Marion?”

This was his caressing name forher, as May alone was his father’s.

“The next book—our next book,”said Menie. “I do not know much,nor maybe care much, about anybodyelse’s. Randall—our own—when isit coming?”

“What if it should never come atall?”

Randall drew her fingers throughhis hand with playful tenderness, halfas he might have done with a child.

“Yes—but I know it is to come atall, so that is not my question,” saidMenie. “I want to know when—notif. Tell me—for you need not becoy, or think of keeping such a secretfrom me.”

“Did you never hear that it isdangerous to hurry one work uponanother?” was the answer somewhatevasively given. “I am to be prudentthis time—there is peril in it.”

“Peril to what?” Menie Laurielooked up with simple eyes into a facewhere there began to rise some faintmists. Looking into them, she didnot comprehend at all these floatingvapours, nor the curve of fastidiousdiscontent which they brought toRandall’s lip and brow.

“My simple Menie, you do notknow how everything gets shapedinto a trade,” said Randall, with acertain condescension. “Peril to reputation,risk of losing what one hasgained—that is what we all tremblefor in London.”

“Randall!” Menie looked up againwith a flush of innocent scorn. Hemight speak it, indeed, but she knewhe could mean nothing like this.

There was a slight pause—it mightbe of embarrassment—on Randall’spart; certainly he made no effort tobreak the silence.

“But a great gift was not givenfor that,” said Menie rapidly, in herunwitting enthusiasm. “People donot have unusual endowments giventhem to be curbed by such things asthat; and you never meant it, Randall;it could not move you.”

But Randall only drew his handfondly over the fingers he held, andsmiled—smiled with pleasure andpride, natural and becoming. He hadnot been sophisticated out of regardfor the warm appreciation and praiseof those most dear to him. He mightdistrust it—might think the colderworld a better judge, and the verdictof strangers a safer rule, but in hisheart he loved the other still.

But Menie’s thoughts were disturbed,and moved into a sudden ferment.Her hand trembled a little onRandall’s arm; her eyes forsook hisface, and cast long glances insteadover the bright air before them; andwhen she spoke, her voice was as lowas her words were quick and hurried.

“It does not become me to teachyou, but, Randall, Randall, you usedto think otherwise. Do you mindwhat you used to say about throwingaway the scabbard, putting on theharness—Randall, do you mind?”

“I mind many a delightful hour upon the hillside yonder,” said Randallaffectionately, “when my May Marionbegan to enter into all my dreamsand hopes; and I mind about thescabbard and the harness no less,”he continued, laughing, “and how Imeditated flashing my sword in theeyes of all the world, like a schoolboywith his first endowment of gunpowder;but one learns to know that theworld cares so wonderfully little aboutone’s sword, Menie; and moreover—youmust find out for me the reasonwhy—this same world seems to creepround one’s-self strangely, and by-and-byone begins to feel it more decorousto hide the glitter of the trenchantsteel. What a coxcomb you makeme,” said Randall, abruptly breakingoff with a short laugh; “one wouldfancy this same weapon of mine wasthe sword of Wallace wight.”

Menie made no answer, and thediscontent on Randall’s face waveredinto various shades of scorn,—astrange scorn, such as Menie Lauriehad never seen before on any face—scornhalf of himself, wholly of theworld.

“When I knew I had succeeded,”said Randall at length, with still atone of condescension in his confidence,“I was a little elated, I confess,Menie, foolish as it seems, andthought of nothing but setting towork again, and producing somethingworthy to live. Well, that is just thefirst impulse; by-and-by I came tosee what a poor affair this applausewas after all, and to think I had betterkeep what I had, without runningthe risk of losing my advantage by aless successful stroke. After all, thistide of popularity depends on nothingless than real ‘merit,’ as thecritics call it; so I apprehend we willhave no new book, Menie; we will becontent with what we have gained.”

“If applause is such a poor affair,why be afraid of the chance of losingit?” said Menie; but she added hastily,“I want to know about JohnnieLithgow, Randall; is it possible thathe has come to be a great writertoo?”

“If I only knew what you meantby a great writer too,” said Randall,with a smile. “Johnnie Lithgow isquite a popular man, Menie—one ofthe oracles of the press.”

“Is it a derogation, then, to be apopular man?” said the puzzled Menie;“or is he afraid to risk his fame,like you?”

The lofty head elevated itself slightly.“No. Johnnie Lithgow is nota man for fame,” said Randall, withsome pride. “Johnnie does his literarywork like any other day’s work;and, indeed, why should he not?”

Menie looked up with a blank look,surprised, and not comprehending.Even the stronger emotions of life,the passions and the anguishes, hadnever yet taken hold of Menie; stillless had the subtle refining, the artificialstoicism of mere mind and intellect,living and feeding on itself;and Menie’s eye followed his slightunconscious gestures with wistfulwonderment as Randall went on.

“After all, what does it signify—whatdoes anything of this kind signify?One time or another appreciationcomes; and if appreciation nevershould come, what then? So muchas is good will remain. I do not carea straw for applause myself. I rate itat its own value; and that is nothing.”

It began to grow somewhat dark,and Menie drew her shawl closer.“I think it is time to go home,” shesaid softly; and as she spoke, a visionof the kindly home she had left—ofthe brave protecting hills, the broadfair country, the sky and atmosphere,all too humble for this self-abstraction,which answered in clouds andtears, in glorious laughter and sunshine,to every daily change—rose upbefore her; some tears, uncalled forand against her will, stole into Menie’seyes. With a little awe, in herinnocence, she took Randall’s armagain. He must be right, she supposed;and something very grandand superior was in Randall’s indifference—yetsomehow the night aircrept into Menie’s heart, as she hadnever felt it do before. Many anhour this soft night air had blownabout her uncovered head, and tossedher hair in curls about her cheeks—to-nightshe felt it cold, she knew notwhy—to-night she was almost glad tohurry home.

CHAPTER XIII.

“Randall Home is a very superioryoung man,” said Mrs Laurie, withquiet approbation. “Do you know,Menie, I had begun to have seriousthoughts about permitting your engagementso early?—if my only bairnshould leave me—leave me, and getestranged into another house and home,with a man that was a stranger in hisheart to me. Whisht, Menie—mydarling, what makes you cry?”

But Menie could not tell; the nightair was still cold at her heart, and shecould not keep back these unseasonabletears.

“But I am better pleased to-nightthan I have been for many a day,”said Mrs Laurie. “I never saw himso kindly, so like what I would desire.I was a little proud of him to-night,if it were for nothing but lettingMiss Annie see that we are not allsuch common folk as she thinks downin the south country—though, I suppose,I should say the north countryhere. Menie! he will lose my goodopinion again if I think he has vexedyou. What ails you, bairn? Menie,my dear?”

“I don’t know what it is, mother—no,no, he did not vex me. I supposeI am glad to hear you speak of himso,” said the shy Menie, ashamed ofher tears. The mother and daughterwere in their own room preparing forrest, and Menie let down her hairover her face, and played with it inher fingers, that there might be nomore remark or notice of this unwillingemotion. It was strange—neverall her life before had Menie wept foranything indefinite: for childish provocations—forlittle vexations of earlyyouth—for pity—she had shed brighttransitory tears, but she had never“cried for nothing” until now.

“Yes, I am pleased,” said MrsLaurie, as she tied her muslin capover her ears: “what did you say,Menie? I thought this coming toLondon would satisfy me on the onepoint which is likely to be more importantthan all others, and I wasright. Yes, Menie, lie down, like agood girl; you must be wearied—andlie down with a good heart—you havea fair prospect, as fair as woman couldwish. I am quite satisfied myself.”

But how it came about that Menieonly slept in broken snatches—thatMenie dreamt uncomfortable dreamsof harassment and annoyance—dangersin which Randall forsook her—caresof which he had no part—Meniedid not know. A day ago, and MrsLaurie’s unsolicited avowal of “satisfaction”had lifted Menie into thepurest glow of joy, but to-night shecannot tell what makes her so restlessand uneasy—what prompts hernow and then to fall a-weeping, allunwillingly, and “for nothing.” Alasfor Menie Laurie’s quiet heart!—somethinghas come to trouble the waters,but in other guise than an angel’s.

The grass is soft and mossy underthe elm trees, and the morning air—aworld of sweetness—beautifies theirevery branch and stem. Down yonderin the hollow, low at your feet, MenieLaurie, the great slave Titan haswakened to his daily toil. Is thatthe sweep of his mighty arm stirringthe heavy mist which hangs abovehim? Is this the clang of his ponderoustools ringing up faintly into the quietskies? The children are not astir yet,to seek their pleasure in these precincts.Nothing seems awake in thiscomposed and sober place; but yonder,with many a conflict in his heart,with many a throbbing purpose in hisbrain, with life and strength tinglingto his finger-points, with sighs andlaughter swelling in his breath—yondergreat vassal of the world is upand doing, holding the fate of a newday undeveloped in his busy hand.

And you, young wondering heart,look out upon him, innocent, ignorant,wistful, like an angel on the thresholdof the world—nothing knowing thewiles and snares, the tortures anddeliriums that live yonder under thebattle-cloud, unacquainted with thoseprodigious penalties of social life,which yonder are paid and borneevery hour; but looking out withyour head bent forward, and yourinnocent eyes piercing far in thedreamy vision of reverie, makingwistful investigation into the newmarvels round you, pondering andbewildered in your own secret soul.

Randall—looking out thus throughthe morning light upon the city, onecan see him in so many aspects;—thelight shines upon his lofty head, reachingalmost to the skies, like the hillof his quiet home—and Menie liftsher eyes to follow that noble daringlook of his, piercing up through mortalclouds and vapours to do homagewith the gifts God has given him, at hisMaster’s throne and footstool; but anonthere steals a cloud round the heroof Menie’s vision—a dim background,which still reveals him, not less clearly,nor with less fascination, but with asadder wonder of interest—for Randall’seyes are bent earthward, Randall’slofty head is bowed, and Menie,though she watches him with yearningcuriosity, can never meet his downcastlook to read what is there—cannever fathom what lies within theveiled heart and self-abstracted soul.You would think now that her eyesare caught by the sunshine yondermaking such mischievous confusionamong the city vapours: Not so; forMenie’s eyes, under that troubledcurve of her forehead, are studyingRandall, and see only an incomprehensiblesomething in him, overshadowingall the earth and all theskies.

With her little basket in her hand,with her dainty step, and flutteringmuslin gown, Miss Annie brushes thedew from the grass, as she draws nearthe elm trees. But though Miss Anniehas been very confidential withher grand-niece on the subject of herown juvenile occupations, one littlepiece of daily business Miss Anniehas forborne to tell of, and that is amorning visit she pays to a poor pensioneror two in the village, where, ifperhaps her charity may be sometimesintrusive, it is always real. Forpoor Miss Annie’s heart, though itfigures so much in her common talk,and is overlaid with so many falsesentimentalities, has a true little fountainof human kindness in it, spite ofthe fantastic pretences that hide itfrom common view. Absorbed withher new thoughts, Menie neither heardnor saw her aunt’s approach, till shewoke with a start to hear a gay laughbehind her, and to feel the pressureof those long thin fingers upon hereyelids. “Dreaming, Menie? ah, mypretty love! but not ‘in maiden meditationfancy free.’”

Startled and abashed, Menie drewback, but Miss Annie’s ringlets hadalready touched her forehead, as MissAnnie bestowed the morning salutationupon Menie’s cheek; and nowthey are seated side by side undershadow of the greatest elm.

“My dear, I am afraid your mammadoes not encourage you to confide inher; you must tell me all your littletrials, Menie,” said Miss Annie, flutteringwith her finger-points uponMenie’s hand; “and now, my darling,speak to me freely—you were delightedto meet him last night.”

But Menie had no voice to answer,and could only bend down her flushedface, and pluck up the grass with herdisengaged hand.

“Don’t be shy, love. I am somuch interested; and tell me, Menie,you found him quite unchanged?—justas devoted as he used to be? I amsure one only needed to look at him—andhow delightful to find him quiteunchanged!”

“How far is it to London, aunt?”said Menie, with confusion.

“So near that your thoughts havetravelled there this morning to findhim out, I know,” said Miss Annie,—“sonear that he can come out everynight, so we need not talk of London:but come now, darling; haveyou nothing to tell me?”

“You are very good,” said Menie,with a slight falter in her voice. “I—Ishould like very well to takeJenny, if you please, to see some ofthe great sights.”

Miss Annie shook her head—“Ah,Menie, how mischievous! Don’t youthink I deserve your confidence?”

“But, indeed, I have no confidenceto give,” said Menie, almost underher breath.

“My dear, I was just like you:the Scotch system is so restrictive—Iwas afraid to speak to any one,” saidMiss Annie; “and so you see I hada little misunderstanding; and he wasangry, and I was angry; and first wequarrelled, and then we sulked at eachother, and so at last it came aboutthat we were parted. Yes, Menie,dear! just now you are happy; youdo not care for a sympathising heart;but if you should chance to be disappointed—Itrust not, my love, butsuch things will happen—you will thenremember that I too have been blighted—oh,my dear child!”

And with a wave of her hand,expressing unutterable things, MissAnnie arranged her light silken mantleover this same blighted heart ofhers, as if to hide the wound.

But Menie, whose mind already hadrecovered its tone—Menie, who nowonly remembered Randall unchanged,unchangeable, towering high aboveall vulgar quarrels and sullennesses,a very fortress for a generous heartto dwell in—Menie sprang lightly upfrom the elastic turf, and stood withher slight young figure relieved againstthe morning sky, and all her framevibrating with pride and joy in herworthy choice. What chance thatshe should ever give this wished-forconfidence—should ever turn to seeksuch sympathy—should ever find comfortor solace in hearing of Miss AnnieLaurie’s kindred woe?

CHAPTER XIV.

“It is two years now since Randallcame to London. From Dumfriesshirewe send out a great many cadets intothe world, Miss Annie; and someone who knew his father found asituation here for Randall Home.He brought his book with him, and itwas published, and very successful;then he came home, and sought myconsent to his engagement with Menie.That is all Randall’s history in connectionwith us. The other youngman you expect to-night, Miss Annie,is only a cottager’s son—very clever,I hear, but not in any way, I fancy,to be put in comparison with RandallHome.”

And Mrs Laurie took up her workwith a little quiet pride, resolved tobe very kind to Johnnie Lithgow,but by no means pleased to have himmentioned in the same breath withher future son-in-law.

“I adore talent,” said Miss Annie,opening her work-table to take out atiny bit of “fancy” work. “I couldnot describe the delight I have in thesociety of people of genius—self-taughtgenius too—so charming; and bothof these delightful young men mustbe self-taught.”

Mrs Laurie drew herself up with alittle hauteur.

“Mr Home has had an excellenteducation; his father is a very superiorman. Johnnie Lithgow, as Isaid before, is only a cottager’sson.”

But Miss Annie could not see thedistinction, and ran on in such aflutter of delight in anticipation ofher guests, that Mrs Laurie quietlyretired into the intricacies of herwork, and contented herself with aresolution to be very kind and condescendingto the popular editor, thecottager’s son.

The drawing-room is in specialglory—the pinafores discarded fromthe chairs, the little tables crowdedwith gay books and toys and flowers,and everything in its company dress.Mrs Laurie—who never can be anythingbut Mrs Laurie, a matron ofsober years, and Menie’s mother—sits,in her grave-coloured gown andsnowy cap, upon the sofa; while on astool low down by her side, in alittle tremor of expectation, MissAnnie perches like a bird, waiting thearrival of her visitors. Mrs Laurie,with her Dumfriesshire uses, quitebelieves what Miss Annie says, thatonly “a few friends” are coming to-night,and has not the slightest ideathat the lady of the house will begreatly mortified if her rooms are notfilled in an hour or two with a littlecrowd.

And up-stairs, resplendent in Jenny’sgown, Menie Laurie stands before theglass, fastening on one or two simpleornaments, and admiring, with innocentenjoyment, her unusually elegantdress. You may guess by this glimpseof these well-known striped skirts,full and round, revealing themselvesunder cover of the curtains, thatJenny too has been admiring her ownmagnificent purchase. But Jenny bythis time has grown impatient, andjealous that Menie’s admiration prolongsitself only to please her, Jenny;so, giving premonition by sundryrestless gestures of the advent of a“fuff,” she has turned to look outfrom the window upon the sandy roadwhich leads to ’Eathbank.

“Eh, Miss Menie! that brockitane’s a bonnie cow,” said Jenny; “Inever see onything else in this outlandishplace that minds me of hame,if it binna the mistress and yoursel.I’ll just bide and look out for theyoung lads, Miss Menie. Ye neednaclap your hands, as if Jenny wasturning glaikit; if they werena ladsfrae our ain countryside, they michtcome and gang a twelvemonth forme.”

“But the ladies and the gentlemenwill see you from the window, Jenny,”said Menie Laurie.

“Ise warrant they’ve seen waursichts,” said Jenny briskly; “I’m nogaun to let down my ainsel, for a’ Ihave a thraw; and I would just liketo ken, if folk wanted to see a purposelikelass, fit for her wark, wha theycould come to in this house but me?There’s my lady’s maid—set her up!—inher grand gown, as braw as mylady; and there’s the tither slavingcreature put off a’ this morning claveringto somebody, and no fit to beseen now; for a’ they scoff at myshort-gown and good linsey coats.But they may scoff till they’re tired,for Jenny; I’m no gaun to change, atmy time of life, for a’ the giggling inLondon town.”

“But you’ll put on your gown to-night,Jenny,” said Menie persuasively,patting her shoulder. “There’s Randalldid not see you last time he washere; and Johnnie Lithgow, youwould like to see him. Come, Jenny,and put on your gown.”

“It’s no muckle Randall Homeheeds about me, and you ken that,”said Jenny; “and for a’ he didna seeme, I saw him the last time he washere. I’ll just tell you, Miss Menie,yon lad, to be a richt lad, is owreheeding about himsel.”

“You’re not to say that, Jenny;it vexes me,” said Menie, with simplegravity; “besides, it is not true. Youmistake Randall—and then JohnnieLithgow.”

“I wadna say but what I michtbe pleased to get a glint of him,” saidJenny. “Eh, my patience! to thinkof Betty Armstrong’s son sitting downwith our mistress. But I’ll be sureto ca’ them by their richt names aforethe folk. I canna get my tongueabout thae maisters. Maister Lithgow!and me minds him a wee white-headedladdie, hauding up his peenyfor cakes on the Hogmanay, and pu’ingJohn Glendinning’s kailstocks at Hallowe’en.What would I put on mygown for, bairn? As sure as I ganginto the room, I’ll ca’ him Johnnie.”

But Jenny’s scruples at last yielded,and Jenny came forth from her chamberglorious in a blue-and-yellow gown,printed in great stripes and figures,and made after an antediluvian fashion,which utterly shocked and horrifiedthe pretty Maria, Miss Annie Laurie’sfavourite maid. Nor was Miss AnnieLaurie herself less disconcerted, whenhonest Jenny, the high shoulderlargely developed by her tight-fittinggown, and carrying a cake-basket inher brown hands, made her appearancein the partially filled drawing-room,threading her way leisurelythrough the guests, and examining,with keen glances and much attention,the faces of the masculine portion ofthem. Miss Annie made a pause inher own lively and juvenile talk, towatch the strange figure and the keeninquiring face, over which a shade ofbewilderment gradually crept. ButMiss Annie no longer thought itamusing, when Jenny made an abruptpause before her young mistress, thenshyly endeavouring to make acquaintancewith some very fine youngladies, daughters of Miss Annie’s loftiestand most aristocratic friends,and said in a startling whisper, whichall the room could hear, “Miss Menie!ye micht tell folk which is him, if he’shere; but I canna see a creature that’slike Johnnie Lithgow of Kirklands,nor ony belanging to him, in the haillroom.”

Miss Annie Laurie, much horrified,rose from her seat somewhat hastily;but at the same moment up sprangby her side the guest to whom hermost particular attentions had beendevoted—“And Burnside Jenny hasforgotten me!”

Burnside Jenny, quite forgetful of“all the folk,” turned round uponhim in an instant. Not quite JohnnieLithgow, the merriest mischief-doer inKirklands parish, but a face thatprompted recollections of his withoutdispute—blue eyes, dancing and runningover with the light of a happyspirit—and a wisp of close curls, notmany shades darker in colour thanthose of the “white-headed laddie,”whose merry tricks Jenny had notforgotten. “Eh, man! is this you?”said Jenny, with a sigh of satisfaction.“I aye likit the callant for a’ his mischief,and it’s just the same blytheface after a’.”

Randall Home stood leaning hisfine figure against the mantelpiece,and took no notice of Jenny. Randallwas somewhat afraid of a similarrecognition; but Johnnie Lithgow,who did not affect attitudes—JohnnieLithgow, who was neither proud norashamed of being a cottager’s son,and who had a habit of doing suchkindly things as occurred to him withoutconsideration of prudence—drewher aside by both her brown hands,out of which Jenny had laid the cake-basket,to talk to her of home. Aslight smile curled on the lip of RandallHome. How well he looked,leaning upon his arm, his lofty headtowering over every other head inMiss Annie’s drawing-room, with hislook of conscious dignity, his intellectualface! Menie Laurie and MenieLaurie’s mother did not find it possibleto be other than proud of him;yet the eyes of both turned somewhatwistfully to the corner, to dwell upona face which for itself could havecharmed no one, but which beamedand shone like sunshine upon Jenny,greeting her as an old friend.

“Your friend is a literary man?”said somebody inquiringly, taking upa respectful position by Randall’s side.

“Yes, poor fellow; he spins himselfout into daily portions for thepress,” said Randall.

“A high vocation, sir; leader ofpublic opinions and movements,” saidthe somebody, who professed to bean intellectual person, a man of progress.

“Say rather the follower,” saidRandall; “and well for those who havethe happy knack of following wisely—chimingin, before itself is fully awareof it, with the humour of the time.”

Menie Laurie, who was close athand, and heard all this, ventured awhisper, while Randall’s companionhad for the moment turned away.

“Your words sound as if youslighted him, Randall, and you toocall yourself a literary man.”

“Good Johnnie Lithgow, I likehim extremely,” said Randall, withthe half-scornful smile which puzzledMenie; “but he is only a literaryworkman after all. He does his literatureas his day’s labour—he willtell you so himself—a mere craft fordaily bread.”

And just then Lithgow turnedround, with his radiant face—he whohad no fame to lose, and did an honestday’s work in every day, not thinkingthat the nature of his craft excusedhim from the natural amount of toil—andagain Menie felt a little pang ather heart, as she thought of Randall’sjealous guardianship of Randall’syouthful fame.

CHAPTER XV.

“I have been thinking of bringingup my mother to live with me,” saidthe Mr Lithgow in whom Mrs Laurieand her daughter were beginning toforget the humble Johnnie: “I see noreason why she should live in povertyin Kirklands, while I am comfortablehere.”

His face flushed slightly as he concluded,and he began to drum withhis fingers in mere shyness and embarrassmentupon Miss Annie Laurie’swork-table. Randall, a little distancefrom him, was turning over with infinitescorn Miss Annie’s picture-books.The two young men had grown familiarin the house, though it was notyet a month since they entered itfirst.

“And I think you are very right,”said Mrs Laurie cordially, “thoughwhether Mrs Lithgow might be pleasedwith a town life, or whether—”

She paused; it was not very easyto say “whether your mother wouldbe a suitable housekeeper for you.”Mrs Laurie could not do violenceeither to her own feelings or his bysuggesting such a doubt.

“I think it would be a great risk,”said Randall, “and if you consultedme, would certainly warn you againstit. Your mother knows nothing ofLondon—she would not like it; besides,a young man seeking his fortuneshould be alone.”

“Cold doctrine,” said Lithgow,smiling, “and to come from you.”

His eye fell unconsciously uponMenie; then as he met a quick upwardglance from her, he stammered, blushed,and stopped short—for Johnnie Lithgowwas as shy and sensitive as a girl,and had all the reverence of youthfulgenius for womanhood and love.With compunction, and an idea thathe had been jesting profanely, Lithgowhurriedly began again.

“I am so vain as to think I myselfwould be London to my mother—oldground long known and well explored.If she would not like the change, ofcourse—but I fancy she might.”

“I advise you against it, Lithgow,”said Randall; “in your case I shouldnever entertain such an idea. Thereis my father—no one can have agreater respect for him than I—but tobring him to live with me—to bringhim to London—I should think it themerest folly, injurious to us both.”

“Your wisdom is very safe atleast,” said Mrs Laurie, with a littleasperity, “since there is no chance ofyour good father leaving his ownrespectable house for an unknown andstrange place in any case; but Ithink your wish a very natural one,and very creditable to you, Mr Lithgow;and whether she comes or not,the knowledge that you wish for herwill be joy to your mother’s heart.”

With his usual half-disdainfulsmile Randall had turned away, andthere was a slight flush of angerupon Mrs Laurie’s face. Indignationand scorn,—there was not much hopeof friendliness where such unpromisingelements had flashed into sudden existence.Menie, looking on with terror,and perceiving a new obstacle throwninto her way, hastily endeavoured tomake a diversion.

“Do you know, Mr Lithgow, thatJuly Home is coming up to Londonto see me?”

There came a sudden brighteningto all the kindly lines of the youngman’s face. “July Home! if I amtoo familiar, forgive me, Randall—butI have so many boyish recollections ofher. She was such a sweet littletimid simple womanly child too. Iwonder if July minds me as I mindher.”

Randall stood apart still, with hissmile upon his lips. True, there hadbeen a momentary curve on his browat Lithgow’s first mention of hissister’s name, but his face cleared immediately.Poor little July! Randallmight know her sufficiently timid andsimple—but July was a baby, a toy,a good-hearted kindly little fool toher intellectual brother—and anyhigher qualities sweet or womanlyabout her remained to be found outby other eyes than his.

“And Miss Annie has promised usall the sight-seeing in the world,”said Menie with forced gaiety, anxiousto talk, and to conciliate—toremove all trace of the little breakingof lances which had just passed. “Julyand Jenny and I, we are to see allmanner of lions; and though theywill be very dull at Crofthill whenshe is gone, Mr Home and MissJanet have consented—so next weekJuly is to come.”

“Poor July! she will have enoughto talk of all her life after,” said herbrother.

“Yes; our kindly country seemssuch a waste and desert place to youLondon gentlemen,” said Mrs Laurie;“and it is wonderful, after all, how wemanage to exist—ay, even to flourishand enjoy ourselves, in these regionsout of the world.”

But Randall made no response.A shivering chill came over MenieLaurie; this half-derisive silence onone side, this eager impulse of contradictionand opposition on the other,smote her to the heart. It had beenrising gradually for some days past,and Menie, without being quite awareof it, had noticed the bias with whichher mother and her betrothed listenedand replied to each other; the unconsciousinclination of each to give an unfavourableturn to the other’s words,a harshness to the other’s judgment,an air of personal offence to a differingopinion, of grave misdemeanourto a piece of blameless jesting. Lithgow,stranger as he was, discoveredin a moment, so quick and sensitivewas his nature, the incipient estrangement,and grew embarrassed andannoyed in spite of himself—annoyed,embarrassed, it looked so much likethe last ebullition of some domesticquarrel; but Lithgow was a stranger,and had no interest farther than forthe harmony of the moment in anystrife of these conflicting minds.

But here sits one whose brow mustown no curve of displeasure, whosevoice must falter with no embarrassment.She is sitting by the littlework-table in the window, her eyes,so wistful as they have grown, solarge and full, and eloquent withmany meanings, turning from one tothe other with quick earnest glances,which are indeed whispers of deprecationand peace-making. “Hemeans something else than he says;he is not cold-hearted nor insincere;you mistake Randall,” say Menie’seyes, as they labour to meet hermother’s, and gaze with eager perturbationin her face, deciphering everyline and wrinkle there. “Do notspeak so—you vex my mother; butshe does not mean to be angry,” saythe same strained and ever-changingeyes, as they turn their anxious regardsto Randall’s face. She sits betweenus and the light—you can see hergirlish figure outlined against thewindow—her face falling from lightto shadow, brightening up again fromshadow to light, as she turns from oneto the other; you can see how eagerlyshe listens, prompt to rush forwardwith her own softening gentle speechupon the very border of the harsherwords, whose utterance she cannotprevent. The very stoop of her head—thechangeful expression of herface, which already interprets the endof the sentence ere it is well begun—hersudden introduction of one subjectafter another, foreign to their formertalk—her sudden interest in thingsindifferent, and all the wiles andartifices with which she hedges off allmatters of personal or individual interest,and abstracts the conversationinto the channel of mere curiosity, ofcareless and everyday talk—are all sufficientlyvisible exponents of Menie’snew position, and new trials. She istalking to Lithgow now so rapidly,and with so much demonstration ofinterest—you would almost fancy thispoor loving Menie had caught a contagiousenthusiasm from Miss AnnieLaurie’s juvenile delights—talking ofthese sights of the great unknownLondon, which have grown so indifferentand paltry to this suddenly enlightenedand experienced mind ofhers; but in the midst of all you cansee how steadily her wakeful eyes keepwatch upon Randall yonder by MissAnnie’s miniature book-cases, andMrs Laurie here, with that little angryflush upon her brow.

So slow the hours seem—so full ofopportunities of discussion—so overbrimmingwith subjects on which theyare sure to differ; till Menie, in hergradually increasing excitement, forgetsto note the progress of time;but is so glad—oh, so glad and joyful—tosee the evening fall dark aroundthem, to hear Maria’s step drawingnear the door, while the lights shecarries already throw their glimmeron the wall. It is late; and now thevisitors take leave, somewhat reluctantly,for Lithgow begins to like hisnew friends greatly; and Randall,though something of irritation is inthe face, where his smile of disdainstill holds sway, is Menie’s ardentwooer still, and feels a charm in herpresence, simple though he has discoveredher to be. But at last theyare gone—safely gone; and Menie,when she has watched them from thedoor, and listened to their steps tillthey die away a distant echo uponthe silent air, steals away in the darkto her own room—not for any purpose—simplyto rest herself a little;and her manner of rest is, sittingdown upon a low stool close by thewindow, where some pale moonlightcomes in faintly, and bending downher face into her clasped hands toweep a little, silently and alone.

Is it but to refresh the wistful eyeswhich this night have been so busy?is it but to wash and flood away thepain that has been in their eagerdeprecating looks, their speeches ofanxious tenderness? But Menie doesnot say even to herself what it is for,nor why. For some weeks now,Menie has been sadly given to “cryingfor nothing,” as she herself calls it.She thinks she ought to be ashamedof her weakness, and would be afraidto acknowledge it to any living creature;but somehow, for these fewdays, Menie has come away aboutthis same hour every night into thesolitude here, to cry, with sometimesa little impatient sob bursting outamong her tears—though she cannottell you, will not tell you—would notwhisper even to her own very secretheart, the reason why.

CHAPTER XVI.

Mrs Laurie sits by the table withher work; but it is still an easy thingto perceive the irritation on Mrs Laurie’sbrow; her hand moves with anadditional rapidity, her breath comesa little faster; and if you watch, youwill see the colour gradually recedingfrom her cheek, like an ebbing tide,and her foot ceasing to play so impatientlyupon its supporting stool.

Very humbly, like a culprit, Meniedraws forward her chair to the light.She is admonished, ere long, by ahasty answer, an abrupt speech, aslight pushing back from the table,and erection of her figure, that MrsLaurie is still angry. It is strangehow this cows and subdues Menie—howeager she is to say something—howhumble her tone is—and howdifficult she feels it to find anythingto say.

Poor heart! like many another bewilderedmoth, Menie flutters aboutthe subject it behoves her most toavoid, and cannot help making timidallusions to their future life in London—thatfuture life which begins todarken before her own vision under acloudy horizon of doubt and dread.It has ceased to be a speculation now,this future; for even within these fewdays there has been talk of Menie’smarriage.

“We will speak of some otherthing; there is no very great charmin the future for me, Menie,” said MrsLaurie, with a sigh.

But Menie, with trembling temerity,begs to know the reason why.Why?—what concerns her concernsher mother also. Very timid, yet toobold, Menie insists, and will be satisfied—why?

“Because it is hard to lose my onlychild,” said Mrs Laurie. “Let us notdeceive ourselves; it is easy to saywe will not be separated, that thereshall be no change. I know better,Menie: well, well; do not cry—sayit is only the natural lot.”

“What is only the natural lot?O mother, mother! tell me.” Menieis still pertinacious, even through hertears.

“I will tell you, Menie,” said MrsLaurie, quickly. “Randall Homeand I cannot dwell under one roof inpeace. I foresee a wretched life foryou, if we tried it; a constant struggle—aconstant failure. Menie, I willtry to be content; but your motherfeels it hard to yield up you and yourlove to a stranger—very hard. I oughtto be content and submissive. I oughtto remember that it is the commonnecessity—an everyday trial; but wehave been more to each other thanmere mother and daughter. I cannothide it from you, Menie; this trial isvery grievous to me.”

“Mother! mother!” It is not “fornothing” now that Menie Laurie weeps.

“You have been the light of myeyes for twenty years—my baby, myonly bairn! I have nothing in theworld when you are gone. Menie,have patience with your mother. Ithought we might have been onehousehold still. I never thought Icould have hurt my bairn by clingingto her with all my heart. I see throughanother medium now. Menie, thisthat I say is better for us both. Iwould lose my proper place—I wouldlose even my own esteem—if I insisted,or if I permitted you to insist,upon our first plan. I do not meanto insist with Randall,” said Mrs Laurie,with a sudden flush of colour,“but with ourselves. It is not foryour credit, any more than mine, thatyour mother should be unnecessarilyhumiliated; and I choose to make thisdecision myself, Menie, not to have itforced upon me.”

“If you think so—if I have nothingto hope but this—mother, mother!”cried Menie in her sobs, “there is yettime; we can change it all.”

But Menie’s voice was choked; herhead bowed down upon her foldedarms; her strength and her heartwere overcome. The room was onlypartially lighted. So vacant—onlythese two figures, with their littletable and their lamp at one end—itlooked lonely, silent, desolate; andyou could hear so plainly the greatstruggle which Menie had with thesestrong sobs and tears.

Mrs Laurie wiped a few hot hastydrops from her own eyes. She wasnot much used to contest; nor was itin her to be inflexible and stern; andthe mother could not see her child’sdistress. “Menie!” Menie can makeno answer; and Mrs Laurie rises togo to her side, to pass a tender caressinghand over the bowed head, toshed back the disordered hair. “Menie,my dear bairn, I did not mean tovex you. I will do anything—anything,Menie; only do not let me seeyou in such grief as this.”

“He is not what you think, mother—heis not what you think,” criedMenie; “it is not like this what hesays of you. O mother! I do not askyou to do him justice—to think wellof him. I ask a greater thing of you;—mother,hear me—I ask you to likehim for Menie’s sake.”

And it will not do to evade thispetition by caresses, by soothingwords, by gentle motherly tenderness.“Yes, Menie, my darling, I’ll try,”said Mrs Laurie at last, with tearfuleyes. “Do you think it is pleasantto me to be at strife with Randall?God forbid! and him my dear bairn’schoice; but do not look at me withsuch a pitiful face. Menie, we’ll beginagain.”

Was Menie content? for the momentmore than content, springing upinto a wild exhilaration, a burst ofconfidence and hope. But by-and-bythe conversation slackened—by-and-bythe room became quite silent, withits dim corners, its little speck oflight, and the two figures at its fartherend. A heavy stillness brooded overthem—they forgot that they had beentalking—they forgot, each of them, thatshe was not alone. The leaves stirredfaintly on the windows—the nightwind rustled past the yew-tree on thelawn. From the other end of thehouse came sometimes a stir of voices,the sound of a closed or opened door;but here everything was silent—asstill as if these were weird sisters,weaving, with their monotonous movingfingers, some charm and spell;while, down to the depths—down,down, as far into the chill and darkof sad presentiment as a heart unlearnedcould go—fluttering, with itswings close upon its breast, its songchanged into a mournful cry—downout of the serene heavens, where ithad its natural dwelling, came MenieLaurie’s quiet heart.

CHAPTER XVII.

Through the depth and darkness ofthe summer night, you can hear MrsLaurie’s quiet breathing as she liesasleep. With a pain at her heart shelay down, and when she wakes shewill feel it, or ever she is aware thatshe has awaked; but still she sleeps:blessing on the kind oblivion whichlays all these troubles for a time torest.

But what is this white figure erectingitself from the pillow, sitting motionlessand silent in the night? It istears that keep these gentle eyelidsapart—tears that banish from themthe sleep of youth. Still, that shemay not wake the sleeper by her side,scarcely daring to move her hand towipe away this heavy dew whichblinds her eyes. Menie Laurie, MenieLaurie, can this sad watcher be you?

And Menie’s soul is vexing itselfwith plans and schemes, and Menie’sheart is rising up to God in brokensnatches of prayer, constantly interrupted,and merging into the bewildermentof her thoughts. Startledonce for all out of the early calm, theserene untroubled youthful life whichlies behind her in the past, Menie feelsthe change very hard and sore as sherealises it; from doing nought for herown comfort—from the loving sweetdependence upon others, to which herchild’s heart has been accustomed—suddenly,without pause or preparation,to learn that all must dependupon herself—to have the ghost ofstrife and discord, where such fullharmony was wont to be—to feel thetwo great loves of her nature—theloves which heretofore, in her owninnocent and unsuspicious apprehension,have but strengthened and deepenedeach the other, set forth in antagonism,love against love, and herown heart the battle-ground. Shrinkingand failing one moment, longingvainly to flee away—away anywhereinto the utmost desolation, if only itwere out of this conflict,—the nextresolving, with such strong throbsand beatings of her heart, to take upher burden cordially, to be ever awakeand alert, to subdue this giant difficultywith the force of her own strong loveand ceaseless tenderness—praying nowfor escape, then for endurance, andanon breaking into silent tears overall. Alas for Menie Laurie in herunaccustomed solitude! and Meniethinks, like every other Menie, that shecould have borne anything but this.

But by-and-by, in spite of tearsand trouble, the natural rest stealsupon Menie—steals upon her unawares,though she feels, in the sadnessof her heart, as if she could never restagain; throws back her drooping headupon her pillow, folds her arms meeklyon her breast, closes her eyelidsover the unshed tear; and thus it isthat the dawn finds her out, like aflower overcharged and drooping withits weight of evening dew, but wraptin sleep as deep and dreamless andunbroken as if her youth had neverknown a tear.

The sun is full in the room whenMenie wakes, and Mrs Laurie has buta moment since closed the door softlybehind her, that the sleeper might notbe disturbed. Even this tender precaution,when she finds it out, chillsMenie to the heart; for heretoforeher mother’s voice has roused her,and even her mother’s impatience ofher lingering would be joy to her to-day;but Mrs Laurie is not impatient.Mrs Laurie thinks it better, for allthe sun’s unceasing proclamation thatnight and sleep are past, to let theyoung heart refresh itself a little longer,to leave the young form at rest.

Ay, Menie Laurie, kneel down byyour bedside—kneel down and pray;it is not often that your supplicationstestify themselves in outward attitude.Now there is a murmur of an audiblevoice speaking words to which nomortal ear has any right to listen;and your downcast face is buried inyour hands, and your tears plead withyour prayers. For you never thoughtbut to be happy, Menie, and the gentleyouthful nature longs and yearns forhappiness, and with the strength of arebel fights against the pain foreseen—poorheart!

“Eh, Jenny! you’re no keepingill-will?” said a doleful voice upon thelawn below; very distinct, throughthe open window, it quickened Menie’smorning toilette considerably, anddrew her forward, with a wonderingface, to make sure. “I’m sure it’s noin me to be unfriends with onybody;and after ane coming a’ this gate fornaething but to ask a civil question,how you a’ was. I’m saying, Jenny?you’re no needing to haud ony correspondencewith me except ye like;it’s the mistress and Miss Menie I’mwanting to see.”

“Am I to let in a’ the gaun-aboutvagabones that want to see the mistressand Miss Menie?” said Jenny’sgruff voice in reply. “I trow no;and how ye can have the face to lookat Jenny after your last errand tillher, I canna tell; ye’ll be for undertakingmy service ance mair? but yemay just as weel take my word ancefor a’—the mistress canna bide yeony mair than me.”

“Eh, woman, Jenny, ye’re a thrawncreature!” said Nelly Panton. “I’msure I never did ye an ill turn a’ mydays. But ye needna even the like ofyour service to me; I’m gaun to livewith our Johnnie, and keep his house,and Johnnie’s company are granderfolk than the mistress; but I’m noforgetting auld friends, so I came toask for Miss Menie because I ayelikit her, and because she’s a younglass like mysel; and I’ll gang andspeak to that ither servant-woman ifyou’ll no tell Miss Menie I’m here.”

Jenny’s fury—for very furiouswas Jenny’s suppressed fuff at thepresumptuous notion of equality orfriendship between Menie Laurie andNelly Panton—was checked by thisthreat; and fearful lest the dignityof her young mistress should be injuredin the eyes of the household bythe new-comer’s pretensions, Jenny,who had held this colloquy out ofdoors, turned hastily round and patteredaway by the back entrance to openthe door for the visitor, muttering repeatedadjurations. “My patience!”and Jenny’s patience had indeed muchreason to be called to her aid.

Menie’s curiosity was a little roused—hermind, withdrawn from herself,lightened somewhat of its load,and she hastened down stairs lessunwillingly than she would havedone without this interruption. Jennystood by the drawing-room door holdingit open; and Jenny’s sturdy littleform vibrated, every inch of it, withanger and indignation. “Ane tospeak to you, Miss Menie!—aneused with grand society, and owrehigh for the like of me. Ye’ll haveto speak to her yoursel.”

And Menie suddenly found herselfthrust into the room, while Jenny,with an audible snort and fuff, remainedin possession of the door.

Nelly Panton had too newly enteredon her dignities to be able to restrainthe ancient curtsey of herhumility. Yes, undoubtedly, it wasNelly Panton—with the same fadedgown, the same doleful shawl, thesame wrapped-up and gloomy figure.Against the well-lighted, well-picturedwall of Miss Annie Laurie’sdrawing-room she stood in dingyindividuality dropping her curtsey,while Menie, much surprised and silent,stood before her waiting to beaddressed.

“Can nane of ye speak?” saidthe impatient Jenny, from the door.“Miss Menie, are ye no gaun to askwhat is her business here? A fulemicht ha’e kent this was nae placeto come back to, after her last errandto Burnside; and when she kens Icanna bide her, and the mistress cannabide her, to come and set up for afriendship with you!”

“She’s just as cankered as she ayewas, Miss Menie,” said Nelly Panton,compassionately, shaking herhead. “It shows an ill disposition,indeed, when folk canna keep atpeace with me, as many a time I’vetelt my mother. But ye see, MissMenie, I couldna just bide on in Kirklandswhen ye were a’ away, so Ijust took my fit in my hand, andcame on to London to see afterJohnnie with my ain een. He needssomebody to keep him gaun, and sethim richt, puir callant; and he’s in agrand way for himsel, and should beattended to—so I think I’ll just stayon, Miss Menie; and the first thing Idid was to come and ask for you.”

“You are very kind, Nelly,” saidMenie Laurie; but Menie pausedwith a suppressed laugh when shesaw Jenny’s clenched hand shaken ather from the door.

“And ye’ll maybe think I’m nojust in condition to set up for friendswith the like of you,” said Nelly,glancing down upon her dress; “butI only came in to London the day beforeyesterday, and I’ve naething yetbut my travelling things. I’m hearingthat little Juley Home of Braecroft’scoming too; and between youand me, Miss Menie, no to let it gangony farther, I think it was real richtand prudent of you to show us thefirst example, and draw us a’ up toLondon to take care of thae lads.”

“What do you mean, Nelly?” exclaimedMenie, somewhat angrily.

“Ye may weel say what does shemean,” said Jenny, making a suddeninroad from the door. “Do youhear, ye evil speaker!—the mistress isout, and there’s naebody to take careof this puir bairn but me; whatevermalice and venom ye have to say, outwi’t, and I’ll tell the young lady whatkind of character ye are when a’sdune.”

“I wadna keep such a meddlingbody in my house—no, if she did thewark twice as weel,” retorted Nelly,with calm superiority; “and I’ve naecall to speak my mind afore Jenny,and her aye misca’in’ me; but it’snae secret of mine. I was just gaunto say, that for a’ our Johnnie’s avery decent lad, and minds upon hisfriends, I never saw ane, gentle orsimple, sae awfu’ muckle tooken upabout himsel as Randy Home. He’sanither lad altogether to what heused to be; and it’s no to be thochtbut what he’s wanting a grand wifelike a’ the rest. Now, ye’ll just see.”

Menie Laurie put down Jenny’spassionate disclaimer by a motion ofher hand. “If this was what youcame to tell me, Nelly, I fear I shallscarcely be grateful for your visit.Do you know that it is an impertinenceto say this to me? Whisht,Jenny, that is enough; and I camehere to look after no one. Whateveryou may have thought before, youwill believe this now, since I say it.Jenny will see that you are comfortablewhile you stay out here; but Ithink, Nelly, you have said enough tome this morning, and I to you—Jenny,whisht.”

“I’ll no whisht,” cried Jenny, atlast, freed by Menie’s pause. “Eh, yeevil spirit! will ye tell me what causeof ill-will ye ever could have againstthis innocent bairn? I’m no gaun towhisht, Miss Menie—to think of hercoming up here ance errand to putout her malice on you! My patience!how ony mortal can thole the sicht o’her, I dinna ken.”

“I can forgive ye, Jenny,” saidthe meek Nelly Panton, “for a’ yourpassions, and your glooms, and yourill words—I’m thankful to say I canforgive ye; but, eh, sirs, this is aweary world;—wherever I gang, athame, or away frae hame, I’m ayemiskent—naebody has the heart totake a guid turn frae me—though,I’m sure, I aye mean a’thing for thebest, and it was richt Miss Menieshould ken. I thocht I would justcome up this far to give ye an advice,Miss Menie, when we were our lanes;and I’m no gaun to blaze up into afuff like Jenny because it’s ill ta’en.I’m just as guid friends as ever. Thenext time I come I’ll come with ourJohnnie, so I bid you a very goodmorning, Miss Menie Laurie, andmony thanks for your kind welcome.Jenny, fare-ye-well.”

Menie sat down in the windowwhen the dark figure of her unwelcomevisitor was gone. The suncame in upon her gaily—the genialAugust sun—and the leaves withoutfluttered in a happy wind and a mazeof morning sounds, broken with shrillershouts of children, and rings ofsilvery laughter floated up and floatedround her, of themselves an atmospherefresh and sweet; but Meniebowed her face between her hands,and looked out with wistful eyes intothe future, where so many fears andwonders had come to dwell; and vigilantand stern the meagre yew-treelooked in upon her, like an unkindlyfate.

The publication of the evidencegiven before the Select Committeeon the National Gallery, enables usto return to the subject of our articleof December with a more completeknowledge of the facts than we couldgather from the unfinished Report andthe extracts of evidence, which thepress of the day supplied. Thewhole Blue Book is a valuable document:it contains a very clear indexby which references to all details, aswell of fact as of opinion, can bereadily made, rendering the alarmingbulk of the materials very manageable.We can now see what each witnessactually said, so that none need complainof partial or mutilated extracts;every passage may be taken with itscontext. We shall take occasionthereby to correct some portions ofevidence, upon which we commentedin our former paper, having been misledby the versions in the newspaperreports, from which we took them.To correct a misstatement should beour first task. We were certainlymuch surprised to find it stated thatSir Charles Eastlake had made sucha declaration as this, that he wouldnot hesitate to clean a picture, and“to strip off the whole of its glazings.”We thought it at the time so improbablethat we could not believe suchto have been his meaning; and accordinglysaid, that Sir Charles musthave meant coats of varnish, for thatwe knew him to be too experienced amaster of his profession to mean theglazings. We have, since the publication,carefully examined his evidence,and not only do not see thewords attributed to him, but collectfrom his answers to the queries putto him, a general aversion to “cleaning,”and that, in most instances, heopposed subjecting pictures to it, asa dangerous process.

It might, however, be supposedthat artists would agree as to themeaning of terms of art. Those onthe Commission unacquainted withthe processes of painting, must havebeen very much surprised and perplexedby the very different meaningsgiven to technical terms, and thatnot by one or two, or by artists oflittle note, but by nearly all, includingthe most celebrated. The confusioncaused by this non-agreement amongthe artists, with regard to the termsof their art, the contradictions, andexplanations, occupy a very largeportion of the Blue Book. Nor does itappear that the Commissioners are ableto come to any clear conclusion uponthe matter. They labour hard, itis true, and put their questions inevery shape, to learn what seems to besimple enough—in fact, whether anypaint, put on a picture by the originalpainter, in a thin transparent manner,has been removed by the cleaningprocess; but the examined force theirexaminers into a labyrinth of words,of various and tortuous uses, in whichthere is all bewilderment, and nomaster-clue is given them by whichthey might escape into unobscuredground. Thus, we see in the indexthe word “glazings” requires fourheads of examination—1. Explanationof the process; its susceptibility toinjury by cleaning. 2. How far itwas used by the ancient masters. 3.Proofs of glazings having been extensivelyused. 4. Removal by cleaningof the glazings from certain picturesin the Gallery. There is, at least, onecertain conclusion to be drawn—thatthere was, and is, such a thing asglazing. That is generally agreedupon—in fact, is only doubted by thekeeper, Mr Uwins, R.A.; and his denial,causing so much astonishment,has raised a storm of contradictoryopinions, which have obfuscated thewhole artistic atmosphere. The publicattention had been drawn to asupposed injury, said to have beeninflicted on some of the finest picturesin the National Gallery. The attack,through letters in the Times, on thetrustees, keeper, cleaners, and generalsystem, was so vigorous that theCommission of Enquiry became absolutelynecessary, in order either toallay the public alarm or to providesecurity for the future. The resulthas been certainly to justify and confirmthe alarm, and to offer certainpropositions for the better providingfor the safety and progressive improvementof our National Gallery.The system, which includes the wholemanagement of the Gallery, is condemned,in unhesitating terms ofcompliment to those who made thesystem, and who ought to have madea better, or to have refused positionin one so bad. Yet we really thinkit is straining a point of grace to dignifythe general mismanagement withthe title of “system” at all, for noregular system seems ever to havebeen pursued from the beginning. Aswe showed in our former article, (andnot from our own surmise, but fromthe evidence of a parliamentary report),our several Governments werenever in earnest with regard to theFine Arts; and a National Galleryhaving, by a kind of accident, beenforced upon them, they chose trusteesas to an honorary office in whichthere was nothing to do, selected fortheir title and rank rather than fortheir taste, knowledge, or ability. Theconsequences have been sad indeed,and exhibit a catalogue of sins ofcommission and omission. A NationalGallery was founded thirty years ago;what is the great production of thesethirty years of peace? It is the oldfable of the mountain’s labour. Theevidence as to losses sustained byomission to purchase is quite vexatious;there is a long list, to whichevery one acquainted with the pictureworld may make additions. We haveoften and often expressed our astonishment,when we have seen pictureson sale, wanted in the Gallery, and notpurchased. To say nothing of thegreater schools, the Italian, less understoodby collectors of pictures, andfor which there is as yet unhappily nosufficient public taste—How manypictures of value, of the schools forwhich a taste is professed, have beenallowed to pass away, and many ofthem sent out of the country? Weallude to pictures of which therecould be no doubt, either as to theircondition or originality. For instance,how miserably poor is our gallery inthe works of the younger Vanderveldt,who may be almost classed asan English painter; yet the countryhad an opportunity of making a purchaseof that exceedingly fine onesold from the collection of Sir BethelCodrington. How poor are we in theworks of Ruysdael, of Hobbima—paintersso highly estimated by privatecollectors. We are not giving a preferenceto these schools; we onlyshow, that what entirely falls withinthe taste of all collectors among usthe nation disregards. An indifferencehas been proved. Did not amember of the Government declare,in his place in Parliament, that it waspreferable that pictures should ratherbe in private collections than in apublic gallery?

We cannot subscribe to the censurepassed on our Prime-Minister, LordAberdeen, by a writer in the MorningPost, that he consented to the purchaseof two pictures which he neversaw. Surely he was justified in hisreliance upon the recommendation ofthe Trustees, especially as he was wellaware of the difficulty of obtaining theirconsent to make any purchases. Butthe inadequacy of the system is thusadmitted. Question 5289.—“YourLordship has probably become awarethat a want of definite and well-subdividedresponsibility is the main defectof the institution as it exists atpresent?”—“Yes, I think that wherethe trustees are numerous, and theirattendance is not compulsory, there isgreat uncertainty; different personsattend on different days, and comewith different views and different projects.”But further on we have thereal cause of the difficulty exposed,the incompetency of the judges. Q.5319.—“Your Lordship is aware thatopportunities have occurred for thepurchase of pictures which belongedto Mr Solly, Mr Conyngham, MrYounge Otley, and various other gentlemen;and some persons regret thatwe have not availed ourselves of thoseopportunities. I presume your Lordshipconceives it might be desirablethat authority should be given to alimited body of trustees to give apositive recommendation in such casesto the Chancellor of the Exchequer?”—“Yes,I think that would be veryuseful; but at the same time, on allthese subjects, people differ very muchamong those who are generally supposedto understand matters of artexceedingly well—I have never foundtwo agree. In the case of picturesnot enjoying public notoriety andcelebrity, you are always liable tothat: one man will think that he hasfound something that is invaluable,while others will think that it is goodfor little or nothing. You are alwaysliable to a difference of opinion, andthe selection must be left to thosewho are admitted to be the best judges.I do not expect to see a tribunal inwhich there will not often be a greatdifference of opinion on matters ofart.” Although his Lordship is awarethat there is in France, and Prussia,and other countries, “one supremehead, not an artist, but a noblemanor gentleman of high attainments inthose matters, in whom the countryhas confidence,” he is also aware ofthe hornet’s nest that free discussionis: in answer to question 5314, “Yes,I believe so—a sort of minister; butin a country where there is the samefreedom of discussion that there ishere, I should not envy the personoccupying such a position.” It wouldindeed be a responsibility requiring astrong and firm mind. And “publicconfidence” is a variable thing, ashis Lordship may at the present momentshrewdly suspect; yet we doubtnot there would be many candidatesfor, or at least many having sufficientconfidence in themselves to accept,such a position. Such might be foundamongst the competent and incompetent.It is not improbable that MrMorris Moore, fully assured of his owntaste and knowledge, would accept it;or if Sidney Smith were living, hewould be likely to add that to the catalogueof undertakings to which LordJohn Russell would think himself fullyequal, even though there would be achance of being flayed alive by publicdiscussion and averted public confidence.There are men who desperatelylove to give judgment ex cathedra,whether it be about a Titian ora nation’s safety, and would hardly berestrained though the fate of Sisaneswere threatened them, and they wereto encounter the chance of being flayed,and their skins made cushions fortheir successors in the same seat, toremind them of the consequences ofan ill judgment. Still we advocatethe one supreme head—a minister ofthe fine arts—and would have himchoose his council; nor should we beso unreasonable as to expect evensuch a one to be a competent judge inall departments. Few, indeed, are sogifted. Sir Robert Peel, who appearsfrom the beginning to have takengreat interest in the Gallery, wouldscarcely have been a competent authoritywith regard to Italian art; for, ifwe mistake not, in the public exhibitionof his pictures, a few years ago,there were none of any of the Italianschools. We know no man whosegeneral judgment we should so muchrely upon as Sir Charles Eastlake, forhe is accomplished, not only as apainter, but as a scholar of artisticresearch, and full of knowledge; butwe learn from himself, in his evidencebefore this Commission, that when hewas appointed to the keepership bySir Robert Peel, he accepted the officeon the condition that he was only to beconsulted on, and responsible for, thepurchase of Italian pictures. A ministerof fine arts should certainly bewell acquainted with the finest worksof art, and they are undoubtedly ofthe Italian schools—a real knowledgeof these, to a great extent, implies aCatholic taste. The possessor of suchknowledge is not likely to be blind tothe merits of other schools, thoughhis preference for the higher may havelimited his search, and in some measurelowered his zeal as a collector.He would, of course, have subordinateofficials, who would, for final judgment,refer to him; and we should inno case fear his decision if he wereversed in the fundamental principlesof art discoverable in the great schoolsof Italy. There should be purveyorseverywhere. But we have seen enoughin the pages of the Report to show thatsuch employed purveyors should notbe selected from picture-dealers. Anyone attached to the Gallery in thiscapacity should be a sworn agent,bound to renounce all picture-dealingas a trade, and not to accept anythingwhatever in the shape of commission.We see no reason why he should everhave been in the trade at all, quitesure that there are many gentlemenout of it perfectly qualified to undertakethe important duty.

The main object of the Commissionbeing to discover if the charges ofinjury, from cleaning certain pictures,have any foundation, it may bethought somewhat strange that theyscarcely come to a conclusion uponthe matter, which, if they had beeninclined to trust to their perception,would not have been a difficult task.They tell us that “the preponderanceof testimony is to the effect, that theappearance of the pictures has beenrendered less agreeable by the operationof cleaning (the draught of Reportsays deteriorated)—in some ofthem, in regard to their general aspect,by removal of the mellow tonewhich they previously exhibited; inothers, from special blemishes, whichhave become apparent, and which ina former state of the pictures werenot perceptible.” In another placewe are told, “the weight of evidencevaries considerably in respect of theeffect produced upon each of the ninepictures which have been lately subjectedto the process of cleaning.”We should have thought the weightof evidence had been the preponderance;the weighing down testimony,the turning the scale for or against avarying weight, as a conclusion ofevidence appears rather unintelligible.There never was so great a weight ofevidence as the Blue Book itself.Did the Commissioners—admittingthat, from the examination of artists,amateurs, and picture-dealers, theonly result was “great contrarietyof judgment and irreconcilable differencesof taste”—go to the pictures andexamine for themselves? They didso. They went “in company withseveral witnesses, and in some instancesthey had also the advantageof engravings and painted sketches ofthe pictures, so that the witness couldpoint out in detail the precise groundsupon which his conclusions werefounded.” We did expect, when wecame upon this passage in the Report,that we should learn what the Commissionersthemselves thought afterthis inspection, especially as they hadimmediately stated that the object ofthe inspection was, “in order thatevery facility might be afforded forthe elucidation of these conflicting opinions.”But, no. They avoid throwingany opinion into the scale; sothat there is no positive decision;and at this interesting point they suddenlyturn aside, make, as it were, aring, to enjoy the stand-up fight ofthe conflicting opinions of Mr MorrisMoore and Mr Uwins the keeper,as some relief to the discrepanciesamong themselves. We do not doubtthat they did form a judgment in theirown minds, and can readily guess it.They are cautious, and avoid pronouncingit. Indeed, the Commissionersseem to have been a littlevexed with Mr Morris Moore, andlook unpleasantly upon him as a chiefaccuser who had put into their handsa very disagreeable work, which theydo not at all sit easy under. Theyshow their vexation in the Report,p. xi., where, in commenting upon thecontradictory evidence of Mr MorrisMoore and Mr Uwins, they embodyin the Report the opinion of MrUwins, who characterises the evidenceof Mr M. Moore as “displayinga mass of ignorance and want ofintelligence.” And immediately, as ifto set aside the evidence of both, wepresume by the context as prejudiced,they say—“Your Committee wish todirect attention to the unprejudiced[the italics are ours] opinions of manyeminent artists and amateurs.” Sowhen Mr Morris Moore justly complainsof insult from the unreprovedwords used by Mr Farrer, “If theimputation came from a person whoI thought would be believed, I shouldtake it up,” the Commissioners, afterclearing the room to consider thecharge of Mr Moore, that he had beeninsulted, came to the strange conclusion,not that Mr Farrer’s words wereno insult, but that “Mr Moore hadhimself frequently used language towardsothers which might reasonablygive offence.” Now this is not fair.Offence may be given reasonably, andtherefore admissibly; but when it isof a nature to impugn the veracitygenerally, not as to any particular fact,of a person under examination, as onenot to be believed, he has a right todemand protection; and if it be notgiven, their right of examination ceases.There is a great difference betweenwhat may be in the nature of the evidenceoffensive and what is insulting.If Mr Moore had been equally guiltywith Mr Farrer, the Commissionersshould, when so guilty, have reprovedit; whereas they make this theiromission an excuse for not doingplain justice now. Doubtless Mr M.Moore has given great offence by hisevidence, but that does not justify MrFarrer in offering an insult which isnot evidence; nor are the Commissionersjustified in their comment thatMr Moore had given offence, withoutmarking still more strongly the insultoffered by Mr Farrer, still unreproved.We are not acquainted with MrMoore, nor do we in any way takeup his “animosities,” if he has any;but we think towards him the Commissionersdid not act quite fairly,nor consistently with the dignity oftheir position.

We may not unaptly look upontheir visit to the National Gallery asan inquest on the bodies of certain oldmasters—say Claude, Titian, Velasquez—forthe charge had been madeof positive murder. The decision required—Werethey dead, killed, murdered,or still alive and well-looking?A physician once told us an anecdotein point. He, with another physician,had been some time in attendanceupon a patient. (We believethe man was a baker). One day theywent up-stairs as usual, looked amoment or two at the poor man, thenat each other significantly, and walkedout of the room. On the stairs theymet the wife, and tenderly informedher that she was a widow; and as awidow she properly conducted herself,and saw the physicians depart.It so happened that our friend, someweeks after, turning the corner of astreet, came suddenly against thebaker—“What! aren’t you dead?”“No,” said the man, “I recovered assoon as you left me.” A little fartheron he met the widow that should havebeen. Perhaps she had less reasonto be thankful than her recovered husband.She raised a tumult againstthe physician, vociferating, “Prettyfellows you must be—much you mustknow of your business, not to knowwhether a man be living or dead.”From this, he said, he determinedhenceforth, on most occasions, to useonly dumb show, or ambiguous expressions.The Commissioners seem tohave been of this way of thinking.They cannot altogether acquit the irresponsibleresponsibles—are unwillingto condemn; they adopt, therefore,a figure not unknown in oratory, amystification under the ambiguity ofa varying weight of evidence.[4]

We are, however, now in a positionto hear the witnesses speak forthemselves. Such a mass of contradictionsit will be difficult to find elsewhereamong professors of any otherart or science. In the multitude ofcounsellors there may be wisdom, butit is not the less hard to extract it;and certainly one part of the wisdomis sometimes to conceal it.

As “glazing” has been shown to bea fertile source of discrepancies ofopinion, and the whole question ofthe cleaning process so much dependsupon its existence or non-existencein certain works, and upon its peculiarliability to injury, it may not beunimportant to examine the testimoniesconcerning it.

What is the definition of glazing?Sir Charles Eastlake makes it to be,“The passing a dark transparentcolour over a lighter colour.” He alsodraws a distinction between the Italianand Flemish glazing. “The Italianpractice is glazing over a solid, lightpreparation; the Flemish is passingtransparent colours over a lightground.” Mr Charteris doubts thepropriety of the definition; Sir Charlesexplains, “I would say that, if adark transparent colour be passed toothickly, even over a white ground, soas to exclude the light entirely, it becomesopaque; on the other hand, ifan opaque colour be passed so thinlyover a light ground as to show thelight through, it partakes of the natureof glazing. There are picturesby Rubens, in which some of thetints are produced in that way, withopaque colour in a diaphanous state.I was about to state, when you calledmy attention to the meaning youattach to glazing, that the system ofpassing a thin opaque colour over itsground is called, in English technicalphraseology, ‘scumbling;’ and thepassing a strictly transparent colourover its ground is called ‘glazing.’” Itmay appear very bold in us to questionthis definition of the President of theAcademy; yet we are inclined to doso, because we think our artists havenot agreed to adopt it, and because itleaves a common mode of paintingwithout any technical term; but ifscumbling may be allowed to expressthe thin, yet somewhat dry, rubbingin of opaque colour, we may wellleave glazing to the conception of itadopted by the Italians, which strikesSir Charles Eastlake as remarkable.“Now, it is remarkable that theItalians have but one word for bothoperations—the term velare (to veil)comprehends both glazing and scumbling.”Nor do we see any sufficientreason for confining glazing to darkover light. We cannot but think itwas the practice of the Italian schools,at least some of them, to paint glazinglylight over dark. Did not Correggio,especially in his backgrounds,paint out the light, the white ground—ifhe used always light grounds—withdeep greys, not of a uniform tone, andafterwards go over them, sometimeswith dark transparent colour, andsometimes semi-transparent, and soon lighter? The practice of Rembrandtseems to want technical terms,if Sir Charles’s definition is to be anauthority. That eminent painter ofmysterious effect, of “palpable obscure,”certainly often painted glazinglysemi-opaque lighter over dark,as well as dark over light. It maybe a question of practical art, if itbe not as desirable that dark under-paintingshould come out, or slightlyappear through a lighter, as that lightshould come up through the dark.We never can be brought to believethat a white ground, showing throughdark glazings, will imitate all thedepths of nature. It was perhaps toomuch the practice of the Flemishschools, but they were not schoolsfrom which we should learn the powerof sentiment in colouring. It was anexpeditious practice, but it led to aconventional colouring, sacrificing thetruth of shadows, with the object (ifattained) of setting off, and givingbody to the lights. We the ratherdwell upon this, because we believethat the Flemish system, and particularlythat of Rubens, has had aninjurious influence upon modern art.Rubens was a painter of great power,and dared an extravagance of conventionality,which, in weaker hands,becomes a conspicuous fault. Hencea thin, flashy, and flimsy style ofpainting, unnatural, because unsubstantial;—wesay unsubstantial; for,however illuminated, or covered withtransparency of light or of shadow,nature is ever substantial. The Italianpractice is, therefore, greatly tobe preferred.

It is well known that our Gainsboroughsaid, that with black or blue,and asphaltum, he would make a pitas deep as the Inferno; but it was amistake: with such dark transparency,especially over a light ground,he would make no pit at all, but ahole scarcely the depth of his mall-stick;his arm could reach to the endof it, as against a wall. In the greatestdepths of nature, there is a depthof dark below, not of light, over whichthere is atmosphere. It is this depththat should come up, not light. Weare not unaware that any semi-opaqueglazing over a darker colour has atendency to coldness, but it may notbe the worse on that account, as thepainter has the choice of making hisunder-darks as warm as he pleases,and his semi-opaque glazing warmtoo. This, cool, in its various degreesover warm, was the method adoptedby both the Poussins: they paintedon red ground, and that generally notlight, but of deep tone; as it wasalso pretty much the case with theBolognese school. Gaspar Poussin,by this method, gave great effect tohis cool greens in masses of wood,the red ground imperceptibly givingan under warmth, the general massesbeing laid in with a body of colour,but semi-transparent, as if chalk,or some transparent body, had beenembodied with the colour. In hispictures, cool greys, more or lessmixed with ochres, tell with greattruth over the red ground. We hopethe condemnation passed by thePresident of the Academy upon thismethod may not be quite merited.Indeed, the beauty of most of thatgreat, we should say greatest, oflandscape-painter’s works, which areyet uninjured by the cleaner, wouldcontradict so strong an assertion, asthat they are sure to perish from thecause ascribed; for, as they have survivedat least two hundred years,Gaspar Poussin having been born in1600, (and, it may be worth observing,Claude in the same year), wemay fairly presume that the work oftime on white lead has already doneits worst; and we would almost doubtthe effect ascribed to time, when welook at the perfect pictures of themaster, which appear as if fresh fromthe easel, and certainly the white nottoo transparent. Sir Charles is explainingwhy he objected to the cleaningcertain pictures. “The generalreason I have given; but if you wereto ask me about those pictures, Ishould say of the two, Canaletti andthe Poussin, that it is extremelyinjudicious to clean pictures of thatkind, because time, even without anyassistance from picture-cleaners, issure to destroy such pictures in theend; they are painted on a darkground, and every painter knows,that when white lead is thinly spreadover a dark colour, it becomes moreor less transparent in time: whitelead has a tendency to grow transparent.If you were to paint a chess-boardwith a thin coat of white lead,so as effectually to conceal the blacksquares, and not suffer it to be touched,in a certain time, longer or shorter,according to the thinness of the paint,the black squares would again becomeapparent. The white lead has a tendencyto grow transparent, and theconsequence is, that, when a picture ispainted on a dark ground, time doesit harm rather than good.” Wewould, with some hesitation—for wepay great deference to the opinions ofSir C. Eastlake—suggest another causefor this appearance of the chess-board—thetendency of oil to become a varnish,and therefore itself more transparent;and we are inclined to thinkthat, had the experiment been triedwith any other colour, ochres, orNaples yellow, the effect would havebeen the same. Nay, what would bea still better test—had the whole boardbeen covered with black, the whitesquares, we believe, though concealedfor a time, would have appearedthrough. We also hope and trustthat this effect of time on the oil ison the whole rather beneficial thanotherwise, and that it is not continuousbeyond a certain point. It is almostincredible that either the oil or thewhite lead, laid on canvass two orthree hundred years ago, is now, atthe present, and will be in future, toa day of destruction, changing theirproperties. Then, with regard toGaspar Poussin, if such were reallythe case, the lights would be the firstto disappear; but, on the contrary, MrBrown, who cleaned the Dido andÆneas about thirty years ago, a verydark picture, gives another kind ofevidence. Q. 1128.—“Did you observein that picture that a veryconsiderable part of the discolouringand blackness arose from internalcauses, from an internal alteration inthe colours?”—“In some instances;but the general effect of the picturewas very much lowered by the heterogeneousmass of oil that was upon it,and the very dark parts did not, ofcourse, come out, as you would imaginethey would, from the removal ofthat: the lighter parts were verybrilliant, indeed, but it was alwaysa dark picture.” Q. 1130.—“Isthere not something peculiar in theground on which Gaspar and NicholasPoussin painted their pictures, whichrendered them liable to decompositionand discolourment?”—“I think not somuch the ground, as the colour whichthey would put upon the ground,because the ground that you see inthose masters, where they have usedit to assist them in painting the picture,is an universal colour: in someparts of the picture, the ground ismore or less painted on, but all thelight parts of Gaspar Poussin’s picturesare very tender.” The differencesof opinion with respect to glazingare chiefly among the artists. Picture-cleanersand picture-dealers arein better agreement. Even the artistswho differ, perhaps differ more onaccount of the definition not beingvery clear, and established in theartists’ vocabulary, than as to thefact. But the evidence of the presentkeeper, Mr Uwins, is certainly veryextraordinary on this, as on everypoint upon which his examinationentered. We showed, in our lastpaper, how he was present and absentat the cleanings at the same times;how he gave evidence as to themethods adopted by the cleaners inhis presence, which the cleaners themselvesvery flatly contradicted; howhe astonished Lord Monteagle byassertions which his lordship denied;how he protested he did not advise,yet did advise; and now we find,with regard to this question of glazing,having contradicted nearly every oneelse, he turns round, for lack of others,to contradict himself. His first answersabout glazing were most plainand unhesitating. Being asked if theVenetian painters did not use glazing,and that, in consequence, their picturesare liable to injury in cleaning,he says, “That is a question that cannever be settled, because nobody canprove that they did use glazings.”Q. 116.—“Is it your opinion thatthey did, or that they did not?”—“Ibelieve that the best painters ofevery school used very little, indeed,if any at all, of what is called glazing.I think it quite a modern quackery,that has nothing to do with the nobleworks of remote ages in art.” Q.117.—“You consider the theory,as to the Venetian painters havingused very delicate glazings in finishingoff their pictures, is fallacious?”—“Ido not admit those glazings, as theyare called; I believe that they soughtfor freshness and pureness of colour,and depended on their knowledge ofcolour for the harmony of their picture,and not on putting on what theRomans call ‘la velatura Inglese;’they wished to obtain the vigour andfreshness of nature, or their pictureswould not have lasted as they have.”Q. 118.—“Will you explain to theCommittee why the Romans (I presumeyou mean the Romans of the presentday) call that particular processby the name of ‘la velatura Inglese?’”—“Becausethe English painters onlyadopt it.” Q. 119.—“The Englishpainters of the modern school?”—“Itis only those who adopt it; that is whyit is especially called ‘la velatura Inglese.’”This is very childish, to attemptto disprove the practice of theold Roman, or other masters, by thesupposed—for it is only supposed—orassumed criticism of modern Romans,who can be no authority upon the practiceof modern art in this country.Having found, however, that “velare”and “velatura” are old, not newterms of art, in another examinationMr Uwins comes to his explanation,which is as extraordinary as his firstassertion. He contradicts himself,by admitting, that all good paintersdid use glazings, and even asserts thathe never denied it, only in a particularsense. It is in vain that the Committeetell him, they asked not thequestion in any particular sense; heslips out of the hands of the examinerwith wonderful lubricity. It is thehardest thing to bring his comprehensionto any sense whatever of thequestions put to him; and as to theunfortunate “velatura,” he has examinedthe dictionary of the Academyof Bologna, and, although he hasadmitted its meaning by the thing,as in practice they all glazed, yet, notto be vanquished, even by his extractsfrom his dictionary, he pertinaciouslysays, “I believe that both theseextracts relate to the preparation ofthe canvass.”

We fear the reader may be wearyof this discussion on glazing, but wemust beg him to go a little furtherwith us on the subject; it is important,for if there were no glazings,both during the process and final, nodamage may have been done, in respectto them, for there could be noneto remove—a state of the case whichsome would fain establish, if possible.The Committee take a great deal oftrouble to get the clearest evidenceupon the point. We perfectly agreewith Mr Morris Moore in his evidencein this matter, and utterly repudiatethe idea that the mellow, warm, lucidtones of the old masters have been inany degree given by time. He veryappositely quotes the sensible Hogarth,“Time cannot give a picture moreunion and harmony than has been inthe power of a skilful master, with allhis rules of art, to do.” Mr MorrisMoore denies it, with the examples ofClaude and Titian, and quotes amplyold authorities. We have immediatelyreferred to Leonardo da Vinci’s treatiseon painting in general, a very puzzlingbook; but we find a passage whichshows that not only tone might begiven by glazing, but colours changedby it—that is, one colour over another,making a third. He says, “A transparentcolour being laid on anothercolour of a different kind forms a third,partaking of each of the two simplesthat compose it.” Mr Dyce, R.A.,comes to the rescue of the PaulVeronese, one of the recently cleanedpictures, showing from the authorityof Boschini, a satirical writer onart, of the seventeenth century, thatPaul Veronese did not glaze hisdraperies. The conclusion would ofcourse be, that in that respect thepicture could not have been injured,or that it is not the work of PaulVeronese. But surely the passagefrom Boschini proves too much; forit asserts with regard to drapery animpossibility, or at best a very unlikelything, unless glazing be takeninto the account. For though Boschiniis made to say, that Paul Veronesenever glazed his drapery, he is madealso to say that “he was accustomedto paint the shadows of drapery withlake, not only of red draperies, butalso of yellow, green, and even blue,thus producing an indescribably harmoniouseffect.” But he had alsosaid, that the painter “put in thelocal tints of draperies first, paintingthe blue draperies for the most partin water-colour.” It is, in the firstplace, most unlikely that he left thesedraperies in water-colour only; it ismore probable that this first paintingwas entirely gone over, or his lake inshadows would hardly have suitedall the colours. We happen to havein our possession a Venetian picture,which shows this Venetian practiceof lake, under blue drapery. It isa Palma; the subject, The DeadChrist, The Virgin Mother, MaryMagdalene, and other figures. Thefoot of Mary the Mother rests on astone, on which is written JacobusPalma. He was the pupil of Titian,and is said to have finished a pictureleft unfinished by Titian. The lakeis very visible under the blue, whichwas evidently put over it; and beingrubbed off here and there, the red isvery conspicuous. We mention this,merely to show that so far Boschiniwas right, and that the practice wasnot confined to Paul Veronese. Andis there not presumption in any one,whether painter or not—and Boschiniwas no painter, or a poor one—toassert positively, that a master wholived a generation before him did notuse this or that process of painting,having a choice of all, and skill to usethem. Boschini’s aversion was theabuse of varnishes; and it is curiousthat, among the condemned recipes isthe olio d’abezzo, for which there areother authorities besides Armenini,and it is mentioned in the MarcianaManuscript, supposed to have beenthe varnish of Correggio. Boschiniis speaking of foreigners, “forestiere,”not Venetians:—

Mr Dyce is unfortunate upon oneoccasion in rejecting the evidence ofArmenini, “because he describes thepractice of another school,” “his ownschool, the school of Ferrara.” Uponthis Mr Morris Moore is somewhatsharp upon him, and quotes Armeninihimself, to show that he does not confinehimself to any school, but speaksfrom the “practice and example ofthe most excellent artists that haveexisted,” and that he was of Faenza,not Ferrara.

Mrs Merrifield, in her valuablework on the ancient practice of painting,the result of a Government Commission,expresses great confidence inthe information she received from alearned and skilful Milanese painterand cleaner, Signor A. He had particularlystudied the works of Titian,and describes his practice. If hisaccount be correct, Titian certainlyglazed over his lights as well as darks;and, like Paul Veronese, by the accountof Boschini, he painted theshadows of blue drapery with lake.“He (Titian) then painted the lightswith flesh-colour, and laid by thepicture to dry. After five or sixmonths he glazed the flesh with terrarossa, and let it dry. He then paintedin the shades transparently (that iswithout any white in the shadows),using a great deal of asphaltum[5] withthem.” “He also said, that in a bluedrapery he painted the shades withlake, and then laid on the lights (withwhite); that these colours were laidon with great body, and, when dry,he took a large brush and spread thebiadetto over the whole.” This biadettowas used by Paul Veronese; wesuppose it was a blue from copper,and, owing to its liability to turngreen, used without oil. Now, ifsuch was the practice of Titian, it wasmost likely in some degree the practicealso of Paul Veronese, who,though younger, was contemporarywith Titian. We somewhat enlargeupon this question here, because, by theevidence given, doubts were thrownupon the originality of the “Consecrationof St Nicolas,” or to prove thatno glazings had been removed.

We shall not pursue this subjectfurther, concluding that, whateverpractice is in use now by variousartists was known by the ancientmasters, and some things more, whichare either lost or uncertainly recovered.No one has paid greaterattention to this subject, or applied toit more research and discrimination,than Sir Charles Eastlake. We stilllook for more valuable and decisiveinformation from him, especially withrespect to the Italian schools.

We are certainly surprised at theopinions given by artists of eminenceas to the condition of the Claude,“The Queen of Sheba;” that MrStansfield should confirm his opinionof its being uninjured “from the extremitiesof the trees next the sky,and the foliage generally,” becausethose very parts have appeared toour eyes so feeble, so washy, as if atsome time or other painted on by anotherhand than Claude’s: we say thesame also, somewhat fearlessly, of theedges of the trees in the small uprightClaude. The outlining, too, ofthe cloud in the Queen of Sheba isof the same feeble handling; and theupper and lower tones of the sky arequite out of agreement. Mr Stansfieldand others think time will restore thelost tone and harmony: we cannotcomprehend this judgment. If timecan give that peculiar warm glow ofClaude, we should see that time haddone this kind or unkind office on theworks of other painters, as cold asthat picture is now. There weremany who avoided this glow, as unsuitedto their subjects; we do notsee that time has in this respect convertedany of them into Claudes.There is Claude’s imitator, Swannevelt,without the glow; but takeRuysdael, who painted upon an oppositeprinciple—we never see thatglow thrown over his pictures. Hisfresh blue and white skies are stillfree from that yellow toning of time’sfingers. It comes to this—eitherClaude painted his peculiar glow, ortime did for him. If Time did it forhim, Time must have been constrainedby his office and nature to do thesame thing for others. He did notdo so for others, or Claude’s wouldnot be a glow peculiar to him—ergo,Claude did the work, and not time.But time is also supposed to do thisameliorating work very speedily. MrStansfield thinks “we all must allowthat the Cuyp has recovered its tone.”Will it be allowed? There is, andwas after the cleaning of that picturein 1844, a pink colouring in the sky,which put the whole picture out ofharmony, which, if painted by Cuyp,to be like his other works, could onlyhave been an under-tone, and by himgone over with another, which musthave been at some time or other removed.

How could so skilful a marinepainter as Mr Stansfield look accuratelyat the water from the foregroundto the distance in the Claudeand think it uninjured? The veryforms of the waves, in the second andthird distances, are interrupted andfaint. An argument has been brought,that, if the sky had been injured, theropes would have suffered. Besidesthat it is merely assumed that theyhave not suffered, that argument isfallacious. We have the authority ofa very experienced picture-cleaner,and one well acquainted with picturesand all processes, which tends to acontrary proof. De Burtin, in histreatise on picture-cleaning, says:“A point of the utmost importance,and which never must be lost sight of,is this, that among the glazings therewill be found some which, althoughvery transparent and delicate, it isnevertheless very difficult to injure,because they have been laid on thecolour when fresh, and have becomethoroughly incorporated and unitedtherewith; and, on the contrary, therewill be found others, and sometimesnot so transparent and delicate, butwhich will yet be injured very readily,because they stand separate from, anddo not adhere to the colour beneaththem, that having been almost dryere they were put on.” Now, supposingthat Claude’s glow were—wesay not that it was—an after-glaze,the ropes may have been put in onthe wet sky. Does any one thinkthat Claude’s skies were painted atone painting, or even two?

Mr Stansfield had used the words“raw and disagreeable;” but beingasked if he thought that pictureraw and disagreeable when it leftClaude’s easel? replies, No. Wemust in justice say, that he somewhatmodifies the expression. “Perhaps Ihave used a wrong term in saying‘raw’ and ‘disagreeable,’ for weall paint for time to have some effectupon our pictures.” NotwithstandingMr Stansfield’s great experience, wemore than doubt this fallacy as totime. We know it to be, and to havebeen, a favourite maxim of manypainters of the English school, thattime will remedy rawness, and maketheir works in mellowness what thoseof the ancient masters were. Weutterly disbelieve it, and for the followingreasons: It is out of characterwith the mind of genius purposely toleave a work incomplete. The ideaof perfection being in the mind, thehand cannot resist the operation.Then, has time had that effect uponmore modern works? We appeal forevidence to the Vernon Gallery. Arethe pictures there better than whenthey were fresh from the easel? Notone, we verily believe, and know someto be much worse. This was a notionof Constable’s and his followers, andit has infected the minds of too many.He painted as if he would frost hispictures with white—has time finishedthem to his conceived perfection?Those who trust to time must, wefear, also trust to the picture-cleanerand picture-toner, against whom thereis, rather inconsistently, a considerableoutcry. This is a point not requiringa test of long ages. Mr Stansfieldhimself thinks “The Queen of Sheba”will recover its tone in six months,and that from 1846 to the presenttime the satisfactory change hastaken place in the pictures cleaned.

With regard to Claude’s generalyellow tone, there remains yet a questionto be asked—Did he take it fromnature, or did he add it with a viewof improving nature? Quite awarethat the question will shock the Naturalists,we still venture it. In thefirst place, be it observed—and we havenoticed it elsewhere in the pages ofthis Magazine—nature will bear greatliberties with regard to colour, withoutlosing her characteristics. Colourmay be said, in this sense, to be thepoetical language of nature. It isastonishing that any can doubt whetheror not this view of nature wastaken by the Ancient Masters. It isunfashionable now. To apply thisto Claude: In Sir David Brewster’sevidence, we find mention made of“Claude glasses,” some of which heproduced. He considered that, lookingthrough these, the tone would bemuch restored to the eye. “I conceive,”he says, “this (the yellowtone) is proved by the glasses, whichI have produced, having got the nameof Claude Lorraine glasses from theirgiving that general tone to naturethat characterises all his pictures.”This leads to a slight discussion onthe subject of the glasses. Mr B.Wall asks Sir David, “Are you notaware that, about forty-five yearsago, those Claude Lorraine glasseswere introduced and sold, three, orfour, or five together, and they werevery much used by tourists who usedto see the English Lakes?—were theynot of different colours—blue, pink,green, and almost every shade?”“No such name was given to suchglasses as you refer to in your question.”Mr B. Wall: “I venture todiffer from your high authority, andto think that the glass which you calla Claude Lorraine glass is not theonly glass that went by that name;and therefore that the inferencewhich you have drawn, that the yellowone was the proper one to usewhen you looked at Claude’s pictures,was not correct.” Mr Stirling asksif there is not another thing calleda Claude Lorraine glass, “a piece ofcoloured glass which is used to reducethe landscape, and reflect it like thesurface of a mirror?” Sir David says,he never saw it done with colouredglass. The difference between theglass spoken of by Sir David, andthat by Mr B. Wall, does not seemvery important,—it being that oneadmits other colours more freely thanthe other. Mr Wall is not, however,quite correct in limiting the inventionto forty-five years ago. We haveone in our possession which we knowto have been in existence very near acentury, and it has always been calleda Claude glass. I believe it has beenin use, as was the black glass, in thedays of the Old Masters. The effecton the natural landscape is curious,and worth recording. The yellowglass is very extraordinary: it wondrouslyheightens the lights, so thata sky, for instance, in which scarcelyan illuminated cloud is seen, lookedat through this glass, exhibits greatvariety of parts. Shadows are deepened,and light strengthened; realcolours not lost, but as it were coveredwith a glaze. We have alwaysbeen of opinion that Rembrandt usedit, his pictures are so like nature seenthrough that medium. It mostly reducesthe blue, making it greenish.There was a little picture of Rembrandtexhibited some years ago atthe Institution in Pall-Mall, whichpresented exactly the effect we speakof. It was a most simple subject—ahilly ground, on the undulating summitof which, on one side, was avillage church among trees, on theother a few scattered houses, all dark,against the sky; from the division ofthe hill, a road very indistinct camedown to the foreground, which, to theright, melted off into a dark brook,going into deep shade, where it waslost. The sky was exceedingly luminous—acloud rising over the village,such as would “drop fatness,” andthe whole tone of that greenish-grey,with rich-toned illuminations, whichthe Claude glass constantly presentsto the eye. In a paper of this Magazineof 1847, in which we had occasionto speak of colour, and the habitof the Old Masters in deviating fromthe common, obvious colouring ofnature, we alluded to this ClaudeLorraine glass. “This may be exemplifiedby a dark mirror—and,better still, by a Claude glass, as itis called, by which we look at naturethrough coloured glasses. We do notthe less recognise nature—nay, it isimpossible not to be charmed withthe difference, and yet not for a momentquestion the truth. We arenot here discussing the propriety ofusing such glasses—it may be right,or it may be wrong, according to thepurpose the painter may have. Weonly mean to assert, that nature willbear the changes and not offend anysense. The absolute naturalness,then, of the colours of nature, in itsstrictest and most limited sense, localand aërial, is not so necessary as thatthe eye cannot be gratified withoutit. And it follows, that agreeabilityof colour does not depend upon thisstrict naturalness.”

We learn from Mrs Merrifield, thatSignor A. showed her a black mirror,which had belonged to Bamboccio(Peter Van Laer). “This mirrorwas bequeathed by Bamboccio toGaspar Poussin; by the latter tosome other painter, until it ultimatelycame into the hands of Signor A.” Itis admitted by Mr Seguier himself,as by other witnesses, that Claudepainted thinly, semi-opaque over dark,but this is called “scumbling.” It is,however, in fact, if done with a freehot dry brush, a glaze, and he mayhave thus toned his pictures. Thattone once removed, as in the case ofthe Sheba, we believe irrecoverablebut by such a master-hand as put iton, and possessed of the same puremedium. We fancy we discover inthe working that a great deal of thedetail of his pictures was painted inthis method. To expect that timeonly will restore that fine glow isworthy the philosopher of Laputa,and his resolution to extract sunbeamsfrom cucumbers. Poor Claude!Professors of the art of paintingare far worse off than professorsof literature, whose tormentors arebut the printer’s devil and the compositor.The poor painter has anendless generation of tormentors.The “Quidlibet audendi” is not hismotto; his genius will never be halfso daring as the hands of his scrubbers.Let him sit at his easel, and, inhis enthusiasm, throw sunshine fromhis brush, and dream fondly that itwill be eternal; a host of cleanersare looking over his shoulder, or lurkingin secret, to catch the treasure,and smudge his dream and his workout for ever. And when they havevisibly, too visibly, done their worst,old Time, that used to be representedas the “Edax rerum,” the generaldestroyer, is introduced as a newly-dubbedprofessor of the art of cleaningand restoring by dirt.

We do not, however, wish to speakdisrespectfully of picture-cleaners, orpicture-varnishers, or picture-dealers.There are many very skilful and veryuseful, and, of dealers, honourable andliberal. Nor do we say this withoutknowledge; yet habit creates boldness,and removes caution. Like themedical profession, cleanership, it isto be feared, must kill before it haslearned to cure. But the professorssometimes forget the wholesome rule,“Fiat experimentum in corpore vili.”Even the wise Sir David Brewsterconfesses to having dabbled in destruction.There is not a man of notein it but must have killed his man;and few are so happy as the wonderfulMr Lance, to make a new one sowell that none can tell the difference.Indeed, Mr Lance’s magic brush dida great deal more. A cleaner hadwiped out of existence whole members—manand horse; sometimes hadleft half a horse, and scarcely half aman, and sometimes had ironed themall out together. Mr Lance broughtall to life again, without having everseen one of them; and all so like, thattheir most familiar acquaintances hadnever missed them, nor known theyhad ever been defunct. Yet was hismodesty equal to his skill. He neverboasted of his performance. Man andhorse were revivified, and remounted,and caracoled with the utmost graceand precision before himself and thepublic, with unbounded applause;and the wonderful restorer was contentedto sit quietly in a corner, as ifunconscious of his own creations, anddeaf to the loudest blast of Fame’strumpet. If we have wearied ourreaders with too long discussions upontechnicalities, we can now makeamends by retiring behind the scenes,first introducing Mr Lance himself,who will be as amusing to others ashe has been to us. But there is aprologue to every play; we wouldnot usher in so celebrated a performerwithout one.

Every one acquainted with the NationalGallery knows the Velasquez“Boar-hunt.” It was always a celebratedpicture, and henceforth will bemore celebrated than ever. In thevery Index of the Report it occupiesmore than a whole page. The famousErymanthian boar never gave halfthe sport, though it required a Herculesto kill him. But there is a difference:he was killed, and frightenedpeople after he was dead; this boarwas killed, and brought to life again,and pleased every one ever after. Ithad been hunted in many countries,and would have been hunted in manymore, had it not received its Apotheosisfrom the hand of Sir RobertPeel, and found a place in the galaxyof the National Gallery.

This picture was presented to LordCowley by the Court of Spain; andfrom him came into the hands of MrFarrer, a dealer in pictures. By himit was sent to Holland, having beenrefused by our Gallery, and offered tothe king, who rejected it. On its returnfrom Holland, Mr Farrer left itin its case, in his front shop, with thedirection on it to his Majesty the Kingof Holland—no direction to Mr Farrerappearing. Mr B. Wall, one ofthe Commissioners, sees the case, andasks what it contains; is told the Velasquez:has the “impression,” but isnot quite certain, that Mr Farrer toldhim it was going to the King of Holland.Mr B. Wall upon this goesto Sir Robert Peel, and both fearthe picture may be lost; and, withthe sanction and at the desire of SirR. Peel, it was purchased for the Gallery.Now, Mr B. Wall was not theonly person who saw the case in MrFarrer’s shop. Mr Morris Moore wasone, and, as he says, there were manyothers. He names two—Mr Coninghamand Mr Chambers Hall—to allof whom Mr Farrer, according to theevidence of Mr Morris Moore, told thesame tale—namely, “that the Trusteeswere but just in time to save itfrom exportation to the King of Holland.”This Mr Farrer stoutly denies,and Mr Morris Moore offers totake his oath to the fact. In thedenial, Mr Farrer states, that he mayhave said he was going to send itabroad, for that he intended to offerit in Paris; but, after a while, speaksrather uncertainly, not knowing exactlywhere abroad he should havesent it; but it is possible he may haveintended again to send it to Holland,under a kind of conviction that theKing of Holland would, after all,have it. Then he asserts that thevisit from, and conversation with, MrMorris Moore upon the subject werebefore, not after, the picture had goneto Holland. Mr Moore, on the otherhand, is positive it was after it hadreturned, because it was then securedfor the National Gallery, and Mr Farreradmits it was not so secured tillafter its return from Holland. Thisis, as far as we can make it, a plainstatement, in abstract, from the evidence.The Commissioners leavethese “discrepancies” where theyfound them; so do we. It is a commonsaying that truth lies somewherebetween two contradictory statements.Wherever it may appear to lie, thereappears but little space, on any intermediateground, upon which it could,by any possibility, stand upright. Thislittle history has seen the picture lodgedin the Gallery. We must beg thereader to imagine it not as yet to havebeen located, that he may learn a littleof its antecedents. Lord Cowley hadplaced the picture in the hands of MrThane to keep, where it remainedsome years. But Mr Lance shall tellthe tale. “After a considerable time,Mr Thane, as I heard afterwards, hadbeen commissioned to clean the picture,and reline it. A colourman wasemployed to reline the picture, a mostskilful man, and, in relining it, I understand,he blistered it with hotirons.... When the picture was returnedto Mr Thane in this condition,it naturally distressed him very much;he was a very conscientious man, andhe became very deeply distressedabout it: he saw the picture passingover his bed in procession. After acertain time, he thought it got worse,and that the figure of it was moreattenuated; and at length he fanciedhe saw a skeleton. In fact, the poorman’s mind was very much injured.It was then proposed that he shouldemploy some painter to restore thepicture; and three persons were selectedfor that purpose. Sir DavidWilkie, Sir Edwin Landseer, and myself,were mentioned; but it was supposedthat neither Sir David Wilkienor Sir Edwin Landseer would givetheir time to it, and that probably Imight; and, therefore, the picture wasplaced with me, with a representationthat, if I did not do something to it,serious consequences would follow tothe cleaner. I undertook it, thoughI was very much employed at thetime; and, to be as short as possible,I painted on this picture. I generallypaint very rapidly, and I painted onthat occasion as industriously as Icould, and was engaged for six weeksupon it. When it was completed,Lord Cowley saw it, never havingbeen aware of the misfortune that hadhappened to the picture. It was thenin Mr Thane’s possession, and remainedwith him some time afterwards.From that time I saw no more of thepicture until it was exhibited in theBritish Gallery some time afterwards,where it was a very popular picture,and was very much thought of. Sincethen, I have heard it was sold to thenation; and twice I have seen it inthe National Gallery. I saw it onlyabout a week ago, and I then thoughtit was not in the same condition (indeed,I am certain it is not) as whenit was exhibited in the British Galleryformerly, after I had done it.”This is sufficient evidence that thepicture has been damaged in cleaning.Let us pursue the story through questionand answer.

“Q. 5124. What was the state ofthe picture when it came into yourhands? There were portions of thepicture entirely gone.—Q. 5125. Whatportions? Whole groups of figures,and there was a portion of the foregroundentirely gone also.—Q. 5126.Do you mean that celebrated groupwhich is so often copied—the man ina red coat? That is original. I thinkthat any man, with any knowledgeof art, will see at once that that isoriginal; and I am only surprisedthat it has not been seen that otherparts are original also.—Q. 5127.Which portions of these groups didyou chiefly restore? You are verynear the mark when you speak of thered coat; it is the group on the righthand; the outlines were entirely gone.—Q.5128. Do you mean to say, thatthe whole of the paint was removedfrom that part of the picture? Entirely.—Q.5129. Was the canvass laidbare? Entirely.—Q. 5130. Whatguide had you in repainting thosegroups? Not any.—Q. 5131. Did youpaint groups that you yourself imaginedand designed? Yes.—Q. 5132.Did Lord Cowley not distinguish anydifference in the groups? Not any.—Q.5133. What was the extent ofpaint wanting on that group whichyou say you repainted on the right—wasit a portion as large as a sheet ofnote-paper? Larger, considerably;the figures themselves are larger thanthat.—Q. 5134. Was it as large as asheet of foolscap? About that size, Ishould imagine.—Q. 5135. There wasa piece of the original paint wantingas large as that? Yes, in the foreground.—Q.5136. It was totallywanting, and the canvass to that extentlaid bare—is that so? Yes.—Q.5137. And on that bare canvassyou painted the groups of figures wesee now? Exactly.—Q. 5138. Willyou have the goodness to describe tothe committee any other portions ofthe picture where the paint was in asimilar or in an analogous state? Thewhole of the centre of the picture wasdestroyed, with slight indications hereand there of men; there were somemen without horses, and some horseswithout men.—Q. 5139. That is inthe arena? Yes.—Q. 5140. You arespeaking of the figures on horseback?Yes: some riders had no horses, andsome horses had no riders.”

We must curtail the evidence forwant of space. It appears that hisbrush, taking the number of squarefeet, went over a great deal more thanhalf. He is sorry to say it is nowgone back to “Velasquez mutilated.”But are there not infallible judges todiscover all this repainting? “I maymention that, many years ago, whenthe picture was at the British Gallery,I was invited by a member of theAcademy to go and look at it; and Iwent there; Mr Seguier and Mr Barnard(who was also a picture-cleaner)were present. They said, ‘I knowwhat you have come for; you havecome to see the magnificent Velasquez.’I said, ‘Well, I have;’ and,with the greatest simplicity in theworld, I said it gave me a notionthat some part had been much repairedand painted upon: upon which MrBarnard, the keeper of the BritishInstitution, said immediately, ‘No,you are wrong there; we never hada picture so free from repair in ourlives.’ I did not think it at all desirableto make any statement,” &c.He hopes there is no engraving of thepicture, for the group in the foreground,entirely his, would be detectedimmediately.

So much for Mr Lance’s doings withthis celebrated Boar-hunt, which,whatever part of it may be by MrLance, we are very glad to see in ourNational Gallery, and should havebeen more glad if they had abstainedfrom cleaning it. But Mr Lance hasfurther amusem*nt for us. That accountis the serious play in which hewas principal actor. We shall seehim again in the entertainment. Ithas a very excellent title—“Diogenesin search of an Honest Man.” Thepart of Diogenes, Mr Lance; thepoint being, the vain search for a time,but discovered at last—in whom? Ina negro. This was Mr DiogenesLance’s satirical discovery. Thereare countries where the scene mustnot be exhibited. He shall tell thestory. “Q. 5230. Have you everrestored any other picture in the ordinarycourse of your professional practice?During the time I was engagedupon that picture at Mr Thane’s, hehad a picture belonging to the Archbishopof York, to which rather anamusing thing occurred.—Q. 5231.What was the subject of it? It wasa picture of Diogenes in search of anHonest Man, by Rembrandt; a portionof it was much injured. MrThane said to me, ‘I wish you wouldhelp me out in this difficulty.’ He didnot paint himself.—Q. 5232. WhichArchbishop was it? The Archbishopof York. I said, ‘What am I to do?tell me what you want.’ He said,‘There’s a deficiency here—what isit?’ I said, ‘It appears to me verymuch as if a cow’s head had beenthere.’ He said, ‘It cannot be acow’s head; for how could a cow standthere?’ I said, ‘That is very true;there is no room for her legs.’ I fanciedfirst one thing, then another: atone time, I fancied it was a tree thatwas wanting; and at length I said,‘Well, I will tell you what will do—ifyou will let me put in a black mangrinning, that will do very well, andrather help out the subject.’ He said,‘Could you put in a black man?’ Isaid, ‘Yes, in a very short time;’and in about half an hour I paintedin a black man’s head, which wassaid very much to have improved thepicture. Shortly afterwards Mr Harcourtcame in, and seeing the picture,he said, ‘Dear me, Mr Thane, howbeautifully they have got out this picture!my father will be delighted.We never saw this black man before.’And that is the extent of my picture-repairing.”Mr Lance is a man ofhumour. When Mr Harcourt cameto examine the picture, did what hisnamesake Launce in the play saidoccur to the painter? This is “theblackest news that ever thou heard’st.”But no; both Lances were discreet intheir humour, and the one thoughtlike the other—“Thou shalt neverget a secret from me but by a parable.”The idea of a black man grinning atthe folly of Diogenes, in looking foran honest man among the whites, wasa most original piece of humour, worthythe concentrated geniuses of allthe Launces that ever were.

All the world knew Mr Lance’spowers as a painter of still life; hehas now doubly established his fame,and notwithstanding that his modestywould look shy upon his performanceson the Velasquez “The Boar-hunt,”as nobody else has been startled bythem, we sincerely hope they will beallowed to remain—that is, as muchof them as the cleaners have spared.We hope, also, that no experimentalistsin nostrums will be allowed toreiterate the attempt of the fable, andtry to “wash his blackamore white.”Let this be the picture’s motto—“Hicniger est, hunc tu——caveto.”

It is to be feared that picture-cleaninghas become a necessary evil, aspatients who have been long underthe hands of empirics must needshave recourse to regular practitionersto preserve even a sickly life. Empiricalnostrums must be got out of theconstitution, for by a habit of maintenance,however advantageous theymay appear at first, they are sure toside with the disease, and kill thepatient. There is the first Mr Seguier’sboiled oil, that terrible blackdose—must that be allowed to remain?Then comes the question, bywhat desperate remedies is it to beeradicated? There is the GasparPoussin landscape near the injuredClaude “Queen of Sheba,” the “Abrahamand Isaac:” we remember it avery beautiful clear picture. It isnow all obscured; there are largebrown patches in the once lucid sky.As so large a proportion of the picturesin the Gallery are suffering underthis oil-disease, and seem to petitionfor a ticket to the hospital, we offer asuggestion made by De Burtin, thatexperienced and cautious cleaner, whospeaks with utter abhorrence of theoiling system. He says that he triedevery secret of his art without success;“continuing always my experiments,however, though with little hope, Ihave at length had the happiness tofind in the application of this sameoil itself the means of so softening theold oil, that I have afterwards, withspirit of wine, removed both the oils,new and old together, without at allinjuring the picture. Although thisplan has succeeded equally well withfour pictures on which I had occasionto employ it, yet I must not be understoodto hold it out as infallible until,from the number of the cases in whichit is tried, and the uniformity of itssuccess, it shall earn for itself thattitle; but, persuaded that the want ofother known means will induce connoisseursto make trial of this one, Ifeel desirous to put them in possessionof all the information that I myselfhave in regard to it. My four pictures,all painted on panel, were evidentlycovered with an oil which gavethem an aspect alike sad and monotonous,and which seemed to be of manyyears’ duration. I gave them a coatof linseed oil during the warmest daysof summer, renewing once, and eventwice a-day, the places on which itseemed to be absorbed. On thetwelfth day the oil on one of the pictureswas become so softened that itclung to my finger. I then employedgood spirit of wine, without any otheradmixture whatever, to remove all theoil which I had put upon the picture;and the pleasure I experienced wasonly equalled by my surprise, when Isaw the vivacity of the colours restoredunder my hands as the spirit ofwine removed the old oil along withthe new. After a few days’ interval,the other three pictures gave me renewedoccasion for congratulation bythe same results, and with equalsuccess.”

De Burtin has at least the greatmerit of having no concealments inhis practice. And here the Commissionershave done well in recommendingthat no varnishes be used, theingredients of which are kept secret.Mr Farrer thinks he is the only personin this country using gum damas.He is mistaken—we have used it manyyears, and agree with him that it isfar less liable to chill than mastic.The recommendation, also, that, beforecleaning a picture, an able chemistshould be applied to, is a proper precaution,which would, of course, includevarnishing. That pictures maynot be subject to secret varnishes,the only one we would have keptsecret is that mentioned by MrNiewenhuys, the experimentalising inwhich brought the indignation of thecourt of Lilliput on the unfortunateGulliver. Picture-scourers have beenhitherto a ruthless race—with theircorrosives they take the life’s bloodout of the flesh of works, like trueVampires, and appropriately enoughtalk of vamping them up. Few areas conscientious as Mr Thane, to bepersecuted with the “processions” ofthe skeletons they make. There is anamusing story illustrated by Cruikshank.A lover, anxious for the safetyof his sick mistress, goes about seekingphysicians; he is gifted, for theoccasion, to see over the doors of thefaculty the ghosts of the patients theyhad killed. It is within doors wewould have the picture possessor go.The outer shop of the cleaner is enchanting—perhapsit may exhibit aface half of which is cleaned, and halfdirty, that, according to Mr Ford’snotion of looking better and worse,customers may take their choice of thedingy or the clean. The connoisseurand collector need have some “DiableBoiteux” to take them unseen intothe interior laboratories where theghosts and skeletons lie concealed,while the Medea’s pot is on the fire,whose boiling is to transfer new fleshto the dry bones, that they may beproduceable again, as they often are,novelties of a frightful vigour and unnaturalsprightliness, to be reducedto an after-sobriety under a regimenof boiled oil and asphaltum. Even MrLance’s work, which was believed tobe original, has been obscured andotherwise damaged. Salvator Rosa’s“Mercury and the Woodman,” is as ifit had been dipped in “the sootyAcheron.” There is little pleasure inlooking at pictures in such a state.Altogether, then, to leave pictures“black, dirty, and in a filthy state,”a condition which Mr Stansfield[6]properly abominates, is to mislead thepublic, whom to instruct is one greatobject of a National Gallery. Butwho is to restore the gem-like lustrewhen once removed? There shouldbe a cleaning, or rather a preservationcommittee. Philosophers say, thatdiamonds are but charcoal; none have,however, succeeded in converting thecarbon into diamonds; but it may bepossible to convert the diamonds ofart into charcoal, or into somethingworse, “black, dingy, and filthy.”

We scarcely know where to stopwith so large a volume as this Report,with its evidence before us. Thequestions, with their answers, amountto the astonishing number of 10,410!We necessarily leave much matteruntouched, very much interestingmatter—We would gladly enlargeupon some of the suggestions thrownout in our article on this subject ofDecember, but adequate space in thisMagazine may not be allowed. Yetwe will refer to one suggestion, becauseit is now the very time thatpublic attention should be directed toit; we mean the appointment of Professorshipsof the Fine Arts at ourUniversities of Oxford and Cambridge.Lord Palmerston’s letter tothe Chancellor of Cambridge showsthat great changes are in contemplation.Such professorships would be agraceful offering to the universities,who may have been a little suspiciousof the movement of a commission; andwe feel sure, that nothing could bemore promotive of the fine arts, thereal taste of the country, or morebeneficial, as leading the educated topursuits of a high and noble nature.We will not attempt to discuss the“Removal of the Gallery.” The BlueBook affords details, and plans ofsite. The appendix is full of valuableinformation; but it contains matterupon which we feel some alarm. Weknow there is a scheme, under peculiarfavour, to make our National Gallerya Chronological Almanac of Art, thanwhich nothing can be more worthlessor more beyond the objects for whichwe should have a National Gallery atall. What we should collect is a largesubject, which we may feel disposedto consider more at large in a futurearticle.

The public will now inquire, whatis to be the result of this pains-takingCommission? We are aware thatthe Chairman repudiates the Report.It is one to which he does not givehis assent. We know not the particularsin which he differs from theReport as agreed upon. We couldhave wished, for the sake of the arts,that there had been no difference.

Of this there can be no doubt, thatthe system, if such it may be called,is most unsatisfactory. If we wouldhave a National Gallery at all, thepublic have a right to demand that itshall be one befitting the dignity ofthe country and the objects proposedby such an establishment,none of which, it is manifest from theentire evidence, can be realised unlessthe trust be thoroughly revised.Evils to be avoided are now laid bareto sight. If it be true,

there are faults enough to mould themout of. May we not, then, entertaina hope that we shall have a NationalGallery?

Had history recorded the increaseand decrease in the numbers of mankindwith the attention it has bestowedin chronicling the names ofthe worthless dynasties which havedevoured the wealth of nations, andannihilated the accumulations of nationalindustry, the history of theTurks would occupy a prominentplace in the annals of the humanrace. No other people has madesuch extensive conquests. Theysubdued China before the Moguls,and they formed a considerable partof the armies of Genghis Khan andTamerlane, which subdued Russiaand ravaged Syria. Even at thepresent day, though fallen from theirancient power, they are spread overa considerable portion of Europe andAsia, from the Adriatic and the Danubeto the lake Baikal and thesources of the Lena. Their originalseats are supposed to lie round theAltaï mountains. The Turkish nationsof the present day, besides thedescendants of the Seljouks, the Turkomans,and the Othomans, who dwellin the sultan’s dominions, are theUsbeks, the Ugours, the Kirgises, theBaskirs, the tribe called Nogay Tartars,and the so-called Tartars ofAstrakan and Kasan. The real Tartars,or Moguls, are a different people,and the Kalmuks on the Volgaare of Tartar, not Turkish race.

The only modern European nationswhich pretend to be mentioned inScripture, are the Turks and Russians.Historical antiquaries tell usthat Togarmah is used for Turk; andthey affirm, that the Targhitaos ofHerodotus, whom the Scythians calledthe founder of their nation, and theson of Jupiter, is identical with theTogarmah of Moses and Ezekiel.[7]

The Russians can boast of muchmore precise notice in Scripture thantheir enemies the Turks. Thoughtheir name is omitted in our translation,it occurs in the Septuagint threetimes, and under the peculiar ethnicdenomination in which it reappears inthe Byzantine historians. The wordis Ῥὼς, and on this name Gibbon remarks,“Among the Greeks this nationalappellation has a singular formas an undeclinable word;” but hedoes not mention that it is found inthe Septuagint. The second andthird verses of the thirty-eighth chapterof Ezekiel, according to the Greektext, read thus: “Son of man, setthy face against Gog, the land of Magog,the chief prince of the Russians(ἄρχοντα Ῥὼς), Meshech and Tubal,and prophesy against him, and say,Thus saith the Lord God, I am againstthee, O chief prince of the Russians,Meshech and Tubal.” And again, inthe first verse of the thirty-ninthchapter: “Therefore, son of man,prophesy against Gog, and say, Thussaith the Lord God, Behold, I amagainst thee, O Gog, the chief princeof the Russians, Meshech and Tubal.”

The Russians are said also to benoticed in the Koran, though not withthe same distinctness, under the nameof Al Rass. In the chapter Al Forkan,which is the twenty-fifth of Sale’stranslation, it is said, “We have preparedfor the unjust a painful torment.Remember Ad and Tamud, and thosewho dwelt at Al Rass.” In the chaptercalled the letter Kaf, which is thefiftieth of Sale’s translation, we alsofind: “The people of Noah, and thosewho dwelt at Al Rass, and Thamud,and Ad, and Pharaoh, accused theprophets of injustice.”

The earliest authorities, however,who furnish us with an account ofthe Turkish nation as it now exists,with the distinct nationality and languagepreserved to the present day,are the Byzantine historians, Menanderand Theophylactus Simocalta.The latter historian gives a veryinteresting account of the conditionof the Turks in the sixth century ofour era. They were then the sovereignsof a great city called Tavgas;they were the most valiant and populousof nations; they lived under theprotection of just laws, and carried onan extensive commerce. Tavgas issupposed to be the name of a Chinesecity, which was then one of the seatsof the Turkish government, for thereis no doubt that somewhat before thisperiod the Turks had conquered a considerablepart of the north of China.Indeed, traces of the language of theseearly conquerors are still preserved,which are identical with the Turkishspoken to-day at Constantinople, fortime has effected less change in theTurkish than in any other Europeanlanguage. Collateral evidence concerningthe power of the Turks incentral Asia during the latter part ofthe fifth, and early part of the sixthcenturies, is afforded by the history ofthe life and travels of Hiouen-thsang,recently translated by Monsieur Julien,whether that work be really the compositionof a Chinese contemporary,or only a Chinese compilation fromearlier Arabic authorities.[8] It is certainthat about the commencement ofthe sixth century the Turks ruled allcentral Asia, as far south as the Hindookoosh,including the ancient Sogdianaand Bactria.

The first political intercourse betweenthe Turks and a Europeanstate occurred towards the middle ofthe sixth century. The great khan ofthe Turks sent an embassy to JustinianI., to persuade the Roman empireto refuse an asylum to the Avars.The dominions then ruled by the greatkhan formed the first of the threegreat Turkish empires which have exercisedan important influence on thesocial condition of the Christian nations,both in Europe and Asia. Thesecond of these empires was that ofthe Seljouk Turks, which caused thecrusades, and ruined the Byzantineempire. And the third was that ofthe Othoman Turks, which destroyedthe Greek empire, and has long beenthe master, patron, or tyrant, of thepatriarchs of Constantinople, Jerusalem,Antioch, and Alexandria.

The first Turkish empire took itsrise from the oppression of the Avars,who were the dominant people inAsia, and who are supposed to havebeen a mixed race of Mogul andTurkish origin. The oppression ofthe Avars was submitted to as longas the body of the Turkish peoplewas confined by its circ*mstances toan agricultural and pastoral life. Thepopulation being dispersed in smallcommunities, which lived withoutmuch intercommunication, was composedof as many isolated tribes asthere are springs in the plains theyinhabitated; and these tribes wereas incapable of acquiring commonmotives of action as the populationof the islands in the eastern seas.But the scene changed in the fifthcentury. The Turks who dwelt onMount Altaï grew rich by miningoperations and manufactures. Theybecame the principal traders in ironand steel, and the manufacturers andmerchants of the arms and armourrequired in the Avar empire. Butthe government soon endeavoured toappropriate the wealth which it sawwas created by the industry of itssubjects to administrative purposes.Taxation was increased, and monopolieswere established, to enable thecourt of the Avar emperor to displaythe power of centralisation. Governmentalpageantry, court spectacles,and military pomp, consumedthe wealth of the people in the unknowncapital of this vanished empire;while the Turkish people, now inspiredby common feelings, called foran administration that would digwells, and construct cisterns and caravanseraisin the desert. The Turkswere now united by the lessons whichtheir trade had disseminated throughevery province. With improved intercoursethey had gained a moreenlarged experience, and acquirednational feelings. They at last rosein rebellion; and before the middleof the sixth century, the first greatTurkish empire was founded by Toumenthe blacksmith, the ancestor ofGenghis Khan, and Timor the lame.This empire extended from the Caspiansea to the ocean. The greatKhan of the Turks, Askel, who sentan embassy to the Roman emperorJustinian I., is supposed to havebeen the son of Toumen.

In the year 568 another embassyarrived at Constantinople from thegreat Khan Dizaboulos, with a letterfor Justin II., written in the Scythiancharacter, which, whatever it was,was not unknown to the learned interpretersof the Roman foreign office.One great object of Turkish diplomacyhad been to get possession ofthe whole of the silk trade withEurope, but the Turkish ambassadorshad been astonished to find that Justinianhad already succeeded in introducingthe culture of the silk-wormin the Roman empire, and that theimperial court was rich in native silk,manufactured in Asia Minor and theislands. The ambassadors of Dizaboulos,however, concluded the firstformal treaty between the Turks andthe emperors of Constantinople; thebond of union between the courts ofMount Altaï and Byzantium washostility to Persia, and very profoundand enlightened views concerningthe maintenance of the balance ofpower in the East, while the tie whichthen connected the interests of theTurks with those of the Romans andGreeks was commerce.

The long wars between the Persianand Roman empires, and the arbitrarymeasures of the Persians, hadstopped all commercial communicationsbetween India and Europethrough the Persian dominions. Thecountries on the shores of the Mediterraneanhad in consequence beencompelled to draw their supplies ofIndian and Chinese produce, and theproductions of the Spice islands, ofwhich there was then an immenseconsumption, by way of the Red Sea.This trade, even as early as the timeof Pliny, was so extensive as to excitethe wonder of that aristocraticRoman. In the sixth century ithad greatly increased, and both Arabiaand Ethiopia were in a most prosperouscondition, from the great profitsit poured into those countries.In the year 523 the king of Ethiopiawas able to collect a fleet of thirteenhundred ships in the Red Sea, and toobtain abundant supplies for a largearmy on the coast of Arabia, where asingle ship and a company of infantrywould find it difficult to procureprovisions for a week. After the reignof Justinian this commerce rapidly declined.The increase of piracy on thecoast near the entrance of the Persiangulf, and the wars of the Ethiopiankings in Arabia, were simultaneouswith the poverty, depopulation, anddestruction of capital in Africa andItaly, caused by the Vandal andGothic wars of Justinian. At thiscrisis, when Alexandria and Romewere rapidly declining, the securitywhich the extent of the Turkish empireand the policy of the great Khanafforded to merchants, turned a greatportion of the Eastern trade towardsConstantinople. The Indian tradersbegan to prefer the caravan journeythrough the deserts of central Asia,to the tedious and dangerous navigationof the Red Sea. By sea theycould no longer venture to visit theintermediate ports from fear of pirates,while on the land journey they couldcarry on a profitable trade in slaves,and in exchanging the precious metals,at many stations on their way. Thegreat importance of the slave tradeat this time in central Asia is provedby the circ*mstance that the emperorTiberius II., A.D. 578–582, formed acorps of fifteen thousand mamlouks,composed entirely of purchased slaves,imported into the Roman empire bythe traders engaged in the Indian orthe fur trade. Had the supply continued,and had the successors ofTiberius II. pursued the same policy,the Roman empire would in all probabilityhave been overthrown byTurkish mamlouks, as that of thecaliphs of Bagdat was by following asimilar military system at a laterperiod.

The first Turkish empire was notof long duration. The Khazar kingdom,whose relations with the Romanand Persian empires in the hour oftheir decline give it an importantplace in history, arose in its westernfragments, and inherited a considerableportion of its power and commercialinfluence. But the Khazars,though called Turks by the Byzantinehistorians, Nicephorus the patriarchand Theophanes, are supposedby modern scholars to have been apeople of mixed race.

There are several points connectedwith the history of the riseand fall of the first Turkish empirewhich are interesting, as marking anera in the progress of civilisation.At no previous period in the historyof mankind were greater changesmade in the commercial, political,and religious ideas of mankind. Religionwas then closely connectedwith political organisation. Christianitywas identified with the Romangovernment; the religion of Zoroasterwith Persian domination. The factthat both Christianity and the religionof Zoroaster were declining inthe sixth century is unquestionable.Historians have not clearly explainedthe causes of a revolution so degradingto human nature. In Arabia, incentral Asia, and in Spain, an extensiveconversion to Judaism heraldedthe extraordinary rapidity withwhich the lizard-eaters of Arabia, ledby the followers of Mahomet, exterminatedthe religion of Zoroaster,and converted the majority of the inhabitantsof Syria, Palestine, Mesopotamia,Egypt, and Africa to Mohammedanism.It is evident thatan internal canker in the social conditionof the Christians in the Romanempire, and of the inhabitants ofPersia, prepared the way for thedesolation of many of the richest provincesof the ancient world.

The second Turkish empire wasfounded by the Seljouks in the eleventhcentury. Its power grew upon the political decline of the caliphateof Bagdat and of the Byzantine empire.The dominions of the caliphshad been dismembered, and Bagdatit*elf had been plundered by Turkishmamlouks, before it was conqueredby Togrulbeg with his Seljouks. TheByzantine empire, which, by the creationof a systematic and legal administration,had reinvigorated the expiringenergies of the eastern Romanempire, had declined into a pure despotism,and the rulers of Constantinoplewere rapidly devouring thewealth and diminishing the numbersof their subjects by financial oppression.The exploits of Togrulbeg,Alp Arslan, and Malek Shah, may beread in the pages of Gibbon, whichhave secured them fame whereverEnglish literature is known. Manytraces of their handiwork are visibleat the present,—monuments of whatis called their glory. When they enteredthe countries between the PersianGulf, the Caspian, the Black Sea,and the Mediterranean, they foundthem filled with cities, which, thoughdeclined in splendour and wealth bythe loss of their municipal administrations,in consequence of the rapaciouscentralisation of the Roman, Byzantine,and Mohammedan empires, werenevertheless still well inhabited, andsurrounded by a numerous agriculturalpopulation. But with the coming ofthe Seljouks, “the verdure fled thebloody sod.” They were a nomadepeople, and their armies were composedof nomadic tribes, who drewtheir supplies from the flocks andherds which moved with them. Theinhabitants of cities were their enemiesunless they became their tributaries;and in order to preserve agarrison in the countries they conquered,it was necessary for them toexterminate the cultivators of the soilin the richest and most central plainsof their dominions. An encampmentof tents could only be secure fromsurprise by being surrounded to theextent of a day’s journey by untilledpastures. Similar desolation has beeneffected in agricultural countries forignobler objects. In England thetraveller may still see the effectsof an arbitrary act of devastation,perpetrated about the same period,by William the Conquerer, in the NewForest; and in wandering throughAsia Minor many of our readers haveprobably passed over districts as fertileas the plains of Poland and Moldavia,on which wheat never grows,but which the page of history informsus were inhabited by an industriousagricultural population, until thetowns were destroyed, and the populationexterminated, by Kutulmishthe lieutenant of Alp Arslan, andSuleiman his son, the lieutenant ofMalek Shah. The Seljouk empirewas soon divided into the threesecondary kingdoms of Roum or Iconium,of Syria, and of Persia. Itwas subdued and rent into fragmentsby the successors of Genghis Khan,and in the fourteenth century theOthoman empire arose amidst its dismemberedprovinces.

Othman, the eponymous hero of theOthoman empire, entered the Seljoukempire of Roum with his father, whowas the chieftain of a small tribe consistingof four hundred families. Inthe year 1289 he was appointed governorof the town of Karady-hissarby Aladdin III., the last SeljoukSultan of Iconium. The market heldon Friday at Karady-hissar was atrading mart of great local importance.A judge sat in the centre ofthe people to decide every questionthat arose without delay, and withoutappeal. Othman frequently occupiedthe judicial seat. It happened that,as he was presiding, an importantdispute was brought before him fordecision, in which a Christian of Belokomain the Greek empire complainedof the injustice of a Seljouk noble ofKermian. Othman decided in favourof the Christian, and the equity of thesentence extended his fame, and gaveadditional importance to his government.Years rolled on. Many emirsestablished themselves as independentprinces, and have given their namesto several provinces in Asia. SultanAladdin III. died in the year 1307,and Othman secured to himself aposition as independent as any of theSeljouk emirs. Just before his death,he conquered Brusa from the Greeks,and laid the foundation-stone of theOthoman empire.

This new Turkish empire is remarkablefor its rapid progress and firmconsolidation, but still more so forthe singular fact that it never reposedon a national basis. The four hundredfamilies who accompanied Othman’sfather into the Seljouk empirenever became the nucleus even of anOthoman tribe. The Othoman empirethreatened Europe with conquest;the Othoman armies were long invincible;the Othoman administrationwas superior to every contemporarygovernment on the European continent;but, during the period ofOthoman greatness and power, therewas no such thing as an Othomannation. Of the forty-eight grand-vizierswho conducted the administrationfrom the taking of Constantinopleto the death of Sultan AchmetI. in 1617, only three or four were ofOthoman or Seljouk families, whilemore than thirty were either renegadesor children of Christian parentsbrought up in the Mohammedan religion.The other born Mussulmanswere not even of Turkish race. Fewabsolute monarchies have preservedtheir pristine vigour with the same unimpairedenergy as the Othoman, andnone have passed triumphantly throughgreater disasters. Few national governments,indeed, could have survivedthe fearful ordeal of the defeat atAngora, and the conquest of AsiaMinor by Timor. Neither Timor norany of his contemporaries supposedthat it was possible to re-constitutethe Othoman government; and, indeed,the ease with which it regainedits power over the Greek Christiansand the Seljouk emirs, is a singularpolitical phenomenon.

This vitality was due to the institutionsimplanted in the governmentas the very breath of its life, byOrkhan the son of Othman, thegreatest legislator of modern times.As a lawgiver, Orkhan was somethingbetween a Lycurgus and a Loyola.At all events, he puts the modernconstitution-makers of Europe toshame. They strive to improve therotten fabric of their political institutionsby patching the old despoticgarment of Roman law with the newcloth of representative institutions,forgetting that the rabid appetite ofcentralisation swallows the old garmentand the new patches far moreeasily than the boa-constrictor canswallow a blanket. The institutionsof Orkhan were superior to the CodeNapoleon and its progeny, in as far asthey were framed on the exigencies ofthe time, and modelled on the demandsof a progressive state of society—notborrowed from an extinct people ina different social and political condition.

We have no space to enumerateOrkhan’s institutions. It is sufficientfor our purpose to notice the keystoneof the fabric which raised a smallband of emigrants from Mesopotamia,before three generations had elapsed,into the founders of one of the greatempires of the earth. A tribute ofChristian children, imposed by Orkhanon the people he conquered, was thebasis, the cement, and the keystoneof the Othoman empire. Never beforewere the laws of humanity and theprinciples of justice so systematicallyviolated for so long a period withsuch success. The Othoman empirereally dates from the year 1329, forit was in that year that Orkhan assumedthe power of coining money,placed his name in the public prayers,and promulgated his laws. Fromthat time he was regarded as thefounder and the legislator of a newstate, and not as the ruler of aSeljouk emirat. Orkhan made hishousehold the nucleus of his empire.The strength of his dominions was, byhis legislation and policy, concentratedwithin his palace walls. Under hisroof was united a college, conductedwith all the order and talent of acollege of Jesuits, and a range ofbarrack-rooms, in which a disciplineprevailed as severe as that of Lycurgus.

The history of the institution of thetribute children, and the formation ofthe corps of janissaries, is this: TheMohammedan law authorises—and,indeed, commands—every Mussulmanto educate unbelieving children whohave fallen into his power as orphans,in the Mohammedan faith. As themilitary usages of the Seljouk empiregave the Sultan a fifth of all the spoiltaken in war, Orkhan soon becamepossessed of a numerous household ofChristian slaves, whom he might havesold like the other Seljouk emirs, andhired mercenary troops with the produce,or filled his palace with concubinesand poets, and devoted himselfto the pursuit of pleasure and fame.Orkhan sought instruments to gratifyhis ambition, and to extend the dominionof the Koran. His wars asthe ally of the rebel emperor andhypocritical historian Cantacuzenus,furnished him with a large supply ofslaves from the Greek empire. Thebase ambition and rapacity of therival emperors of Constantinople, inducedthem to allow Orkhan to inserta clause in his treaties, authorisinghim to transport Christian captivesto Asia through the Greek territory.But it was difficult, by means of war,to secure a constant supply of healthyand intelligent children of the tenderage required for their conversion,since the Mohammedan law strictlyprohibits the forced conversion ofprisoners who have attained the ageof twelve. Orkhan’s great object,however, was to obtain a constantand regular addition to the youngneophytes in his household. Eitherfrom his own impulse, or at the suggestionof his brother, Aladdin, whoacted as his prime minister, or of hisrelation, Kara Khalil, who was hismost intimate counsellor, he at lastresolved to impose a fixed tribute ofchildren on every Christian district heconquered. The measure was highlyapproved by all pious Mussulmans,and, strange to say, it met with littleopposition from the Greek Christians.The empire of Constantinople hadbeen so long the scene of civil war,and its provinces were so desolatedby the fiscal oppression of the imperialadministration, that famine prevailedamong the Greek population in Asiaand Europe for several years; andmany parents saw no mode of savingtheir children from starvation but bysending them to the serai of Orkhan.The tribute of Christian children establishedby Orkhan was extended andsystematised by his son, Murad I.,and formed the keystone of the politicaland military power of the Othomanempire, until the corruption ofthe corps of janissaries by the introductionof other elements. The tributeof Christian children, however,continued until the year 1685, whenit was formally abolished.

The tribute children were generallycollected between the ages of sevenand nine. They were at first lodgedin the Sultan’s palace, and carefullyinstructed in the principles and formsof the Mohammedan religion underthe ablest teachers, selected by Orkhan,who studied their dispositionsand mental capacities. They thenentered on a course of elementaryknowledge and gymnastics. As theirmental capacities were developed, andtheir physical strength increased, theywere divided into several classes.Some, destined to become “men of thepen,” were educated in legal and administrativeknowledge, and from themthe officials in the civil and financialadministration were usually selected.Many became secretaries of state,judges and viziers. Another divisionwas disciplined as “men of the sword,”and the celebrated corps of janissarieswas at first composed of select individualsfrom this body. This collegeof conquering missionaries, whenformed by Orkhan, consisted of onlyone thousand, but before the end ofhis reign it had increased to threethousand; and when Mohammed II.took Constantinople, the number hadattained twelve thousand. The tributechildren were also numerous inthe ranks of the cavalry, artillery, andpolice soldiers of the empire. Never,indeed, was so terrible an instrumentof absolute power created so rapidlyand so completely beyond all externalinfluence as that which Orkhan formed.The tribute children were allmembers of the household of the OthomanSultan. They had no ties offamily or country, and felt no responsibilitybut what they owed to theprophet and the Sultan. At the beckof the Sultan, and with a fetva of themufti, they were ready to strike downthe proudest noble of the Seljouks, toshed the purest blood of the Arabs,and to trample on all the hereditaryfeelings and prejudices of the courtsof the Caliphs. Against the Christiannations they were animated with themost fervent zeal; for it was a principalpart of their education to infusean enthusiastic wish to extend theempire of Islam. Thus Orkhan madeChristian parents the most activeagents in destroying the Christian religion.It is impossible to reflect onthis lamentable occurrence withoutfeeling that, had the Greek emperorsand the orthodox priests of the periodgiven their subjects and their parishionersas good an education as Orkhangave his slaves, the attacks ofthe Turks might have been triumphantlyrepulsed.

That the system of education pursuedin the palace of Orkhan musthave derived some of its excellentqualities from the family system ofOthman’s household, cannot be doubted.The Othoman tribe was not morallycorrupted, like the society of theSeljouk Turks; the history of theirempire bears strong testimony to thefact during several generations. TheOthoman sultans were, during theearly period of the empire, educatedon the same system, and in the samemanner, as the tribute children, andno state can show such a long successionof hereditary sovereigns remarkablefor great talent. The Othomaninstitutions testify the sagacityof Orkhan and Murad I. more thantheir rapid conquests. Bayezid theThunderbolt, though his rash pridecaused the defeat of Angora and theruin of the empire for a time, wasliberal and generous to his Christiansubjects, whom he admitted freely tohis society. Mohammed I., who restoredthe empire ruined by his father’sambition, was a staunch friendand a kind master, though, in hishostilities, as old Phrantzes says, hewas as obstinately persevering as acamel. Murad II. distinguished himselfby his attention to the administrationof justice, and swept awaymany of the abuses which, under theGreek emperors, had exhausted thefortunes of the Christians. If any ofhis pashas or judges oppressed theChristians in his dominions they wereseverely punished. Mohammed II., theconqueror of Constantinople, unitedthe activity of youth with the sagacityof age, both as a warrior and a statesman.He possessed considerable literaryand scientific knowledge, and hadmade great progress in astrology, thenthe fashionable science both amongChristians and Mussulmans. He wasfond of reading, and spoke the Turkish,Arabic, Persian, Greek, Latin,and Sclavonian languages with fluency.Such is the character of the early sultansfor six generations, as transmittedto us in the pages of their mortal enemies,the Byzantine Greeks. Otherauthorities tell us that these infidelswere ready to receive suggestions forthe improvement of their army andtheir civil administration, and thatthey were indefatigably engaged insubmitting new ideas in the civil administration,and new inventions inthe art of war, to the most rigorousexamination. Activity and intelligencewere stimulated in every branchof the public service by the exampleof the prince. The consequences formthe staple of early Othoman history.New combinations in war and politicspresented themselves daily to everyTurkish pasha, which called for aprompt decision; and as it was incumbenton him to transmit a reportof the reasons which had determinedhis conduct to an able and despoticmaster, he soon learned prudence incounsel as well as promptitude inaction. For two centuries we findnothing vague and indefinite in theoperations of the Othoman sultans,or of the pashas intrusted with thecommand of their armies. The firstmodern school of generals and statesmenwas formed in the Othomanempire.

The general causes of the decline ofthe Othoman empire are well known.The janissaries, instead of being tributechildren, were transformed into a gardenationale, like what we have seenflourish and disappear at Paris. Butthe logical principles of a paternalmonarchy still exist at Constantinople.The Sultan is connected with hispeople, but can have no ties of family.He ought not to be the son of a freewoman, but the child of a slave, destituteof every family tie, in order thatno personal attachments and familysympathies may interfere with thecares of administration.

At the present moment we hearit asserted on all sides, that the Othomanadministration is making greatprogress in restoring energy and intelligencein the government. Yetthere are some who insist that theprogress is small; that it is an empirewithout roads, and a governmentwithout a people; a central administrationwhich every subject, be heChristian or Mussulman, detests forits financial rapacity and systematiccontempt for justice. Inshallah! thereis some truth on both sides, but it isnot exactly our clue to separate thewheat from the tares, as they resembleone another so much at Stamboulas to confound the skill of Europeandiplomatists. We know to our costthat there is no road either to Brusaor Adrianople fit for a French diligence,and that an abortive attemptwas made to form a road from Trebizondto Erzeroum.

The great feature of the Othomanempire at the present day is this, thatcapital cannot be profitably employedin the improvement of the soil, and,strange to say, this peculiar featureof its social condition is common tothe new-created monarchy of Greece,and to no other European state. Tradeoften flourishes, cities increase in populationand wealth, gardens, vineyards,and orchards grow up roundthe towns from the overflow of commercialprofits, but the canker is inthe heart of the agricultural population;a yoke of land receives the samequantity of seed it did a hundred yearsago, and the same number of familiescultivate the same fields. This is themost favourable view of the case; butthe fact is, that many of the richestplains of Thrace, Macedonia, and AsiaMinor, are uncultivated, and have onlythe wolf and the jackal for their tenants.In Greece, too, under the scientificadministration of King Otho, andwith a representative government à laFrançaise, we see the plains of Thebes,Messenia, and Tripolitza, present thesame agricultural system which theydid under the Othoman government,and agriculture in general quite asmuch neglected and more despised.Now the line of demarcation betweencivilisation and barbarism really consistsin the profitable investment ofcapital in the soil. The agriculturalpopulation is the basis of a nationalexistence, and unless the soil producetwo bushels of wheat from the samesurface where one formerly grew, andfatten two sheep where one merelygathered a subsistence, a nation gainslittle in strength and wellbeing thoughits cities double their population. Thepolitical and social problem, with regardto the governments of Constantinopleand Athens, which now requiresa solution, is, to determine the causesthat prevent the cultivation of wheat onthe European and Asiatic coasts of theArchipelago, and in the fertile island ofCyprus. The provinces between theDanube and the Don were in a similarcondition when Akerman, Okzakoff,and Azof, were Turkish pashaliks;under the Russian government, theysupply France and England with grain.Now, the grain-growers of Turkeycould furnish half the grain exportedat present from the Black Sea, andthey could obtain much higher pricesfor their produce in consequence ofthe great saving of freight to consumers.Even the fertile districts ofBithynia and Thrace, bordering onthe Sea of Marmora, than which thereare no finer corn-districts in the world,cannot furnish Constantinople witha regular supply of wheat; and theOsmanlees would often suffer faminein the capital of their empire, unlessthey were provisioned from the provincestaken from them by the Moskofgaiour.

For our part, we must say that itis not unreasonable to entertain somedoubts of the improvement which hasmanifested itself in the Othoman administrationproving permanent, untilwe see some increase of the agriculturalpopulation. When the citizensof Stamboul and Athens begin to colonisethe country, it will be timeenough to talk of the regeneration ofthe Othoman power. And unless thepopulation of the kingdom of Otho ofBavaria, which possess all the advantagesto be derived from universalsuffrage, joined to the inestimableliberty of walking about the streetswith pistols and Turkish knives stuckin the belt, begin to abandon its passionfor coffeehouses, and find pleasureand profit in the cultivation ofthe fields, the improvement of theGreek nation will not be generallyadmitted, even though Athens becomea clean, elegant, and flourishing city.There must be an evident increase inthe amount of the produce of the soilfrom a given number of acres, beforethose who study the political historyof nations can be persuaded of thefeasibility of the project of restoring aGreek empire.

As we never had the good fortune ofmoving in that circle of society towhich the power of retailing anecdote,with minute circ*mstantiality, wasconsidered as the proper passport—aswe never were invited to listen to thesmall scandals of the group collectedat Holland House, or the smaller deliveryof the contents of commonplacebooks, which, in less renowned Whigcoteries, is considered the perfectionof sprightly converse—we are notashamed to acknowledge our momentaryoblivion of the party, who, inthe sonorous verse and roundedperiods of a brother dramatist, recognisedhis own thunder. We cannotat this moment accurately rememberwhether it was the figurative Puff orPlagiary, or the real Cumberland, whopreferred that accusation; and, therefore,we frankly admit, that we lie atthe mercy of those gentlemen whoconsider a slip in an anecdote, or anerroneous name and date in a fragmentof gossip, as the evidence of deficienteducation, and the token of unpolishedintercourse. We allude to the storyin question merely because the prefaceto Mr Macaulay’s collectedspeeches exhibits a curious specimenof the wrath which may be excitedby another method of conveyance. Itis not the appropriation of his thunder,but the non-appropriation of it,which seems to have roused Mr Macaulayto a point of very vehementindignation. It appears that a Londonpublisher, Mr Vizetelly, availing himselfof a licence which the law permits—namely,that of reprinting speecheswhich have been publicly delivered—conceivedthat the issue of a collectionof Mr Macaulay’s speeches might possiblyprove a paying speculation. Hereprinted, as we are given to understand,from “Hansard’s ParliamentaryDebates,” a number of theseorations; but, in his preliminaryadvertisem*nt he appears to haveannounced that he did so “by specialpermission.” That phrase ought notto have been used; or if used, itshould have been accompanied by adistinct reference to the party whogranted the permission. Nine out often of the reading public would certainlyconclude, from the terms employed,that Mr Macaulay, not theproprietor of Hansard, had authorisedthe publication; and, so far, there isjust ground for complaint. It was notonly natural, but proper, and due tohimself, that Mr Macaulay should havetaken steps to disavow any connectionwith, or any countenance given tothe enterprise of the enigmatical publication.But he has not contentedhimself with a broad disclaimer.Stung to the quick by some absurdblunders which the self-constitutededitor has committed, and which arespecially referred to in the preface, interms of vehement indignation, he hasthought it necessary for his own fameto suspend “a work which is thebusiness and the pleasure of my life,in order to prepare these speeches forpublication.” It is no compliment toMr Macaulay to say that the publicwill not thank him for having doneso. The desire and eagerness, onthe part of the public, to receive anew instalment of his History, is onlyequalled by their repugnance to perusespeeches upon subjects the interestof which has long gone by—a repugnancenot lessened by the impressionthat, even when new, the speecheswere not of a superlative degree ofmerit. We are sorry that becauseVizetelly—whom Mr Macaulay supposesto be actuated by a desire ofattaining the same distinction whichwas formerly enjoyed by Curll—shouldhave mistaken Pundits forPandects, and magnified the city ofBenares into an oriental nation—becausehe has made the gifted orator“give an utterly false history of LordNottingham’s Occasional ConformityBill”—or because he has representedhim as saying “that Whitfield heldand taught that the connection betweenChurch and State was sinful,”whereas Whitfield never said anythingof the kind, nor was Mr Macaulayso ignorant as to have averredthat he did,—we say we are sorry thatbecause Vizetelly did these things,our brilliant, though tardy historian,should have considered his reputationso dangerously imperilled, as to departfrom his legitimate and most interestinglabours, for the purpose of presentingus with a mediocre and uninspiringvolume of speeches. It is truethat he avers reluctance, nay, evendisinclination to the task. If thatwere his real feeling, he need nothave troubled himself much aboutthe speculations of Vizetelly. Duringthe last twenty years, many publicspeakers—nay, some men who maybe classed as real orators—all of themfar more distinguished than Mr Macaulay,for power, energy, pathos, wit,and influence, have gone to theirgraves; and yet no attempt has beenmade, though the absence of copyrightin speeches might have encouragedthe speculation, to publish theirworks in a collected form. If wewant to form an idea of the styles ofthe late Earl Grey, or Lord Durham,or Sir Francis Burdett, we must necessarilyhave recourse to the Mirror ofParliament. The filial piety of theirrelatives, great as it was, did not leadthem to the generous error of supposingthat their speeches would hereafterrank with those of Demosthenesor Cicero. In our own day no man,as a popular orator, equalled DanielO’Connell; yet where are his collectedspeeches?—and be it rememberedthat popular oratory is essentiallyDemosthenic, and that O’Connellcould produce a greater effectupon a mixed audience—which is thetest of oratory—than any other manof our time. Where are Shiel’sspeeches? In Hansard—where, wehesitate not to say, the speeches ofevery man of the slightest eminencein public life ought to be allowed toremain, without separate collection,at least during his own lifetime, anduntil his career is accomplished. Indeed,there are many prudentialreasons, at the present day, againstthe collection of senatorial speeches.No one has proposed to issue those ofthe late Sir Robert Peel, althoughthere can be no doubt that such apublication would afford some curioussubjects for commentary. It wouldserve the same purpose as the ancientcollections of commonplaces—loci communes,loci rerum, &c.—from which thetyro in rhetoric might draw argumentsadapted for immediate use on eitherside of a question. In such a collectionall possible pros and contraswould be found, not drily stated, butset forth with elaborate ingenuity.One speech would give the Protestant,and another the Catholic side of thequestion—one while we should findthe orator supporting agricultureagainst manufactures—another, manufacturesagainst agriculture; thezeal and sincerity being in both casesthe same. Then, what a charmingmiscellany Sir James Graham has itin his power to offer to the public!What deftness—what dexterity—whatamazing complexity of tergiversationwould be exhibited by a collectionof his Parliamentary speeches! Wefeel almost inclined to advise MrVizetelly to ransack Hansard for theNetherby harangues; the more so becauseMr Macaulay, in his own edition,has taken care to insert nothing calculatedto irritate Sir James. That is notaltogether fair, and it is certainly thereverse of valorous. Mr Macaulay hadoccasion, in his place in Parliament, todirect vigorous speeches both againstSir Robert Peel and against Sir JamesGraham. He tells us now in his prefacethat “it was especially painful to meto find myself under the necessity ofrecalling to my own recollection, andto the recollection of others, the keenencounters which took place betweenthe late Sir Robert Peel and myself;”and he pays a very handsome complimentto the memory of the deceasedstatesman. That is graceful, amiable,and, we doubt not, entirely sincere.Nevertheless he publishes verbatim,what he said in debate against SirRobert Peel, who is no more; whereaswe find no trace of his famousspeech in the letter-opening case,directed against Sir James Graham,who is the living colleague of LordJohn Russell. The omission maybe accidental; or Mr Macaulay maythink the speech in question not sofelicitous as to be worth recording.If the latter, we differ from him. Itwas a spirited speech—much morenettlesome and pungent than threefourthsof those which he has includedin the present volume; and we haveno doubt that Sir James Graham, ifappealed to, will corroborate our opinion.Be it observed, however, thatwe do not by any means maintainthat Mr Macaulay was bound to reprinthis diatribe against Sir James.We make these remarks for the purposeof showing how unwise it is forany man to become the editor of hisown speeches; seeing that he musteither give huge offence to the living,or let them escape scot-free, whilst herepeats his strictures on the dead.After all, we think he would haveacted prudently in submitting to the“great wrong,” which Mr Vizetelly,under the tacit sanction of the law,which in theory is held to countenanceno wrong, has found it his interest toinflict. We rather fear that he hasbeen too hasty in intermitting hishistorical labours. Had some excessivelyimprudent speculator in literaturechosen to risk his capital byreprinting from Hansard the speechesof Lord John Russell or of LordAberdeen, we are certain that MrMacaulay, if consulted on the subject,would have advised these eminentstatesmen—even although the ignoramusof an editor had distorted thenature of their arguments, and substitutedPandects for Pundits—toabstain from putting forth their lucubrationsin a collected form. Wehave that confidence in his judgmentand discretion, when called upon toadvise others in matters of a literarynature, that we cannot doubt suchwould have been the tenor of his recommendation.But, unfortunately,in regarding matters personal to themselves,the great majority of mankinduse glasses materially differing in focusfrom those which they assume wheninvestigating the affairs of others;and it is painful to remark that, onthis occasion, Mr Macaulay hasacted as his own optician. It wouldhave been much wiser in him to haveallowed Mr Vizetelly to have disposedof as many copies as the publicwould take, without more remonstrancethan a simple disclaimer, thanto have fastened upon the blundersabout Benares, and Whitfield, andLord Nottingham’s Bill, as so manyapologies for bringing forward a revisedand collected series of hisspeeches.

He has done so, however; and wehave now to consider him as a man,who, by no means verging towardsthe end of his career—for we trust hemay long be spared to delight thepublic by the elaborate compositionsof a mind naturally highly gifted,greatly improved by exercise, andprodigiously stored with information—hasdeliberately chosen to setforth his claims to be ranked in thescale of orators. Whether Mr Macaulaymay choose to believe that weare sincere, or not, in the opinion weare about to express, is, to us, of littleconsequence. Politically, of course,we differ from him in many respects.We cannot even challenge, what isgenerally understood to be the opinionof his own party, that he is not qualifiedto act in the capacity of a leadingstatesman, or member of the Cabinet.We believe his mind to be of thatcast, that it does not readily and aptlyconform itself to present exigencies.It is too much wedded to the past,and to mere party traditions and intrigues.Let a crisis arrive, demandingimmediate and decided action, andMr Macaulay will be found puzzlingback to the Revolution Settlement of1688, or some other event of lesserconsequence about the same date;and descanting on the conduct of theleading Whig Lords of that period,and the way in which they managedto juggle and forswear themselves;and from these premises he wouldform conclusions applicable to thepresent times. The Whig party leadersare notoriously addicted to tradition,but Mr Macaulay’s ideas go back agreat deal farther than is convenienteven for their purpose. They, naturallyenough, do not want the aid of historyfarther than concerns their immediateguidance; and they would be glad tosink altogether the memory of dynasticalquestions, and begin with Fox,who is the proper god of their idolatry.Mr Macaulay, by resolutely harkingback to forgotten eras, frightfullyembarrassed his colleagues in theCabinet, when he ranked as a minister.It was an excessive bore to betold what Danby did or would havedone, or what Halifax meditated, orWilliam of Orange proposed, whenthe point at issue was somethingreferring to our own day, arising outof entirely novel circ*mstances, andhaving nothing whatever in commonwith the policy that actuated statesmenat a time when rival dynastiesplaced in dispute the true successionto the crown. In reality, however,it is no disparagement to Mr Macaulayto say that, from the peculiar turn ofhis mind, the nature of his pursuits,and the intenseness of his literaryhabits, he has failed in acquiring evena moderate reputation as a statesman.To the public, his withdrawal or exclusionfrom office ought to be anythingbut matter of regret; since itis better, both for his own fame andfor the literary reputation of ourcountry, that he should be employedin illustrating its annals according tohis own views and conviction, thanif he were participating in the laboursof Molesworth, Wood, and the othereminent individuals who drone awaytheir time in the Cabinet. As anhistorian, he has already made himselfa name far more enduring thanthat of any mere politician, and hecan very well afford to abandon thehonours and responsibilities of officeto inferior men who regard that aloneas the summit of earthly ambition.And we know, and are pleased toknow, from his own statement andfrom the assurance of his friends, thathe feels anything but regret at havingexchanged the harassments of officefor the literary leisure, which he knowsso well and so effectively to employ.We are only sorry that he has thoughtfit, in this very marked and unusualmanner, to invite public discussion ofhis claims to be considered as anorator. As an historian, and historicalwriter, he has already received, inthe pages of the Magazine, a warmand deserved tribute. Without acknowledgingthe soundness of all hisviews—indeed, while questioningmany, and decidedly objecting tosome, both as regards facts and conclusion—wehave been, and are ready tobear testimony to his talent, his research,the vigour of his style, andthe occasional brilliancy of his pictures.That he is a literary artist of highrank and position, we have admittedmost cheerfully, and, we know, havesaid so cordially. But he now comesbefore us in another character. Thehistorian requests—nay, demands—thatwe shall regard him as a publicspeaker, and assign him his properplace in the roll of orators. In doingso, he certainly departs from his ownfamiliar walk, challenges comparison,which it would have been wise to haveavoided—and provokes criticism whichotherwise would not have been exerted.When men play many parts,it is inevitable, unless in the case ofsuch a phœnix as the AdmirableCrichton, that some one part must bevastly inferior to the others. As anhistorian, an essayist, and a vividversifier, we are inclined to rank MrMacaulay high. We cannot admitthat he is an orator in the strict senseof the term. As a public speaker, hehas almost invariably failed in realisingthe expectations excited by hisliterary renown.

We must, as we are aware, assignsufficient reasons for that opinion;and we shall be met, at the outset,by the fact, that a speech from Macaulayis considered as an event. Soit is; and so, too, in the House ofCommons, would be deemed a speechfrom Sir Charles Wood, did that parodyof a statesman confine himself to asingle harangue in the year. Mr Macaulay,we know, will not suspect us ofany intention of comparing him withthe present President of the Board ofControl. We are in no danger of mistakingHyperion for a satyr. But thetruth is, that men who have beenthrust, whether by interest or not,into high official situations, are aslikely, if they practise general reticence,to be listened to in the House ofCommons, as are men of exalted intellect;and that an elderly proser, whospeaks only once in each session, hasa better chance of an audience thanthe glib and voluble orator who startsup in every debate. In public lifeMr Macaulay has shown great discretion.During the last twenty yearshe has spoken but seldom, and neverwithout careful and elaborate preparation;therefore, when it becomesknown that he is about to addressthe House, he is sure to meet witha large, respectful, and attentive audience.Nor is this to be wondered at,on other grounds; for, independentlyof his high celebrity, Mr Macaulay’sspeeches are much better worth listeningto than the majority of thosenow delivered in the House of Commons.The language is correct andwell-chosen, the arguments are carefullyarranged, and there is none ofthat hesitation, repetition, and digression,which frequently disfigures theefforts of those who have less leisurebeforehand to prepare and adjust theirspeeches. The curiosity of the audienceis excited by the eminence ofthe speaker, and they are well assuredthat what he is about to lay beforethem will bear the peculiar and unmistakableimpress of his style. Andso it does; but then the genius of MrMacaulay is not of the oratorical kind.He can impart information—that is,he can summon to the aid of his argumentswhole lists of precedents, someof them not very applicable, and countlessparallels, or instances which healleges to be such. These give, at allevents, an air of profundity to his discourse,and cannot be called inappropriateto the mouth of an historian.But upon a mixed audience they canproduce very little effect, for this reason,that they are not familiar withone out of ten of the cases which hecites, or the incidents to which herefers; and, consequently, they musteither receive them on trust, or disregardthem altogether. We do notthink, as some of his associates havealleged, that Mr Macaulay intends tomake a parade of his acquired learning.We rather incline to hold that,as is common with men who addictthemselves greatly to any particularbranch of study, he takes it for grantedthat the whole world is studying inthe same direction, and is not consciousthat he is throwing an extravagantquantity of historical pearls—or,it may be, paste—before his audience.Such at least is our belief; for we arenot willing to suppose that Mr Macaulaywould condescend to that verylow kind of pedantry, not unusualamong country preachers and schoolmasters,which seeks to astonish by theassumption of superior learning. “Itwas in this way,” said Mr Macaulay,in one of his earlier speeches, “thatCharles II. was forced to part withOropesa, and that Charles III. wasforced to part with Squillacci.” Verylikely it was; but how many of theHouse of Commons had ever heardof Oropesa or Squillacci? How manywere familiar with the events he referredto? Probably not one. Hewould have produced the same effectupon their reason and understanding,have influenced their convictionsquite as powerfully, if he had toldhis audience that Mumbo-jumbo andArimaspes had been dismissed byDon John, or Peter of Portugal. Letus refer to that passage in his speechon the Dissenters’ Chapels Bill, whichthe ignorant Vizetelly mangled. Thespeech is evidently a favourite withMr Macaulay, and we presume he hasrestored it in its integrity. Addressinghimself to the point, that prescriptionconstitutes a good title to property,he brings into the compass ofone page such a mass of illustrationfrom all ages, nations, and institutions,that we cease to be shocked atthe barbarism of the Vizetellian blunder,especially when we observe thatthe Jurists who framed the Code ofJustinian are referred to in the samesentence with the Pundits of Benares.Indeed, we think that Mr Vizetelly isfairly entitled to stand upon the veryexcuse which the legally-inclined MrBartoline Saddletree proponed, whenchallenged by Reuben Butler for anerror on the same subject.

“‘It’s owre true, Mr Butler,’ answeredBartoline, with a sigh; ‘if Ihad had the luck—or rather, if myfather had had the sense to send meto Leyden and Utrecht to learn theSubstitutes and Pandex’——

“‘You mean the Institutes—Justinian’sInstitutes, Mr Saddletree?’ saidButler.

“‘Institutes and substitutes are synonymouswords, Mr Butler, and usedindifferently as such in deeds of tailzie,as you may see in Balfour’s Practiques,or Dallas of St Martin’s Styles.I understand these things pretty weel,I thank God; but I own I should havestudied in Holland.’”

Such far-fetched illustrations necessarilytend to diminish the force ofMr Macaulay’s speeches, which is themore unfortunate, because he is peculiarlyaddicted to that kind of argumentwhich the old rhetoricians styledthe παράδειγμα, being that which isdrawn from Example. Even whenhe does not pass into ground altogetherunknown to his audience, whenhe refers in support of his position tosome passages in British history, heavoids those which are most familiar,and selects the remoter and more obscure.Hence it is that he so oftenfails in exciting and maintaining enthusiasm.No sympathy can be rousedby references to Sir George Savile,Hugh Peters, or Praise-God-Barebones;nor is the substitution of apolitical essay for a speech the bestmeans of commanding the admirationor influencing the will of an audience.We are inclined to think that Mr Macaulay’searly oratorical training hasexercised a prejudicial rather than asalutary influence over his subsequentstyle. He was, we believe, a memberof the Union Debating Society at Cambridge,in which arena questions ofimmediate political interest were discussedquite as keenly as on the floorof the House of Commons. Withoutpronouncing an opinion hostile to theinstitution of debating societies, wemay be allowed to remark, that thetoo frequent introduction of politicsas the subject of discussion among theyoung can hardly receive the approbationof any thinking man of matureryears. The arguments employed onsuch occasions must be, and are, thespent weapons of politicians who areengaged in real warfare; and these areused by the juvenile enthusiasts withoutany examination as to their soundnessor propriety. There is, in truth,little sense, and no advantage in thismimic warfare. Young men are therebyinduced, not to reason, but to dogmatise—notto argue, but to declaim;and the opposition which they encounterto their borrowed views onlyserves to strengthen them in prejudice.The leader of a political debating societyis usually an insufferable specimenof the juvenile prig. He can pratefor the hour on such generalities asthe constitution, the liberty of the subject,the rights of the people, and soforth; but, if you bring him to book,and demand a distinct explanation ofwhat he has been saying, you will immediatelydiscover that he is neitherin possession of fixed notions nor ofintelligible ideas. There is a kind offrothy rhetoric, very much used in debatingsocieties, which serves to disguisecommonplaces, and helps tomake them appear almost brilliant toan inexperienced audience; and inthat sort of rhetoric Mr Macaulay earlybecame an adept. Most men who haveacquired this style in public are compelledto get rid of it. At the bar itwould not be tolerated; and it isworthy of remark that the most shininglights in debating societies usuallypale their ineffectual fires whenbrought into the legal profession. Inthe senate, where less precision isrequired, they succeed better; buteven there it requires an immensedeal of attrition and wear beforethey can become expert masters ofdebate. Now it seems to us, after adiligent perusal of his speeches, thatMr Macaulay has never been able toemancipate himself from the bondageof the debating society. He speaksnow, just as he might have spoken morethan thirty years ago; only that hislanguage is more select, his range ofillustration larger, and his perorationsmore artificial, and therefore morefrigid than before. In point of confidence,we do not believe that he haseither gained or lost. Some men begintheir public career with diffidenceand trembling, and end by becoming remarkablyself-possessed. Others, whohad a fine stock of assurance to beginwith, are so cowed by the buffets theyreceive, as actually to have modestyforced upon them; and we have knownmore than one instance of a youngBoanerges who, by dint of constantpunishment, has been brought to seethe error of his ways, and the exaggeratedestimate he had formed of hisown natural powers. Mr Macaulay,however, belongs to neither category.He believed himself an oracle as aboy: he believes himself an oracle asa man. And, if justified in the onebelief, who shall venture to say thathe is erroneous in the other? Certainit is that, in 1826, when hepenned his essay on Milton, he displayedas much power, taste, andvigour, as are exhibited in the volumesof his History given to thepublic in 1849. He spoke with moreanimation, clearness, and effect, onthe subject of the Reform Bill in 1831,than on any subsequent occasion,though some of his later speeches mayhave been more highly elaborated. Heis, of course, better informed now onpoints of history, science, and literature,than when he emerged fromCambridge; but we question whetherhe has gained much additional knowledgeof the world, or of the motiveswhich actuate mankind. Never, perhaps,did a man attain so high apoint of literary distinction withoutpossessing in a moderate degreethe power of affecting the passions.We can scarcely refer to a singlepassage out of his whole writings,whether in prose or verse, whichis likely to have drawn a tear. Hisspeeches, as we now read them,are remarkably frigid. They maysatisfy the understanding, but theynever could influence the will. Weare well aware that, in the Houseof Commons, as presently constituted,no speech, however eloquent,can be supposed to affect the votes ofany considerable section; but thepeculiarity of Mr Macaulay’s speakingis this, that we can hardly conceivethe possibility of his making a convert.This is owing, we think, in agreat measure, to a somewhat singulardisregard—for we cannot suppose itignorance—of the means which thechief orators, both of ancient andmodern times have deemed it theirduty to employ. In the first place,Mr Macaulay never seems to think itnecessary to take the slightest painsto conciliate his audience. Of coursethere are many cases when such introductoryconciliation is not required—forexample, when addressing anentirely sympathetic meeting, or whenretorting upon the direct attack of anantagonist—but in very few instancesindeed does Mr Macaulayintroduce himself, upon a debatedpoint, otherwise than as a determinedpartisan. There can be no doubt thatintroductions of a conciliatory naturerequire the utmost delicacy of handling.They are made for the purposeof showing that the speaker comes tothe consideration of the question atissue, with as much fairness, deliberation,and candour, as can be expectedfrom man of mortal mould;and further, that he does not intendto dictate to his audience, but rather,by impressing them with his ownviews, to induce them to considercalmly whether his conclusions aretrue or false. This does not implythe abandonment of the strongestargument, or the most forcible illustrationin the after-part of the speech.It is an arrangement dictated bynature; because in every case, whena man rises to address an assembly,his first care ought to be to dispel,if possible, personal suspicion if thatshould exist, and to secure a willingauditory. Of this art Cicero was anentire master; and it is no exaggerationto say, that his most remarkableforensic triumphs were achieved ratherby the effect of his introductions, thanby the subsequent ingenuity of hisarguments, and his unrivalled skill inthe disposition of narrative. We arequite aware that introductions of thiskind, when badly framed, have exactlythe opposite effect from that whichwas intended. There probably neverwas a worse one than that attemptedby the late Sir Robert Peel, in hismemorable speech delivered in theHouse of Commons on 27th January1846, in which he beat about thebush so long, that he entirely destroyedthe effect which he intendedto produce. But, whether as regardsthe immediate impression on theHouse, or the subsequent effect onthe country, we must hold that aspeaker ought to endeavour, in thefirst instance, to divest himself of theappearance of being actuated by mereparty motives. Such men as the lateDuke of Wellington, or the presentMarquis of Lansdowne, whose longand unblemished public lives havebeen accepted as full evidence of thepurity of their motives, might indeeddispense with any such protestation;but there are not many who, fromage and public confidence, haveacquired a similar privilege. Now, itis rather curious to observe that MrMacaulay seems, throughout his wholecareer, to have disdained any kind ofconciliation. He has approached everyquestion, not only with his mind madeup upon it, but in the spirit of thestrongest contempt and depreciationtowards all who disagreed with him.He never, like Themistocles, volunteeredto receive a buffet in order togain a hearing. He rather, in imitationof Dares, walked into the arenawith the gauntlets buckled round hiswrists,

It is no business of ours to recounthow often he has met with an Entellus,who has doled out severe punishment;we are now simply referring towhat we consider to be his oratoricaldeficiencies or omissions.

Next we would observe, that theimpression left on our mind by theperusal of these Speeches—which, referringas they do to bygone events,do not excite the slightest feeling ofantagonism—is that the value of thematter is generally disproportioned tothe grandiose nature of the style, andthe uniform pomposity of language. Itis quite true, that Mr Macaulay hasspoken upon several interesting andimportant questions; and it is equallytrue that an orator, in addressing himselfto themes of that description, isentitled to assume a higher tone thanmight be suitable to a meaner subjectof debate. But then, he must takecare that his thoughts and sentimentsare raised to the like elevation. Onedistinguishing quality of the real oratoris, that he rises with his subject. Hisintellect seems to expand in proportionto the greatness of his theme—heelevates himself in feeling and energyabove the level of his audience, andthe high thoughts which then rushupon his mind are expressed withcorresponding dignity. The orator,like the poet, has his fits of inspiration,varying in intensity and degreeaccording to the subject with whichhe deals. This, of course, precludesthat method of slavish preparation,now unfortunately too common, bymeans of which not only the substanceof the speech, but the very words,are elaborately fabricated in the closet,and committed to memory. The manwho adopts that system may be agood speaker, but he never will attainthe highest point of elevation as anorator. Like the swimmer on a stormysea, the orator should rise and fallwith the wave of his audience; for heis contending for the mastery over amoral element, than which the naturalone is not always more fluctuating orfierce. It may be well to calculateand consider beforehand the line ofargument to be adopted, just as a prudentgeneral will make his dispositionsbefore going into battle. But as nocommander can foresee what mayhappen in the field, can provide forevery emergency, or lay down for himselfa course of action from which hewill not deviate—so neither ought theorator to commit himself to a certainform of words, which possibly mayprove either unappropriate to the occasion,or injurious to his cause. Menthink differently in the closet, and inthe scene of action. In the formerthey are comparatively unimpassioned—inthe latter they must necessarilyexhibit passion if they seek to rouseit in others. The most skilful andelaborate discourse, if coldly conceivedand expressed, will have a drenchingrather than an inspiring effectupon an audience which is alreadypossessed with a considerable degreeof enthusiasm. Their feeling, favourableto the speaker and his cause,must not be put back—it ought, onthe contrary, to be heightened. Theforce of these observations will becomeapparent to every one who will takepains to investigate the subject, forthere is nothing more certain, thanthat the success of an orator dependsmainly upon the amount of energywhich he can display. Energy wasthe secret of the success of Demosthenes;and Cicero, with all his art,could not find a higher quality to recommend.It must be confessed thatmodern statesmen have been toomuch in the habit of disregarding thisevident truth. Some of them—and wewould instance as a notable examplethe late Sir Robert Peel—might havesecured a far more enthusiastic followingthan they ever could boast, butfor their extreme and over-cautiousfrigidity. To this remark Lord JohnRussell, who perhaps has had moreopportunities than any other livingman of acquiring personal influence,is also peculiarly liable. On the contrary,take the case of Lord Palmerston.He is not implicitly trusted byany strong party in the state; andyet, in the House of Commons, noman can produce a greater effect, orpossesses a larger personal influence.And why is this? Because he cancarry an audience along with him—becausehe is never frigid, never dull,never addicted to circumlocution—becausehe possesses and exertsenergy in a high degree; and is, intruth, what few of his contemporariescan claim to be—an orator. Readone of his speeches, and you see atonce that it was not concocted in thecloset—that he had not stooped topolish sentences beforehand, or toselect language which should pass fora pattern of composition. Mark, too,the variety of his style—how quietlyand playfully he disposes of a smallmatter—how, during debate and attack,to use the language of Canning,he “silently concentrates the powerto be put forth on an adequate occasion.”No wonder that, when theoccasion arrives, he should extortadmiration even from his adversaries.Very different is the case with MrMacaulay. Whatever be the subject,he rises to lecture, and has his lecturethoroughly prepared. He is speakingto-night, amidst the hum of the Houseof Commons, what he wrote yesterdayin the quiet seclusion of hischambers in the Albany. He had nothought whatever of his audience; hewas thinking simply of his style.That he may adorn and heighten;but he cannot vary it at pleasure.Ask him to pronounce a panegyricupon a deceased hero, and a discourseupon a drowned mouse, and he willexecute both in the same strain. Thevictor in a hundred fields will notbe celebrated in periods more statelythan the invader of a hundred cheeses.Simplicity is not part of his nature—hemust have recourse to rhetoric orbe dumb.

Now, although this style may betolerated in writing, it becomes verytedious when adopted in public speaking.Dress up a mere commonplacewith the utmost skill and ingenuity,and yet, to the hearer, it retains itsoriginal character. The way in whicha thing is said, does not alter the substanceof the thing itself—the finefeatures cannot conceal the emaciationof the body beneath. We havegone over several of the speeches containedin this volume, for the purposeof ascertaining the real value, power,and ingenuity of the arguments setforth; and we are compelled to say,that in no one instance have we beenable to discover the trace of an independentthought, or of a purely originalidea. Some of them are unquestionablyable speeches. Ask a manof high talent and extensive information,like Mr Macaulay, to deliver adiscourse upon any possible theme,and he will do so in a manner whichshall elicit shouts of applause from aMechanic’s Institute. Nay, he willbe loudly cheered even within thewalls of Parliament, provided that aconsiderable interval is allowed toelapse between each exhibition—because,as we know from the history ofEuphuism, fine language commandsadmiration, and rounded periods arealways grateful to the ear. Besidesthis, it would be untrue, and highlyunfair to Mr Macaulay to insinuatethat he cannot make proper use anddisposition of such arguments as liebefore him. He states them well andadroitly; though, as we have alreadyhinted, frequently marring their effectby the extreme remoteness of his illustrations.But neither our reading norour recollection can furnish us with onecase in which Mr Macaulay has putforth an original view, or disentangledhimself from the general mass of debaters.In political life or strife, heappears simply as a furbisher of oldiron, a process in which he certainlyis expert; and he manages to makean exceedingly rusty rapier pass fora tolerable Toledo. More he seldomattempts. His speeches are oftenbrilliant, in the same sense in whichwe apply the epithet to fireworks;tolerably, though not strictly logical;always sententious, rounded, andadapted to a mouthing delivery—butnever ardent, never eloquent, nevercalculated to excite enthusiasm. Ifmere rhetoric could make an orator,Mr Macaulay ought undoubtedly to bethe first of the age. He has studiedit on the same principle as did Gorgias,who made it his boast that he couldspeak, and speak well upon any givensubject, even though he was not conversantwith its details, by aid of thecommonplaces which he could dressup for the occasion. Gorgias had somereputation during his lifetime, but heis now remembered only on accountof his extravagant boast. His workshave long since perished; and we donot think that the efforts of Mr Macaulay,as an orator, will survive evenso long as those of Gorgias.

If there had been, in this collection,one speech upon which we could havedwelt with any feeling of artistic interest—onewhich we could have withdrawnfrom the rest, to rank among theremarkable specimens of British eloquence—weshould not only have beendelighted, but proud to have selectedit for eulogy. That which we haveperused with the most pleasure, onaccount of its sentiment and manlyfeeling, is the speech delivered in 1846upon the subject of the Ten Hours’Bill. Regarded merely as an oration,it may not be of high value; but itdisplays, in a most pleasing light, thegenuine kindness of his heart, hisstrong sympathy with suffering, andhis genuine hatred of oppression. Suchspeeches are worthy of record, becausethey rank in the category of good deedsand noble actions; and deserve to beremembered with gratitude as exertionsin the cause of humanity. Wedo not inquire now into the abstractmerit of the speeches of Wilberforce,nor does his fame depend at all uponhis oratorical skill. He has passedfrom the roll of speakers to the catalogueof philanthropists; and insteadof directing the attention of youthfulaspirants after public distinction tothe force of his style, or the energyof his expression, we pay homage tohis memory as the chief instrument,under Providence, of removing thefetters from the slave. In like manner,notwithstanding certain peculiaritieswhich lead us rather to admirethan to love, Mr Macaulay has highclaims to the public gratitude and respect.In open questions, and thosein which party considerations do notmaterially interfere, he has alwaysshown himself accessible to conviction,generous in his views, and justin the expression of his sentiments.There are, among living public men,some who are more genial and attractive;but there are not many whoare better entitled to our respect.Our criticism has been framed utterlyirrespective of politics. We cannotboast, at the present day, of so largea list of men, either of genius orof high talent, as to omit the opportunityof paying tribute, where tributeis justly due. “I hope that Iam,” says Mr Macaulay, in the lastsentence of his last recorded speech,“at once a Liberal and a Conservativepolitician.” We hope so too; and wehope, moreover, that the avowal wasmade—not because Lord Aberdeenand Lord Palmerston, Lord JohnRussell and Mr Gladstone, Sir WilliamMolesworth and Mr Sidney Herbert,have agreed to lie down together—butbecause Mr Macaulay wisheshenceforward to emancipate himselffrom party trammels. It is certainlytime that he should do so. He hasoccupied a subordinate rank in theWhig regiment longer than he oughtto have done for his own reputation;and we are not sorry to see this disclaimerput forth in so marked a mannerat the very end of his last publication.It is, like the reading of theclosing line of the Iliad in the famousmanuscript copy, which the supportersof the Cyclic theory point to as clearlyindicative of further action, a phrasefraught with meaning; and when thecoalition is dissolved, as it soon mustbe by the influence of a political thaw,we trust that Mr Macaulay’s tendenciesmay indeed appear to be Conservative,without the sacrifice of thetrue liberality which becomes thegentleman and the scholar. We donot believe that the general verdictof the public upon this collection willbe of a different tenor from our own.But, after all, Mr Macaulay has nogreat reason to repine because he hasfailed to achieve a high place in theroll of British orators. His speecheswill not be quoted for their eloquenceand power, as those of Burke, Grattan,Erskine, and Canning are; but his historyand essays, and even ballads, willinsure him a reputation not less extensiveand enduring. We need scarcelyremind him that men who have attainedhigh reputations as statesmen, andbeen conspicuous as public speakers,have altogether failed in their attemptsto found a literary name. No one whohas perused the historical chapters composedby Fox, can regret that his designproved abortive, and that thesubject has been left to the morebrilliant and dexterous treatment ofMacaulay. We cannot say with truththat Lord John Russell’s literaryefforts inspire us with an exalted ideaof the author’s powers—we are evenof opinion that he would have donewell in abstaining from appearingbefore the public, either as a dramatist,biographer, or editor. Ne sutorultra crepidam. It is by naturalinstinct that every man addresseshimself to the occupation in which heis qualified to excel; and that ambitionwhich prompts men to deviatefrom their destiny, and undertaketasks which are not congenial to theirfeelings and sympathies, ought to berepressed. We cannot view Mr Macaulay’scareer without being convincedthat nature designed him to play hispart as a literary man rather than as apolitician. He has indeed tacitly admittedthat; for he has withdrawnhimself very much of late years fromdebate, preferring literary occupationto the excitement of political strife.We are sorry that he has been inducedto interrupt his more interestinglabours for the sake of undertakingthis collection; for, although thevolume will find its way into manylibraries—as what volume that borehis name upon the title-page wouldnot?—it will be regarded hereafterwith little interest, and may possiblybe cited as an instance of unsuccessfulambition. We repeat that Mr Macaulay’sfame rests upon his writings,and that the publication of his speechesis by no means calculated to extendor heighten his intellectual reputation;though it cannot diminish the just estimationin which he is held as a man.

The memoirs of a man of a singularlyadventurous and speculativeturn, who, having entered upon theoccupations of manhood early, andretained its energies late, has prolongedthe active period of his life toupwards of half a century, who hasbeen an eyewitness of not a few ofthe important events that occurred inEurope and America between theyears 1796 and 1850, and himself asharer in more than one of them, whohas been associated or an agent insome of the largest commercial andfinancial operations that British andDutch capital and enterprise everventured upon, and has been broughtinto contact and acquaintance—notunfrequently into intimacy—with anumber of the remarkable men of histime, can hardly, one would imagine,be otherwise than highly interesting,if the author have but sufficient commandof his native tongue plainly towrite down what his memory has retained,sufficient discrimination andself-restraint to avoid dwelling upondetails of too trifling and egotistical anature. Generally speaking, we havebut little confidence in the interestingqualities of German septuagenarianautobiographers. Garrulity is theprivilege of age, and German garrulityis a grievous thing, particularlywhen it displays itself upon paper.In Germany, where nearly everybodycapable of grammar writes a book,even though he have nothing to writeabout, elderly gentlemen, who reallyhave seen something worth the telling,are apt to imagine they cannever make too much of it, and insteadof delighting us with the purespirit, drench us with a feeble dilution.Such was the case, we well remember,with our old acquaintance,Baron von Rahden, whose militaryexperiences during the stirring periodof 1813–14–15 we brought before ourreaders now just seven years since,and who, instead of cutting short thetolerably prolix history of his life andadventures at the date when peacesheathed his sword, elaborated twoother ponderous and very wearisomevolumes, scarcely relieved by an accountof General Chassé’s defence ofAntwerp, and by sketches of a campaignin Catalonia, in which the indefatigableand restless old fire-eater,unable to pass his latter days in tranquillity,served under the orders ofthe Carlist general Cabrera. Thereis more variety and vivacity in thebook now before us than in thebaron’s interminable record, of which,however, it has in some respects remindedus. Von Rahden, a soldierby profession and inclination, gave usfar too much of his proceedings intimes of peace, and dwelt at tediouslength on garrison rivalries, his ownunrewarded merit, and German provincialtopics. Mr Nolte, on thecontrary, by profession a man ofpeace, whose weapon is the pen, hisfield of battle the Exchange, and hiscampaigns amongst cotton bales,whose tutelar deity has been Mercuryinstead of Mars, and whose commandersand allies, instead of the martial-soundingappellations of Blucher,Gneisenau, and Chassé, have bornethe pacific but scarcely less famousnames of Hope, Labouchere, andBaring, has mingled, in the rathercomplicated narrative of his mercantilepursuits, triumphs, and disasters,much adventure both by flood andfield, in which he himself was personallyengaged, and displays, in thetelling, not a little of the go-aheadspirit proper to the people amongstwhom he has passed a large portionof his life. He has really seen agreat deal, and his reminiscences, althoughhere and there his style ofnarrating them be trivial and in questionabletaste—whilst some of hislong accounts of financial and commercialoperations will more particularlyinterest bankers and merchantsthan the general reader—containmuch that will attract all. InGermany the first edition of his bookhas gone off at a gallop,—no smalltestimony to its merits in a year duringwhich present politics have beenthe all-absorbing topic. We do notwonder at its popularity; for, besidesthe mass of anecdote and historicalrecollections it comprises, the authorhas contrived to give an interest tohis individuality, by the off-handstyle in which he tells of his errorsand of his triumphs, of his many reversesand disasters, as well as ofhis rarer moments of prosperity andsuccess.

We should as soon think of attempting,within the compass of anarticle, a digest of an encyclopædiaas of Mr Nolte’s volumes. We shouldfill half a magazine by merely tracinghis itinerary. There never wassuch a rolling stone. He treats theAtlantic as most men do DoverStraits, and thinks no more of a fewhundred leagues of land travel than amodern co*ckney of a run to Ramsgate.Whole years of his life musthave been passed on board ship, andbehind post-horses. His book necessarilypartakes of the desultorynature of his career. It better bearsdipping into than reading from endto end.

Born at Leghorn, in the year 1779,of a German father, Mr VincentNolte’s first reminiscence, of muchinterest to his readers, is connectedwith the invasion of Italy by theFrench under Buonaparte. His fatherhad for some years left Italy, and settledin Hamburg, his native place;but young Vincent, after being educatedin Germany, was sent back toLeghorn, to take his place as juniorclerk in his uncle’s counting-house,one of the most important in that city.He was in his seventeenth year when,upon the last Saturday in June 1796,a courier from the British minister atFlorence brought news to the consulat Leghorn that the French were approaching.There was great bustleamongst the English merchants to gettheir property shipped, and place itand themselves under the protectionof Nelson’s squadron, then cruisingoff the port. After unremitting labour,and favoured by the wind, thelast ships, with English goods onboard, left the harbour at noon onMonday. They had been but twohours gone, when it suddenly becameknown in the city that the Frenchwere close at hand, advancing by thePisa road, and presently a party ofcavalry galloped round the fortificationsto the Porta Colonella, and rodestraight up to the fort, on which theTuscan flag waved. Suddenly thosecolours disappeared, and were replacedby the French tricolor, displayed forthe first time to the wondering eyesof the Tuscans. Almost at the samemoment the cannon of the fort thundered,and sent some shots after thoseEnglish vessels nearest to the harbour—thussignalling to Nelson theentrance of the French. Young Nolte,who had little love for the desk, whosewish it was to become a painter, andwho then, and all his life through,was ardent, impetuous, and a lover ofexcitement, could sit still no longer,but ran out of the respectable counting-houseof Otto Franck & Co., consulfor Hamburg, &c., to stare at theinvaders. At the head of a body ofcavalry, a horseman of remarkablebeauty galloped up the street, andalighted at the door of the Genevesebanker, Dutremoul. It was Murat.This was between two and three inthe afternoon.

“At six in the evening, the newsspread that General Buonaparte wasat the Pisa gate. No sooner did helearn that the English residents hadhad time to escape with their property,than he broke into a violentrage. At that moment Count Spannochi,attired in the ordinary uniform,a blue coat, red waistcoat, and whitebreeches (the full-dress uniform consistedof a white coat and red waistcoatand breeches), and, surroundedby his officers, and by the chief authoritiesof the city, advanced to welcomethe general, who still sat upon hishorse. Buonaparte gave him no timeto speak, but at once violently assailedhim. ‘How dare you,’ he cried,‘appear before me thus? Do you notknow your duty? You are an insolentfellow, a traitor! You have letthe English escape; you shall pay forthat. A court-martial shall sit immediately.You are my prisoner—giveup your sword!’ And Count Spannochidisappeared. Buonaparte’swords were repeated to me that sameevening by my fellow-clerk, Giacomini,who had gone with the crowdoutside the Pisa gate, and had heardthem. Next day we learned that thegovernor had been sent under arrestto Florence, and that the Frenchgeneral, Vaubois, commanded in hisstead. Hardly had Buonaparte andhis staff reached the grand-ducal palace,when police-agents went roundto all the houses, ordering a generalillumination, under heavy penalties incase of disobedience. The only Leghornnewspaper that then existed announced,upon the following day, thearrival of the victor of Lodi and Arcola,adding, that the inhabitants hadspontaneously illuminated. I then,for the first time, got a correct ideaof a spontaneous illumination, and wasnever afterwards at a loss to understandthe expression. At eleveno’clock the next morning, the foreignconsuls waited upon the general, whoquickly dismissed them, when suddenlyhis eye was attracted by my uncle’sred coat. ‘What is that?’ he cried.‘An English uniform?’ My uncle,taken quite aback, had just enoughpresence of mind to reply, ‘No, Padrone,questa e l’uniforme di Amburgo!’and endeavoured, but in vain,to make his escape. Buonaparteburst forth with a violent diatribeagainst everything that looked English,against all who thought likeEnglishmen, or had anything to dowith England. ‘Those English,’ hesaid, according to my uncle’s accountto me upon his return home, ‘shallget such a lesson as they have neveryet had! My road now lies to Vienna,then farther north, to destroytheir nests in Hamburg and elsewhere,and then to seek them in their ownrobbers’ den!’”

Young Nolte was bent upon seeingthe hero of the day, who, before attaininghis eight-and-twentieth year,had played such havoc amongst Austria’sveteran commanders, and, disregardinghis uncle’s commands tokeep in-doors, and out of the way ofthe dense mob upon the Piazzad’Arme, he again played truant, andstationed himself at the corner of thepalace, at whose entrance an opencarriage awaited the French general.His account of the impression he carriedaway of Napoleon’s appearancehas some originality. The peculiarexpression, attributed by him to theeyes, reminds one of the presentFrench Emperor.

“At last there came out, accompaniedby a number of officers, alittle, youthful-looking man, in a plainuniform, with a pale, almost a yellowcomplexion, and long, lank, raven-blackhair, hanging over his ears,after the fashion of the Florida savagescalled Talapouches. That wasthe hero of Arcola! Whilst he tookthe right-hand place in the carriage,and whilst his aides-de-camp got in,I had a few moments to observe himclosely. There was a continued smileround his mouth, with which, however,the man himself had evidentlynothing to do, for the fixed indifferentlook of his eyes showed thatthe mind was busy elsewhere. Inever again beheld so remarkable anexpression. It was the dull gaze of amummy, barring a certain beam ofintelligence betraying the inward life,but only by a faint and glimmeringgleam. Macbeth’s words to Banquo’sghost, ‘There is no speculation inthose eyes!’ would almost have fittedhere, had not previous and subsequentevents sufficiently shown whata spirit lurked behind those impressiveorbs. The carriage drove away—sevenyears elapsed before I againbeheld that extraordinary man. Heleft the town the next day. I mustnot omit to mention a colossal andwell-built officer, who stood, in arespectful attitude, beside the carriage-door.This man, who had justbeen named town-major of Leghorn,was the grenadier who, sevenyears previously, on the 14th July1789, led the storm of the Bastile,and was the first to scale its walls,who afterwards, as General Hullin,was governor of Berlin after thebattle of Jena, and presided overthe court-martial appointed to try, orrather to shoot, the unfortunate Duked’Enghien.”

The presence and proceedings ofthe French in Leghorn were alikeodious to the inhabitants, who foundan important branch of their trade—thatwith England—completely cutoff, and who had to satisfy unceasingdemands for money and equipments.Large bodies of ragged, barefootedtroops continually entered the town,to quit it well shod and with newuniforms. The republican co*ckadebecame an abomination in the eyes ofthe Leghornese, who christened it ilpasticcino—the little pie—and wroteinnumerable lampoons upon its wearers.Leghorn was converted into acamp, and on a large altar in themiddle of the Piazza d’Arme, a statueof Liberty was erected, at the footof which the popular representatives,Garat and Salicetti, daily haranguedthe troops upon parade. Businesswas at a standstill; Vincent Noltedeserted his desk and roamed aboutthe town, sketching the groups offoreign soldiers. And even whenthings began to settle down, he woulddo nothing but ramble in picture-galleriesand make love to prettyFlorentines, until at last his uncle,despairing of his doing any good,wrote to his father that he was onthe high-road to perdition. Thisalarming piece of information producedan instant summons to Hamburg,where, in the paternal counting-house,the young scamp amended hisways and applied earnestly to business,displaying great energy, industry,and capacity.

The year 1799 was a disastrousone for Hamburg. Within six weeksthere occurred upwards of one hundredand thirty failures for a total ofthirty-six millions of marks. Thepanic was universal, and trade wasshaken to its foundations. Mr Nolte’shouse weathered the storm, but wascompelled, three years later, to suspendits payments in consequence of thefailure of the Leghorn establishment.The creditors received eighty-five percent, and the numerous friends of theunfortunate merchant subscribed acapital of one hundred and twentythousand marks to start him again inbusiness. Upon the list figured thewell-known name of Francis Baring,a former schoolfellow of the insolvent’s,for the munificent sum oftwenty thousand marks, upon whichhe positively refused to receive interest.Thus supported, Mr Nolteagain applied himself to business.But he was then a man advanced inyears and of little enterprise, and hisson, bold and ambitious, saw that hewas not likely to strike out new pathsto wealth, whereas the old and ordinaryavenues to commercial profitswere then closed, all over the Europeancontinent, by the iron hand ofNapoleon, that mortal foe to trade,and contemner of its votaries. Andas young Nolte could be of no use tohis father, who despised his views asthe dreams of a stripling, bent uponpleasure and unworthy of attention,he sought employment abroad. Thishe found in the house of Labouchereand Trotreau at Nantes, where heaccepted an engagement for threeyears, to carry on the German andEnglish correspondence. And so, inhis twenty-fifth year, he took leave ofhis parents, with a heavy heart, hesays, but without uneasiness as tothe future, and travelled, by way ofBremen, to Paris.

Mr Nolte’s arrival in the Frenchcapital coincided with the proclamationof Napoleon as emperor, andwith Moreau’s imprisonment on thecharge of a plot against the governmentand life of the First Consul. Itwas his first visit to Paris—the periodwas interesting. He was so fortunateas to find a friend who willinglyundertook to be his cicerone, and afew weeks flew rapidly by, duringwhich, thanks to his guide’s familiaritywith places and persons, he acquireda better knowledge of both than hewould in as many months had hebeen left to himself; for it wouldhave served him little (except, perhaps,in the way of emptying hispockets) that the doors of Frascati’s,then the favourite resort of the Parisianfashionable world, were opento all who could pay for admission,and who chose to roam through itsgorgeous saloons and brilliantly illuminatedgardens, had he not had withhim some one able to inform him thatyonder beautiful woman was MadameRecamier—yonder elegant youngman, leaning against the pedestal ofa statue, the renowned ball-roomhero Trénis—and the one beyondhim, with a music-book in his hand,the celebrated singer Garat. But ofall that Mr Nolte saw and heard,nothing made a deeper impressionupon him than the lively and universalinterest taken in the fate ofMoreau. “Rarely,” he says, “wasthat name uttered by the middle andlower classes without an expressionof love and respect, and without acurse upon his two implacable persecutors,the First Consul, and the governorof Paris, General Murat, whoseproclamations exhibited at everystreet corner the name of Moreau injuxtaposition with the words—‘Traitorto the Republic.’ Men could notand would not credit the guilt of thedistinguished general; and the Pariswits, never at a loss, declared thatthere were but two parties in France,‘les moraux (Moreaus) et les immoraux’—asaying which one heardeverywhere repeated.” Condemnedto banishment, the conqueror of Hohenlindenbetook himself, by way ofCadiz, to the United States, whereMr Nolte some years afterwards methim, and made his acquaintance.

Mr Nolte was present at the firstreview passed by the new emperor,on the Place du Carrousel at Paris.He was very desirous to get a nearview of the victorious general andsuccessful adventurer, whom he hadfirst seen, seven years before, in thefull flush of triumph at Leghorn.Two officers of the Danish life-guards,with whom he had travelled fromBremen, made interest for him withtheir ambassador, and procured himadmission to the gallery of the Louvre,a favour granted to few. “I sawthe great man of the day, surroundedby a brilliant staff, and by uniformsof every kind, ride several times upand down through the ranks, thengallop full speed along the front ofthe lines of cavalry drawn up outsidethe inner court, amidst cries of ‘Vivel’Empereur!’ when suddenly hishorse fell, and Napoleon rolled uponthe ground, still grasping the bridletightly. In a few seconds he hadmounted again, and galloped on,before even a part of his staff, whoquickly dismounted, could go to hisassistance. The newspapers said nothingof this incident, and its ominouscharacter struck me the more byreason of their silence.”

The chief partner of the mercantilehouse into whose employment MrNolte now entered, was a youngerbrother of the late P. C. Labouchere,of the celebrated house of Hope ofAmsterdam. Mr A. M. Laboucherewas very desirous to extend his connectionand business with the UnitedStates, but did not seem fully to appreciatethe facilities for so doingafforded him by his close alliancewith the Hopes and Barings, whosenames appeared as references in thecirculars of the Nantes house. Nolte,whose energy and talent early earnedhim a considerable share of his employer’sconfidence, urged Mr Labouchereto send an agent to theStates to carry out his wishes, andoffered to go himself, if no better wasto be found. He was told to putupon paper his ideas concerning America,and concerning the advantagesto be derived from a journey thither.This statement he executed in a mannerto excite the warm approval ofMr Labouchere, who desired him toforward it to his brother in Amsterdam.The reply was a summons tothe Dutch capital. There the elderLabouchere, who had formed a highopinion of Nolte from his correspondence,unfolded to him a gigantic project,the mere sketch of which bewilderedhim; and although not diffidentof his own powers, he declared thathe did not hold himself sufficientlyexperienced to undertake such responsibility,and felt that he should not beable to come up to his employer’sexpectations. “That is my business,and not yours,” Mr Labouchere replied.“I have but one thing torecommend to you, and that is, neverto do aught that shall give you causeto blush before me or before yourself.”This was lightening the load of responsibilityfrom which the youngman shrank, and giving him freshconfidence by showing him that othersappreciated him more highly than hedid himself, and he no longer madeobjections. He was to go to theUnited States, and for a few monthsmerely to look around him and acquirea knowledge of the country.Before entering, however, which hedoes at great length, into an accountof the important business about to beconfided to him, and into whose detailshe was not initiated until sometime afterwards, he gives an amusingchapter to a sketch of the celebratedbanker and contractor Ouvrard, fromwhose combinations the proposed operationissued, and with whom MrNolte was well acquainted, and hadfrequent intercourse at several periodsof his life. The chapter includes somecurious traits and anecdotes of Napoleon,who, it is well known, detestedOuvrard, and tyrannised over him,although he was more than onceobliged to seek his aid. Napoleonnotoriously hated and despised tradersand bankers. “I do not likemerchants!” he is reported to havesaid—with that brusquerie which, ina less man, would have been designatedas brutal ill-breeding—to thedeputation from the merchants ofAntwerp that went to welcome himto the town; “a merchant is a manwho would sell his country for a three-francpiece!” He was jealous of, orat least indignant at, Ouvrard’s enormouswealth, and the influence itgave him—both of which he consideredtoo great for any private personto possess; but, according to MrNolte, who seems quite conversantwith the scandalous chronicles of anyday during the last half-century,there were other private causes ofirritation, which most of Napoleon’sbiographers either were ignorant of,or thought it unnecessary to mention,and which certainly are lessout of place in the present author’sfar from prudish pages than theywould be in a grave biography.Ouvrard’s own Memoirs, publishednearly thirty years ago,[11] are nowlittle remembered; and Mr Nolte isevidently indebted to them for theoutline of his sketch, as well as forseveral incidents and anecdotes, buthe has filled up details which the greatspeculator thought proper to omit.The relative positions of Ouvrard andNapoleon, at different periods of theirlives, present the strangest contrasts.When the former, quitting the armyin which he had for a short timeserved, applied himself with skill andsuccess to commercial and speculativeoperations, and quickly realised a fortuneof several millions of francs, Napoleonwas so needy as to be desirousto avail himself of a decree of the Committeeof Public Safety, by which officerswere entitled to receive as muchcloth as would make them a uniform.The anecdote is well known. Napoleon’sapplication was rejected becausehe was not just then employed, andhe was very glad when Ouvrard, withwhom he had become acquainted atthe house of the Director Barras, inducedMadame Tallien, whose loverthe capitalist then was, to give him aletter of recommendation to the commissaryof the 17th military division;a letter which procured young Buonapartewhat he had great need of—anew uniform. Subsequently, in Napoleon’sdays of power and magnificence,when he began to spite and squeezeOuvrard, the latter loved to tell thisanecdote—a contrast with Talma,who had been Napoleon’s intimate,and had often lent him money in hisdays of penury, and who became evermore reserved in his communicationsand behaviour the higher his friendascended upon fortune’s ladder. ToOuvrard Napoleon was unquestionablyharsh, cruel, and unjust. Hisdislike to him seemed to augment in adirect ratio with the magnitude of thegains which the capitalist owed tothe circ*mstances of the times, to hisgreat financial capacity, and to thevastness of his operations. Of theextent of these and of his profits, wemay form some idea from a passagein Mr Nolte’s book, where he statespositively that Ouvrard cleared sixhundred thousand pounds sterling byhis contract for victualling the Spanishfleet under Mazaredo when it lay atBrest, and afterwards at Cadiz. Butif his gains were large, his losses,arising chiefly from Napoleon’s ill-willand despotic acts, were alsoheavy. During the Egyptian campaign,the Directory borrowed tenmillions of francs from him, which heproduced with the greatest ease. AfterBuonaparte’s return and the fall ofthe Directory, the First Consul askedhim for twelve millions more. Ouvrarddeclined. The other Paris bankerswere applied to; they either couldnot or would not. The First Consulwas furious—doubly so when Ouvrardclaimed repayment of the ten millionslent to the Directory. He had himpaid in assignments on the revenueof the past year, which had all beenexpended. It was equivalent to arepudiation of the debt. Soon afterwards,Ouvrard was arrested, underpretext of fraud in his dealings withthe government and supply of theFrench navy. He was kept in strictconfinement, his papers were sealedup, and a committee of councillors ofstate was appointed to investigate hisaffairs. Nothing could be substantiatedagainst him, but it was ascertainedthat his fortune, in landed property,money and French rentes, (thenworth but 15 per cent) amounted totwenty-seven millions of francs. “Onthis occasion,” says Mr Nolte, quotingalmost the words of Ouvrard, “adiscovery was made which deeplywounded the First Consul—namely,that, during his absence in Egypt,Ouvrard had supplied Josephine, whowas an old friend of his, and who hadremained at Malmaison, with money.She had become his debtor to a considerableamount. This circ*mstance,combined with the refusal of thetwelve millions, inspired Buonapartewith the most violent antipathy toOuvrard, at whose arrest all Paris(especially the bankers) was indignantand loud in complaint. Collot,afterwards director of the mint, whowas one of the First Consul’s mostintimate advisers, did not scruple totell him that it was beginning badly,thus to let all apprehend that they mightin their turn be the victims of sucharbitrary measures. ‘A man,’ repliedBuonaparte ‘who possesses thirtymillions, and sets no value on them,is much too dangerous for my position.’”Josephine and other influentialpersonages interceded for Ouvrard,who escaped the military tribunalwith which Napoleon threatenedhim, and was set at liberty, but remainedunder the surveillance of gens-d’armes.This in no way preventedhis continuing to receive with princelyhospitality at his château of Raincy(afterwards the duch*ess of Berry’s)the best society of Paris, and themost distinguished foreigners whovisited that capital—amongst others,Fox and Lord Erskine, who were hisguests after the peace of Amiens.

But we must take Mr Nolte awayfrom Paris—which seems his favouritecity, but where he cannever linger without getting scandalous—andacross the Atlantic. Hesailed in July 1805, and reached NewYork in forty-two days, then a marvellouslyrapid passage. The astonishedowner of the American ship“Flora” could hardly believe his eyeswhen he saw her come into portbefore he had received advice of herarrival at Amsterdam. Mr Noltefound the yellow fever in New York,and left the place for a few weeks,but returned thither in time to witnessthe arrival in the bay of a vessel fromCadiz, with General Moreau on board.The drums beat, and the militia turnedout and formed up in Broadway. Aseach company had a different uniform—sometimesa very odd one—theeffect of the whole display was a gooddeal like that produced by a harlequin’sjacket, which did not preventthe commander of the motley corpsfrom being prodigiously proud of hiswarriors, and asking Moreau—whenhe landed, plainly dressed in a bluecoat, and rode into the town, upon ahorse in waiting for him, amidst cheersand music, and surrounded by thevariegated staff of the militia—whathe thought of the American troops?Moreau replied that he had never inhis life seen such soldiers—which heprobably never had. A similar replyhas been since attributed to GeneralBertrand, when he landed in theStates some years ago, and a reviewwas held in his honour. The speculativespirit of the Yankees, who loveto combine business with pleasure,and to turn an honest dollar whilstadmiring a hero or listening to aLind, slumbered not in 1805 any morethan in 1850. The same genius foradvertisem*nt which made a hatterpay some hundred dollars for the bestplace at the Swedish Nightingale’sconcert, stimulated the promoters ofone that was to be given, on the nightof General Moreau’s arrival, in thegreat hall of the City Hotel—then thefirst in New York—to beseech hispresence, and, as soon as he had promisedit, to placard his name. Thecrowd was tremendous. Moreau, itwas on all hands agreed, looked verylittle like a French general, in hissimple dress, without co*cked hat,feather, or embroidery—whereas GeneralMorton, chief of the militia, had amost martial aspect in his Washingtonuniform. He introduced to the Frenchleader all who chose, and there wasa prodigious shaking of hands. MrNolte was standing near the twogenerals when a Quaker was presented,who shook Moreau’s hand heartily.“Glad to see you safe in America,”quoth Broadbrim. “Pray, general,do you remember what was the priceof cochineal when you left Cadiz?”The hero of Hohenlinden shruggedhis shoulders and confessed his ignorance.It was not until some timeafterwards, in Philadelphia, that MrNolte became personally acquaintedwith Moreau, whom he found, hesays, “a mild, agreeable, but, in anintellectual point of view, upon thewhole, an insignificant and uninterestingman. His manners were simple,and possessed a certain naturalnesswhich was attractive, but his conversation,or rather his monologue—forwe seldom had long dialogues—fetteredthe attention only when its subjectwas that of his certainly highly remarkableand distinguished militaryexploits. Then there was pleasure inlistening to him. Of Napoleon hescarcely ever spoke but as ‘thetyrant.’” The best portrait—indeed,the only good one we are acquaintedwith—of Moreau, that by Gérard,conveys quite the same idea heregiven of him by Mr Nolte—that of amild, amiable, but by no means ahighly intellectual man, with less ofthe military air and look about thehead than perhaps in any other distinguishedgeneral of the Frenchrepublic or empire.

We do not purpose going into thedetails of Mr Nolte’s commercial proceedingsas one of Hope’s agents inAmerica. They were connected withOuvrard’s well-known colossal planfor drawing specie from Mexico, inwhose treasury—owing to the interruption,by the war with England, ofintercourse between Spain and her colonies—seventymillions of dollars hadaccumulated. The duties assigned toMr Nolte compelled him to take uphis quarters at New Orleans, then inits infancy as a commercial city, andin the worst possible repute. Louisiana,after belonging alternately toFrance and Spain, and then to Franceagain, had been but recently sold tothe United States, and three-fifths ofthe white population of its capitalwere French by birth or extraction.New Orleans then had about sixteenthousand inhabitants, one-third ofwhom were slaves and coloured people.The character its citizens enjoyed inthe Northern States may be judgedof by the following anecdote: A friendof Mr Nolte’s, who had just formed anestablishment at New Orleans, findinghimself at Boston, and seeing avessel advertised to sail thence for theformer city, called upon the owner toask him to consign the ship to hishouse. Whereupon the owner toldhim in strict confidence that he hadjust as much intention of sending hisvessel to the moon as to New Orleans,and that he had inserted the advertisem*ntmerely in the expectationthat amongst the persons applying fora passage he should find a rascal whohad defrauded one of his friends of aconsiderable sum. “It is probable,”he added, “that he will try to get toNew Orleans, that being the naturalrendezvous of all rogues and scoundrels.”Not one of the eighteen ortwenty commercial houses existing atNew Orleans when Mr Nolte firstwent there possessed capital worth thenaming, and a respectable characterwas nearly as great a rarity as readycash. Roguery, disguised under thepolite name of “cleverness,” wascommonly practised and indulgentlyviewed. Juries and authorities werecorrupt, false witnesses easily purchased,and justice was hard to obtain.In illustration of this state of thingsMr Nolte tells some curious stories,one in particular, in which the celebratedAmerican jurist Edward Livingstonfigures. “I well remember,”he says, “the remarkable trial of acertain Beleurgey, the editor of one ofthe first American newspapers whichappeared in New Orleans, in 1806and 1807, in French and English,under the name of Le Telegraphe.To obtain money he had forged thesignature of a rich planter, to whom,when his crime was discovered, hewrote, confessing his guilt, and earnestlyentreating him not to prosecutehim. The planter seemed disposed toaccede to his prayer, but the letterwas already in the hands of justice.How then did Livingston contrive, asBeleurgey’s counsel and defender, toobtain his acquittal in spite of thatdamning proof of his guilt? Davezac(Livingston’s brother-in-law and factotum)brought forward witnesses whoswore that they knew Beleurgey to besuch a liar that no word of truth hadever issued from his lips. ‘See here,’then said Livingston to his Frenchjury—‘it is proved that the man isincapable of speaking the truth; thevery confession is a lie, for none buta madman would accuse himself. Sothat Beleurgey either has lied or isout of his senses; in either case heknew not what he did, and cannot befound guilty!’ And the jury acquittedhim!” New Orleans was evidentlynot a tempting place to settle in, foran honest man, with money to berobbed of; but then, with conductand judgment, there was money to bemade, and moreover Mr Nolte, as amere agent for others, had no choicebut to abide there. Presently thearrival, in quick succession, of threefast-sailing schooners from Vera Cruz,bringing half a million of Mexican dollarsto the address of Vincent Nolte,drew attention to the young manwhom previously few had heeded—savethe French planters, to whomhis knowledge of their language wasa recommendation. But now boundlesshospitality was shown him, noparty was complete without him, andfor three months he passed a pleasantenough life, when suddenly the yellowfever laid him on his back. Upon themorning of the third day there appearedat his bedside one Zachary,the cashier of the Louisiana bank, andone of the very limited number ofhonourable men in the city, andgravely asked him if he had made hiswill. To this ominous inquiry MrNolte replied by a negative and aninterrogative. “No! Why?”—“Well,”continued Zachary, “I supposeI need not tell you that you havegot the yellow fever, and that it ismore than possible you will die tomorrow,for the fourth is the criticalday, which one does not generally getover. You have large sums lying atthe bank—larger sums than have everbefore been seen here—and, if you die,the capital will fall into very unsafehands. The persons appointed by theState to take charge of the propertyof foreigners dying intestate, are notonly undeserving of confidence, but,to speak plainly, are downright rascals.”The sick man’s reply was thathe neither felt inclined nor intendedto die. “And as I am sure not todie,” he concluded, “I see no use inbothering my head about my will.”Zachary looked hard at him. “Well,my dear Mr Nolte,” he at last said,“since that is your mood, I too amcertain you will not die,”—a prognosticjustified by the patient’s speedyrecovery. In the yellow fever, as inother maladies, a faint heart killsmany.

We pass over several chapters andsome years. They include a good dealof interesting matter, and, of course,abundance of travelling;—a return toEurope, and brief residences in variouscities of the United States, in London,Paris, Amsterdam, and Hamburg.On a voyage from the Havanato Baltimore, Mr Nolte was wreckedupon the Carysford reef, which owesits name to the total loss of the frigateCarysford in 1774; and he gives acapital account of his sufferings andthose of his ten companions on a raftcomposed of three small spars, sixoars, and a hencoop, half immersed,and neglected by passing vessels, whotook them for shipwrecked Spaniards,and feared to succour them, lest, whenrescued, they should rise against theirdeliverers and take the ship into Cuba,an act of ingratitude that had beenrecently perpetrated under similar circ*mstances.A woodcut of the frailand curiously-constructed raft is theonly illustration the book contains.At Philadelphia, Mr Nolte, who, it isto be observed, has been all his lifean unlucky man, was run away within his tandem, and, jumping out, brokehis leg, which, badly set by two ignorantAmerican Sawbones, occasionedhim terrible suffering and long confinement.His agency for Hope’shouse at an end, and after decliningtwo advantageous offers of partnershipsin Europe, one of which hewould perhaps have done wisely inaccepting, he determined to apply thevery liberal sum he had received forhis services to the establishment of acommercial firm at New Orleans, inaid of which the houses of Hope andBaring advanced him funds, openedhim a credit, and allowed him to puttheir names in his circular as hisfriends and supporters. This bringsus to the most interesting portion ofhis book.

Mr Nolte has a habit of interlardinghis German, especially the scrapsof dialogue scattered through his volumes,with a great deal of Englishand French, both of which languageshe evidently understands as well ashis mother-tongue. To readers in thesame case, this practice gives to thebook additional character and pungency;but to those to whom Germanalone is familiar it will prove troublesome,since he does not subjoin translations.As an instance of this, wewill give his account of a casual meetingwith a man who has since becomeuniversally celebrated. It was duringhis journey on horseback from Philadelphiato Pittsburg, where he was tojoin a friend with whom he had enteredinto partnership, and whencethey were to proceed, with a coupleof flat boats laden with flour, twothousand miles down the Ohio andMississippi to New Orleans, there toform their mercantile establishment.Steam had not at that date annihilateddistance in America; there wereno boilers bursting on the rivers, ortrains on railroads rattling through theStates, and travelling was slow work,particularly with goods. The voyage byflat boats from Pittsburg to New Orleanswas a forty or fifty days’ business.On a cold December morning,after a solitary ride over Laurel Hill,the highest of the Alleghanies, MrNolte halted, towards ten o’clock, ata small tavern by the falls of theJuniata river, and asked for a solidbreakfast.

“The hostess showed me into aroom, and said I might just take myfood with a strange gentleman whowas seated there already. ‘He isquite a stranger,’ she said. On steppingin, the man at once struck me asbeing what is commonly called anodd fellow. He sat at a table, infront of the fire, with a Madras handkerchiefround his head, after thefashion of a French sailor, or of labourersin a French seaport. I courteouslyapproached him, with thewords: ‘I hope I don’t incommodeyou, by coming to take my breakfastwith you?’ The reply was: ‘No,sir!’ spoken with a strong Frenchaccent, and sounding like ‘No,serre.’ ‘Ah!’ I continued, ‘vousêtes Français, Monsieur?’ ‘No,serre!’ was the reply; ‘ai em enHenglieshmen’ (I am an Englishman).‘Why,’ I continued, ‘how do youmake that out? You look like aFrenchman, and you speak like one.’‘I am an Englishman, because I got anEnglish wife,’ replied he, with thesame accent. Without further investigationof the matter, we agreed,over our breakfast, to ride together toPittsburg. He showed himself moreand more of an oddity, but at last admittedthat he was a born Frenchman,from La Rochelle, had been broughtto Louisiana when a child, had grownup in the sea-service, but had graduallybecome a real American. ‘Well,’said I, ‘but how do you reconcile thatwith your quality of an Englishman?’To which he replied, in French atlast: ‘Au bout du compte, je suis unpeu cosmopolite; j’appartiens à tousles pays.’”

When we mention that all the dialoguein the above extract, with theexception of one sentence, is, in theoriginal, in the same languages inwhich we here give it, and that suchpolyglot passages are of constant occurrencethroughout these volumes, itbecomes evident that Mr Nolte willsorely puzzle and tantalise such ofhis German readers as are unacquaintedwith French, and with that compositeAnglo-Saxon tongue for whichthe learned German has declared hispreference over all other modern languages.The eccentric traveller wasAudubon, the famous ornithologist,who was also bound for New Orleans.On reaching Pittsburg, no means ofconveyance offered except Mr Nolte’sboat, and as he had by this time discoveredthat the naturalist was notonly an accomplished draughtsman,but a good and amiable man, he offeredhim a cot in his little cabin, a servicewhich Audubon afterwards thankfullyrecorded and acknowledged in thethird volume of the text to his greatwork on “American Ornithology.”Mr Nolte knew nothing of the objectof his guest’s journey until they reachedLimestone, a small place in the north-westerncorner of Ohio State. Therethey landed their horses, intending tovisit Lexington, and thence proceedto Louisville, where Audubon expectedto find his wife—the daughterof an Englishman named Bakewell.“At Limestone,” says Mr Nolte,“we had hardly finished our breakfast,when Audubon suddenly sprangup. ‘Now, then,’ he cried to me, inFrench, ‘I must begin to lay the foundationsof my establishment!’ Thereuponhe took from his pocket a parcelof address-cards, a hammer, and somesmall nails, and began nailing one ofthe cards upon the door of the littletavern. It contained the words:

So, said I to myself, you have founda rival before reaching your journey’send. But I felt little inclination todeal in the flesh of swine, or apprehensiveof very formidable oppositionfrom my new acquaintance. Werode on to Lexington, chief town ofKentucky, a flourishing place, whereI heard much talk of a certain highly-giftedlawyer, who, during the electionsfor Congress, had distinguishedhimself by his pugilistic prowess inthe streets and taverns. This man,who soon afterwards became moreand more celebrated, was Henry Clay,whose exterior was no way calculatedto give a high idea of his intellectualqualities, but who had already acquiredgreat fame as an orator.

“A horrible custom was at thattime almost universal amongst theinhabitants (for the most part roughand brutal people) of the WesternStates. It was that of allowing thefinger-nails to grow until they couldbe cut into the shape of small sickles,which were used, in the quarrels andfights that continually occurred, toscoop out the eyes of an opponent.This barbarous art was called gouging.During our ride through Kentucky,we saw several persons whowanted an eye, and others who hadlost both. The excitement then prevalentin the United States on accountof the misunderstanding with England,was much greater in the westernprovinces than on the seaboard,and the feeling of irritation in theformer was very considerable. Passingthrough Frankfort on my way toLouisville, I learned that the KentuckyState Legislature was just thensitting, and I determined to witness itsproceedings, in order to compare itwith the Territorial Legislature ofLouisiana, which was composed ofthe strangest mixture of born Americans,and of French and Spanishcreoles. Hardly had I entered thehall, when I heard a very animatedorator indulging in a violent diatribeagainst England. ‘We must havewar with Great Britain,’ he said.‘War will ruin her commerce! Commerceis the apple of Britain’s eye—therewe must gouge her!’ Thisflower of rhetoric was prodigiouslyapplauded, and I could not deny thatfor a Kentucky audience it must havea certain poetical charm.”

Thus, sketching by the way a stateof society which a lapse of forty yearshas fortunately greatly altered for thebetter, Mr Nolte reached Louisville.The Ohio had been for some daysfrozen, and his boats, with his friendand partner, Hollander, were fastbound in the ice some distance higherup the stream. “Three days afterwards,just as we sat down to dinner,the whole house was violently shaken;glasses, plates, and bottles fell fromthe table—most of the guests sprangup, with the cry: ‘There is the earthquake,by jingo! There is no humbugabout it!’ and ran out into thestreet. The commotion was soonover, and people returned to theirhouses. Early next morning I learnedthat the shock had broken up theice on the river, and that severalboats had come down to Shippingport,a little town about a league off.”Among them were Nolte’s craft, andhe continued his journey, presentlyquitting the clear transparent streamof the Ohio, and entering the slimywaters of the Mississippi. In voyagesof that kind it was customary tobring-to at nightfall, and make fastthe boats to the shore until nextmorning, snags and sawyers renderingprogress unsafe during the darkness.On the evening of the 6thFebruary 1812, the halting-place washard by the little town of NewMadrid. About twenty boats, whichhad left Shippingport together, werethere assembled. “It was a brightmoonlight night,” says Mr Nolte;“at eleven o’clock my partner, Hollander,had gone to bed, and I wassitting at a little table drawing acaricature of President Madison—whohad just published a flaming proclamation,calling upon the nation to‘put on armour and warlike attitude,’but who was said to be himself completelyunder petticoat government—whena terrible report, like the suddenroar of cannon, echoed without,immediately succeeded by innumerableflashes. The Mississippi foamedup like the boiling water in a kettle,and then again receded with a rushingsound; the trees of a little woodnear to which we had moored ourboats, cracked, broke, and were overthrown.The terrible spectacle lastedfor several minutes: there seemed noend to the vivid lightning, to the alternaterise and fall of the troubledwater, and to the crash of fallingtrees. Hollander, startled from hissleep, called out, ‘What is that,Nolte?’ I could only tell him thatI myself did not know, but took it foran earthquake. I went on deck.What a sight! The river, which hadresumed its ordinary course, wascovered with floating trees andbranches, borne rapidly along by thecurrent. Of the town, only a few verydistant lights were to be seen. Itwas a real chaos. Our little crew consistedof three sailors, whom want ofemployment, in consequence of theembargo, had driven to Pittsburg, andof a river-pilot. They told me thatthe other boats had all cut loose fromthe shore and floated on, and askedme if we should not do the same.It struck me that if, under ordinarycirc*mstances, it was unsafe to proceedby night, it must be doubly dangerousnow that the river was coveredwith floating trees. And so we remainedwhere we were. The risingsun showed us the unfortunate city ofNew Madrid more than three partsdestroyed, and flooded, with here andthere one of the wretched inhabitantsmaking his way out of the ruins.Our boats were in the centre of a sortof island formed by falling trees, andseveral hours passed before we couldextricate ourselves. At Natchez,which we reached on the thirty-secondday, and where we remained a week,we heard full particulars of the earthquake,but we saw nothing of any ofthe boats that had surrounded us onthe evening of the 6th February. AtNew Orleans, the only sign perceivedof the commotion was a swinging toand fro of the chandeliers in the ball-room,and the sickness and faintingof a great number of ladies. Thisremarkable earthquake commenced inthe north-west of Missouri state,was felt more or less throughoutLouisiana, and extended through theGulf of Mexico to Caraccas, where itplayed great havoc, destroying nearlythe whole city, and swallowing up orreducing to poverty forty thousandpersons. Nothing more was everheard of the boats, and if we had notremained stationary we should doubtlesshave shared their fate.”

After five years’ absence, Mr Noltefound New Orleans greatly increasedin size, but very little improved withrespect to the character of its inhabitants,who had added to their formerbad qualities a taste for lawsuits andchicanery, introduced amongst themby an immigration of greedy advocatesfrom the Northern States. Mr Nolte—who,as somebody said of him,many years later, when he was aninmate of the Queen’s Bench at thesuit of the litigious and crack-brainedex-duke of Brunswick, was all his lifethe plaything of misfortune, andwhose best concerted and most prudentplans were invariably marred bysome unforeseen incident or disaster—hadno sooner taken and furnisheda house in the chief city of Louisianathan news came from Washington ofwar having been declared against England—acrushing blow to our pooradventurer’s well-founded hopes ofextensive and profitable transactionswith the great European houses whowished him well and favoured his enterprise.There was no help for it;he could but cross his hands andpray for peace. The Mississippi wasblockaded by British men-of-war.The state of things at New Orleansresembled the intolerable monotonyand inactivity of a calm at sea, withthe difference that the latter can lastbut a few days or weeks, whilst theformer might endure for years. Theonly incidents that varied the monotonyof life at New Orleans duringthat war were of an unpleasant nature.In August 1812, a frightfulhurricane drove on shore eighteen ofthe ships in harbour, and unroofednearly the whole city. A few monthslater, Mr Nolte broke his right arm atthe elbow by a fall from his horse, andthe limb ever afterwards remainedstiff and crooked. Party-spirit ranhigh; private scandal, quarrels, andduels, were resorted to by the restlessand disreputable citizens of NewOrleans as a refuge from ennui. Thisportion of Mr Nolte’s book aboundsin curious details. “The whole neighbouringcoast was kept in a state ofalarm by the piracies of the brothersLaffitte from Bayonne, by Jauvinet,Beluche, Dominique, Gamba, andothers, who might be seen promenadingthe streets of New Orleans inbroad daylight, and wholly unmolested.They had their friends andconnections and warehouses in thecity, and sold, almost openly, theirstolen goods, especially English manufactures.But the slave trade wastheir great resource. They capturedSpanish and other slavers on the highseas, and took them to their chiefdepôt, the little island of Barataria onthe coast near New Orleans, whitherthe planters, chiefly of French extraction,went to purchase the slaves—forone hundred and fifty or two hundreddollars, instead of six hundred orseven hundred, which they wouldhave paid in the market—and conveyedthem to their plantations, upthe numerous bayous or creeks intersectingthat district. And as thepirates would be paid in hard dollars,specie soon began to be rare in thecity.” Brought into contact, by certainbanking operations, with recklessand unscrupulous men, Mr Noltemanaged to get involved in a coupleof duels, in which his stiff arm was ofcourse highly disadvantageous to him,and, with his usual good luck, he receiveda bullet in his leg, which hestill carries about with him. A seriousdanger put a temporary end tothese squabbles. An attack was expectedfrom the English, and GeneralJackson made his appearance at NewOrleans with fifteen hundred men,the most efficient amongst whom werefive hundred riflemen who had servedwith Jackson in the Indian war, andwere known as Coffee’s Brigade, fromtheir commander’s name. These werethe fellows who picked off the Britishofficers from behind the cotton-balebarricades, of which the materialsproceeded from Mr Nolte’s stores.Trained in repeated encounters withthe savages, they were the sort ofmen Sealsfield has so vividly painted,totally ignorant of military organisationand discipline, but inaccessible tofear, perfectly cool in danger, of greatpresence of mind and personal resource,and, above all, unerring marksmen.Mr Nolte, although his stiffarm exempted him from service, didnot choose to see his friends go out tofight and himself remain behind—theless so that he was already suspectedof partiality to the English—and hejoined the light company of a battalionof militia, several of whose officershad served under Napoleon. Accordingto Mr Nolte’s account, Jackson,blustering, presumptuous, andoverweeningly self-confident, wouldhave led his militia and irregulars tocertain destruction at the hands of thewell-drilled British troops, but for theadvice given him by Livingston, whoacted as one of his aides-de-camp, toconsult a French emigrant majornamed St Gême, who had formerlybeen in the English service in Jamaica,and now commanded a company inthe battalion in which Mr Nolte hadenrolled himself. “This officer hadbeen a great deal with Moreau, whenthe latter, on a visit to Louisiana afew years previously, had scanned,with the critical eye of a tactician,the position of New Orleans and itscapabilities of defence. St Gêmerendered General Jackson and theAmerican cause the great service ofmaking him understand that, in theopen field, the English would surroundhim and his handful of inexperiencedfollowers, who had but thename of soldiers, would utterly routand certainly capture them; and hepointed out to him the M’Carthycanal as the position which Moreauhad himself fixed upon as the mostdefensible, especially for raw troops.”Mr Nolte, who writes impartially, andwithout visible leaning either to Englishor to Americans, praises Jacksonfor the self-command (a quality hedid not often display) with which hewaived his own wishes in deference tothe opinion of the French general(he must have been mad to have disregardedit), and abandoned planswhich assuredly, if carried out, wouldhave led to the annihilation of hisarmy and the capture of New Orleans.Livingston, by whose representationshe was induced to take counsel of theFrench major, was a much betterlawyer and statesman than warrior,according to Mr Nolte, and showedhimself but little where bullets wereflying. When the position decidedupon was to be taken up and redoubtsbuilt, the ground was found to beswampy and slimy, and the earth unavailablefor any sort of fortification,whereupon a French engineer suggestedthe employment of cotton bales.The plan adopted, Jacksonwould lose no time. “It was observedto him,” says unlucky MrNolte, lugubriously, “that he certainlymight have plenty of cotton inthe city for six or seven cents apound, but its conveyance wouldcause a day’s delay, whereas a barque,already laden with cotton, and whosedeparture for the Havana had onlybeen prevented by the arrival of theEnglish squadron, lay close to theshore. It had on board two hundredand forty-five bales, which I myselfhad shipped just before the invasion,and sixty others belonging to a Spaniardof New Orleans. I was ill-pleased,when they could have hadcheap cotton for six or seven cents inthe town, to see them land, from aship all ready to sail, my best quality,which had cost me ten or eleven cents,and I said as much to Livingston,who was my usual legal adviser inNew Orleans, and whom I fell in withat Battery No. 3. He was never ata loss for an answer. ‘Well, Nolte,’said he, ‘since it is your cotton, youwill not mind the trouble of defendingit.’ A reply which was the foundationof the story that, when theowner of the cotton complained of itsseizure, Jackson sent him a musket,with the message that upon no manwas it so incumbent to defend thebales as upon their owner, and thathe therefore hoped he would notabandon them.” Mr Nolte’s wholeaccount of the operations at New Orleansis clear and graphic, but thatbrief campaign has been so oftendescribed that we are not induced todwell at much length upon his narrative,although it contains some passagesthat, proceeding from an actoron the American side, possess particularinterest. On the left wing werethe best sharpshooters of Kentuckyand Tennessee, invisible in the cypresswood, and loading their rifles withthree or four buckshot besides thebullet. Their good weapons and sureaim sent destruction through the ranksof the English, who saw no foe, butbeheld all their officers picked off.The whole right flank of the Englishcolumn was raked by this deadly fire,whilst in front the American batterieskept up an uninterrupted discharge.“From time to time,” says Mr Nolte,“when the smoke blew aside, I andmy company obtained a view overthe battle-field, and there we sawthe whole English centre retreating,throwing away their fascines, and astaff-officer on a black horse gallopforward, his hat in his hand, whichhe angrily waved as if threatening theflying column. Suddenly, struck byseveral bullets, he fell backwardsfrom his horse—some soldiers wrappedhim hastily in blankets and carriedhim off. We learned in the eveningthat the staff-officer was the commander-in-chief,General Pakenham.”The fight was soon over. As Mr Noltejustly observes, it was a butcheryrather than a battle. The Americans,completely sheltered, had but somethirty men killed and wounded, whilsttheir opponents had to deplore theloss of many hundred good soldiers,than whom none braver ever boremuskets, but whose commander’sgood fortune was, upon that occasion,unfortunately not equal to hisoften-tried valour, and who, moreover,was misled by false information.

Mr Nolte does ample justice tothe coolness, energy, and resolutionof General Jackson, and showsthat even the gasconades and exaggerationsin which he constantly indulgedhad their use, since he therebydeluded his own people, and all theprisoners taken by the English concurredin such formidable accounts ofthe forces at his disposal as could notfail to influence the proceedings ofthe invaders. But after the affair ofthe 8th January, Jackson, prodigiouslyelevated by his triumph, wasanxious to assume the offensive. Forthe second time he was indebted toLivingston for sound advice. “Whatwould you have more?” said the lawyer;“the city is saved; the Englishwill not renew the attack. Againsttroops like those, whose intrepidityamidst the most frightful slaughteryou yourself have witnessed, what isthe use of exposing yourself and yourhandful of men to be roughly handled,to the diminution of your glory andat risk of valuable lives?” As in thecase of the position, the general tookhis aide-de-camp’s sensible advice,and, as is not unusual, got the wholecredit of adopting the only rationalcourse. Livingston, some of whoseeulogists have made of him a hero aswell as a lawgiver, was seized, itappears from Mr Nolte’s version ofthe campaign, with a bad colic on theevening of the 7th, just after it becameknown that the English wouldattack next morning, and retired intoNew Orleans, where he next dayreceived news of the action. An hourafterwards he was back in camp—theEnglish and the colic having retreatedtogether. Another of Jackson’svolunteer aides-de-camp, alsoa lawyer, was off into the city beforedaybreak on the 8th, withouteven a pretext, and passed the morningriding about the streets, shoutingout that the foe was at hand, and callingupon all to arm and hasten to thefield—whereas all capable of bearingarms were in the field, except a fewskulkers like himself. No notice wastaken of these gentlemen’s shy behaviour,and Jackson, in his despatch,drawn up by Livingston, thankedhis military and voluntary aides-de-camp“for their cool and deliberatebravery!”

The cotton bales used for the redoubts,and a quantity of blanketsthat had been taken from Mr Nolte’swarehouse during his absence fromthe city, gave rise to discussions whichbrought out the least favourable sideof Jackson’s character. Immediatelyafter the embarkation of the English,a commission was appointed to settleall claims. Mr Nolte’s was for 750blankets and 245 bales of cotton. Theformer he was allowed for at theprice of the day on which the Englishlanded—namely, eleven dollars a-pair;but when the order was submitted toJackson for his signature and ratification,he said that as the blankets hadbeen taken (almost forcibly) by theTennessee riflemen, they should bepaid for in Tennessee notes—thenworth 10 per cent less than New Orleanspaper-money. Mr Nolte wasfain to submit to this shabby trick,worthy of a Connecticut pedlar. Asregarded his cotton he had much moretrouble. He produced the invoice,proving that he had bought it, two yearspreviously, at 10 cents a pound, froma well-known wealthy cotton-grower.He claimed that price, with the additionof two years’ interest. Duringthe whole of that time, it had neverbeen lower than 10 to 11 cents apound, and a few days before the landingof the English he had bought someat 12½ cents. But when the Britishtroops were on shore, and close athand, there was a panic; markets fell,the timid realised at any price, and asmall parcel of cotton of the samequality was sold at 7 cents. WhenMr Nolte’s claim was submitted toJackson, he allowed it, and said thecotton must be paid for at the priceit would have fetched upon the daythe American troops marched out ofthe town. No notice being taken ofMr Nolte’s written protest againstsuch manifest injustice, he went toJackson, then in all the intoxicationof his triumph, and of the exaggeratedhomage paid him by his countrymen,and very well disposed to exert thearbitrary power given him by themilitary law he still quite unnecessarilymaintained—a stretch of authorityfor which it will be rememberedthat he was afterwards fined bythe civil tribunals. In reply to MrNolte’s representation and remonstrance—

“‘Aren’t you very lucky,’ he asked,‘to have saved the rest of your cottonthrough my defence of the city?’

“‘Certainly, general,’ answered I,‘as lucky as every other man in theplace, but with this difference, that itcosts them nothing, and that I haveto bear all the loss.’

“‘Loss?’ cried the general, gettingrather angry—‘loss? You have savedeverything!’

“I saw it was no use arguing withsuch an obstinate man, and remarkedto him that I only wanted compensationfor my cotton, nothing more, andthat the best compensation would beto give me back the same quantityand quality that had been taken fromme; that I would appoint one merchant,he another; they would agreeas to quality, buy the cotton, deliverit me, and he should pay for it.

“‘No, no, sir!’ replied Jackson;‘I like straightforward business, andthat is too complicated. You musttake 6 cents for your cotton. I havenothing more to say.’

“I wanted to make the whole thingclear to him, but he cut me short:‘Come, sir, come! Take a glass ofwhiskey-and-water; you must bedamned dry after all your arguing.’

“All I could do was to say: ‘Well,general, I did not expect such injusticeat your hands! Good morning,sir!’ And I went away. Threedays afterwards news came of theconclusion of peace, and the consequencewas an immediate rise of cottonto 16 cents, at which price Ibought several parcels. The committeeof claims were embarrassed;they felt that it was now impossibleto fob me off with 6 cents. At last Iwas asked if I would now be contentwith payment of my invoice; and Iagreed to be so, since I must else havecomplained to Congress, and the affairmight have dragged on for years.”

Some pages are devoted by MrNolte to an appreciation of OldHickory’s character. He condemnshis arbitrary and overbearing disposition,and his cruelty to the unfortunateIndians, whom he so implacablyand perseveringly hunted down,but does justice to his shrewdnessand other good qualities, considering,however, that good luck had more todo than commanding talent with thedistinction and popularity he attainedto in the States—an opinion whichwe suspect to be now entertained bya very large number of Jackson’scountrymen. Of the general’s toneand manners—rough as those of a far-westwoodsman—Mr Nolte gives somehumorous examples. After the actionin front of New Orleans, demonstrationsinnumerable were made inthe hero’s honour. On his returninto the city, Mrs Livingston placeda crown of laurel upon his head,which seemed considerably to embarrassthe slayer of Seminoles, whotook it off as if it burned his brow;the ladies subscribed for a costly setof jewels for Mrs General Jackson;and the principal inhabitants got upa grand ball in the French Exchange.Mr Nolte, who had seen more publicfestivities than most of the people ofNew Orleans, was a prominent andactive member of the committee.

“The upper part of the Exchangewas arranged for dancing, the lowerpart for supper, with flowers, colouredlamps, and transparencies. Beforesupper, Jackson desired to go aloneand take a view of the arrangements,and I had to show him the way. Onone of the transparencies, between thearcades, were to be read the words:‘Jackson and victory, they are butone.’ The general turned round tome, in a more cordial manner thanI might have expected, and asked,‘Why did you not say Hickory andvictory, they are but one?’ Aftersupper the hero of the day gave us thediverting spectacle of a pas de deux betweenhim and his wife—an Irish emigrantof low origin and considerablecorpulence, whom he had taken awayfrom a planter in Georgia. To seethose two, the general a long leanman with skeleton-like limbs, and hiswife, a short thick specimen of thefemale figure, dancing opposite toeach other like half-drunken Indians,to the wild tune of ‘Opossum upa gum tree,’ was truly one of thoseremarkable spectacles which wouldbe sought in vain in any Europeanballet.”

During the second year of the warbetween England and the States, afine West Indiaman of 900 tons burthen,the “Lord Nelson,” was capturedby the Yankee privateer Saratoga,taken into New Orleans, andsold by auction for a fourth of itsvalue. Mr Nolte was the purchaser.Now that the war was over, he loadedher with cotton and deerskins, alteredher name to the “Horatio,” and sailedfor Nantes, with several passengerson board. The ship was but justoutside the mouths of the Mississippi,when she spoke a vessel that hadmade an unusually short voyage fromHavre, and brought news of Napoleon’slanding at Cannes, rapid marchthrough France, and reinstallation inthe Tuileries. Two Frenchmen, whowere amongst the passengers, andone of whom had served under theemperor, were overjoyed. Presentlyit was discovered that the “Horatio”had not enough ballast for her twothousand bales of cotton, and she putinto the Havana to supply the deficiency,thus somewhat lengtheningher voyage. Off the Scilly Islandsshe spoke the monthly packet fromLondon to New York. After theinterchange of a little nautical information:“What news from France?”roared Mr Nolte’s captain throughhis speaking-trumpet. “The Dukeof Wellington and the British armyare in Paris,” was the reply. “Whereis Buonaparte?” “Fled—nobodyknows where.” And the two shipspursued their respective courses. TheFrench passengers would not believe aword of it. It was English news, theysaid, manufactured in London; andthey proved to each other, as clear assunlight, that it was physically andmorally impossible the intelligenceshould be true. It took the testimonyof a French pilot, and the sight of thewhite flag on the banks of the Loire,to convince them that Napoleon hadagain fallen. The French populationof New Orleans went yet farther intheir incredulity. The BuonapartistCourrier de la Louisiane analysed thenews, and ingeniously proved thatthe pretended victory of the Allieswas merely a mask for a total defeat;that the emperor had achieved one ofhis great triumphs, which should forthwithbe celebrated. And accordinglyNapoleon’s bust, crowned with laurels,was that evening carried in procession,by the light of hundreds oftorches, with several bands of musicplaying French national airs;—prematurerejoicings, which the confirmationof the defeat of the Frenchconverted into profound consternation.

Paris, whither Mr Nolte hastenedas soon as possible after landing, wasfull of novelty and excitement, andthe focus on which the eyes of Europewere fixed. He devotes an interestingchapter to sketches of “Paris afterWaterloo.” Amongst the crowds offoreign uniforms were here and there tobe seen, he says, “spectral figures, inlong blue coats buttoned to the chin,spurred boots, and hats pressed downover their eyes. These men, whocast such gloomy glances around them,were the officers of the disbandedFrench army. The ribbon of theLegion of Honour had disappearedfrom their button-hole, but it waseasy to recognise them by their flashingeyes and fierce expression whenan English uniform drew near. Anaccidental push or touch on the foot,often unavoidable in a crowd, andthey would burst out, in great bitterness,with an angry—‘Je suis Français,Monsieur!’ or, ‘No, Padrone,questa e l’uniforme di Amburgo!’ and if the ‘Pardon, Monsieur!’was not forthcoming, a quarrelwas the almost inevitable result.The police had the difficult task ofkeeping these remnants of the Frencharmy out of Paris, but they were notvery successful in so doing. Notwithstandingthe violent irritation ofthe French military, which was keptunder only by the strong hand, nobodyin Paris went amongst them morefearlessly than the Duke of Wellington,who showed himself everywherein a plain blue frock, with the Englishred scarf round his waist, and a simplered and white feather in his co*ckedhat, and usually rode about alone,followed only by a sergeant. Thusplainly equipped and slenderly escorted,I saw him one morning ride intothe court of the Hotel de l’Empire,and ask for the celebrated Londonbanker Angerstein, who was stoppingthere.” Ney’s death, the restaurantsand coffeehouses then in vogue, andwhich were thronged with Englishand Prussian officers, and grand reviewsof the allied troops, are in turnglanced at. At the review of theRussian guard, drawn up along thewhole length of the boulevards, MrNolte had a particularly good viewof the sovereigns. By favour of acolonel, with whom he had fallen intoconversation, he was allowed to remainwithin the line cleared by thesentries, and close to the colonel’shorse. “Suddenly the three monarchscame riding rapidly up, the EmperorAlexander in the middle, his eyesdirected to the ladies in the balconiesand at the windows—on his rightthe Emperor Francis, with a seriousstraightforward gaze—on his leftKing Frederick-William III., whoseemed to be examining the grisettesin the crowd rather than the ladies atthe windows. The staff, accordingto the estimate of my obliging colonel,comprised more than a thousand militarymen of all nations. As goodluck would have it, the sovereignsand their whole retinue paused infront of the regiment on my right,and the colonel pointed out to me theRussian grand-dukes, the Austrianarchdukes, several Prussian princes,Wellington, Schwarzenberg, Blucher,Platoff,” &c. &c. Of all the commandersthen assembled in Paris, themost dissatisfied was the Americangeneral, Scott (since noted for hiscampaign in Mexico), who had beenopposed to the English on the Canadianfrontier, had taken a fort or two,and was looked upon by his countrymenas a military star of the veryfirst magnitude—second only to Jackson,and equal to any other warriorthen extant. He had been sent toEurope to increase his military knowledgeand study the art of war, andreached Paris fully convinced that allthe great chiefs of the Continentalarmies would hasten to greet andcompliment him. “To his visiblevexation, he found himself completelymistaken. In the great militarymeetings in the French capital, whereWellington, Blucher, Schwarzenberg,Kutusoff, Woronzoff, and a host ofother celebrities, laden with stars andorders, were assembled—the long thinman, in his blue coat without embroidery,and with only a pair ofmoderate-sized epaulets, excited noattention. Scott could not get overthe contrast between the figure hehad so recently cut in his native land,and the insignificance he was condemnedto in France, and he oftenexhibited bitter and somewhat laughableill-humour.” After a visit to thefield of Waterloo, Mr Nolte returnsto America, on cotton speculationsintent—of which, and of BaringBrothers, he for some time discourses,until we are not sorry to see thetheme changed, and him back in Paris,passing a Sunday at the country-houseof Maison sur Seine, built by LouisXIV., and then just purchased fromthe French government by the bankerJacques Laffitte, whom he found inhis park, accompanied by two plainly-dressedand plain-mannered Englishmen,who talked knowingly aboutcotton, and whom he took for Manchestercotton-spinners. At dinner,to his surprise, although CasimirPerrier and several deputies andFrenchmen of mark were present, theplaces of honour were for the Englishmen.He made up his mind thatthey must be very great people in thecotton-spinning line—perhaps thefirst in Manchester—and that theymust have large credits on Laffitte’shouse—that giving, not unfrequently,the measure of the hospitality of Parisianbankers. Laffitte, who was agreat talker—given to discourse forhours together, with scarcely a break,and with innumerable digressions totallyirrelevant to the subject underdiscussion—was loquacious as usual,and related many things that had occurredduring the Hundred Days.At that time Napoleon had sent forand consulted him almost daily. Laffittesaid that he had never been aworshipper of Napoleon’s, but he thenhad opportunity of convincing himselfthat the emperor possessed, in thehighest degree, the art of popularity.“‘He was very confidential with me,’said Laffitte, ‘spoke without reserve,and once made a striking remarkconcerning our nation. “To governthe French,” he said, “one must havearms of iron and gloves of velvet.”’My readers may probably have heardthis remark, but not the reply immediatelymade by Madame Laffitte’sright-hand neighbour (one of theManchester cotton-spinners aforesaid).‘Yes,’ he said, ‘that is verytrue, but—he often forgot to put onhis gloves.’ The remark was so aptand true that all present laughedheartily. I asked my next neighbourwho the witty foreigner was, andlearned that it was the Marquis ofLansdowne.”

Involved in the commercial disastersof 1825–6, Mr Nolte left NewOrleans, sixteen years after his firstestablishment there, and went to seekin Europe that fortune which hadconstantly eluded his grasp in theStates. His success in the Old Worldwas little better than in the New. Inafter years, he again more than oncevisited America, and engaged in enormouscotton speculations, in whichhe burnt his fingers. Cotton seemsto have had for him the same irresistibleattraction that dice have for theveteran gambler. Although many ofhis misfortunes were the result of circ*mstancesneither to be foreseen norguarded against, and although wemay suppose that he makes out thebest case he fairly can, the impressionleft by his book upon the reader’smind is, that Mr Vincent Nolte hasbeen, to say the least, a very venturesomeperson, and that his abilitiesand opportunities would have amplysufficed to insure him ultimate affluence,had he been less impatient toacquire a large and rapid fortune. Onthe other hand, he deserves credit forhis unflinching pluck, and for his elasticityunder misfortune. When heleft New Orleans, he attempted toform a partnership at Havre, but invain; and he himself frankly admitsthat he was unsuccessful, because themerchants with whom he would haveassociated himself were deterred byhis reputed taste for the vast and daringoperations in which he had beenearly initiated. The slow but suregains of the steady trader he neverhad patience to collect; the ordinaryroutine of commercial affairs was tohim wearisome and intolerable; hecarried into the peaceful paths of tradesomething of that venturesome andaspiring spirit which, upon the battle-field,insures the soldier high distinctionor sudden death—a bullet or amarshal’s baton. We regret to fearthat it has led Mr Nolte, after his longand busy life, to no very prosperousposition; although he seems to preserveto the last the spirit and vigourthat have borne him through so manytrying vicissitudes. At the time nowreferred to, he was still in his prime,and full of hope and confidence.From Havre he betook himself to hisfavourite city of Paris, where, by theassistance and introduction of hisstaunch friends the Barings, he wason the eve of concluding a partnershipfor the establishment of a houseat Marseilles. The circulars wereprinted; Mr Nolte took a run toHamburg, Holland, and England, tovisit commercial friends, and everywherehe met a kind and encouragingreception. He reached Southampton,on his return to Paris, two hours afterthe departure of the packet, and, withcharacteristic impatience, rather thanwait two days, hired an open boat,whose owner undertook to land himat Havre early the next morning. Itwas a moonlight night, and a fairwind at starting, but he was becalmedin the Channel, and lay a wholeday roasting in the sun. Upon themorning of the 26th July 1830, helanded at Havre, and posted on toParis. At Rouen he remarked signsof uneasiness, and the troops wereunder arms; at Courbevoie he receivedthe first news of the fatal ordinances;outside the Paris barrier, afew persons stopped his chaise, andtore the white co*ckade from the postilion’shat. Paris was enacting themost peaceful and respectable of itsnumerous revolutions.

Mr Nolte witnessed the proceedingsof the three days of July, and betookhimself to Marseilles, where he hadscarcely commenced business whenthe failure of the Irish-French bankerswho were to advance the greater partof the capital on behalf of his partnercompelled him again to abandon it,and once more to return to Paris. Hehad been on very intimate terms withGeneral Lafayette during that veteranrevolutionist’s visit to the UnitedStates in 1825, had travelled withhim, acted as his banker, renderedhim some service, and shown himmany attentions; for which he deemedhimself far more than compensatedby the privilege of the general’s society,and by the interest of his conversation.Alone with him, in thecabin of the American steamer whichthe authorities of New Orleans hadallotted to the use of Washington’sold friend and comrade, Lafayettespoke freely of his past life and presentopinions, and Mr Nolte was astonishedby the revelation of planswhich he would never have suspectedto have lingered in that venerablehead—so soon, in all probability, tobe laid in the grave. The man who,at least as well as any living, had hadopportunities of judging the Bourboncharacter—before and since the daywhen, upon the balcony at Versailles,he kissed, in sign of peace and goodunderstanding, the hand of the defamedand martyred Marie Antoinette,amidst the acclamations of assembledthousands, whose discontent the symboland the promised return of theroyal family to Paris promptly, althoughbut temporarily, appeased—declaredhis conviction of its unworthiness.For the good of France, inhis opinion, she must expel the raceof whom Talleyrand so truly said,that they had forgotten nothing, andlearned nothing. “‘France cannotbe happy under the Bourbons,’ saidLafayette, ‘and we must get rid ofthem. It would be already done, hadLaffitte chosen.’

“‘Indeed!’ I exclaimed; ‘how so?’

“‘It is not so long ago,’ continuedthe general, ‘that you will have forgottenhow two of the regiments ofguards that were ordered to Spainunder the command of the Duke ofAngoulême, halted in Toulouse, andshowed signs of raising the banner ofrevolt. The affair was quickly suppressed,and kept as quiet as possible.But the plan was ripe! I knew thatfrom my private correspondence withseveral officers, and nothing but moneywas wanting for a successful insurrectionthen to have occurred. I addressedmyself to Laffitte; he hadscruples; he would and he would not.At last I offered to carry the thingthrough without his participation. Onthe first occasion when we are alonetogether—I said to him—but as soonas possible, lay a million of francs inbank-notes upon the chimney-piece—Iwill put them in my pocket withoutyour perceiving it. The rest you mayleave to me! Laffitte hesitated, wasundecided, and at last declared hewould have nothing whatever to dowith the affair. And so the wholeproject fell through!’

“I could not conceal my surprise.‘Had I heard what you have just toldme from any other lips than yours,general,’ I said, ‘I would not havebelieved a word of it.’ The generalmerely replied, ‘C’etait pourtantainsi.’”

In 1830 Lafayette’s desire was fulfilled—notto its full extent, for hewished the Bourbons to be replacedby a republic, partly because he believedthat form of government thebest suited to render France happyand prosperous, and partly becauseit would have best enabled him togratify his unbounded greed of popularity.But the Bourbons had fled,and France had a citizen king and anational guard. Arms were requiredfor the latter, and Mr Nolte thoughtthat their supply would be a profitablebusiness—quite in his way, becausethere was much money to be made ina short time. Lafayette, besides beingcommander-in-chief of the nationalguard, was the intimate friend ofGerard, Louis Philippe’s first ministerof war, in whose department thematter lay, and who was desirous ofmaking contracts for the supply ofmuskets. Mr Nolte betook himselfto Lafayette, who received him mostcordially (embracing him, to the infiniteastonishment of his aide-de-camp,who had taken Nolte for an Englishman),and gave him the strongestrecommendation to Gerard; the resultof which was, that he obtainedextensive contracts for the supply notonly of muskets, but of the briquets orshort Roman swords which Soult, whosucceeded Gerard at the war-office,introduced into the army, and bywhich the mercenary old marshal—sohis enemies affirmed, and thousandsto this day believe—himself pocketedno inconsiderable sum. Be this trueor not—and Soult’s proved rapacityat many previous periods of his lifegave but too much probability to theaccusation—Mr Nolte had occasion,whilst carrying out his contracts,which extended over a considerabletime, to note several instances of thatvenality of French officials which roseto such a height under Louis Philippe’sreign as at last to extend to his veryministers, and to constitute one of theprominent causes of his dethronement.As early as 1831, Mr Nolte assuresus, itching palms were plenty inFrance, and that amongst personagesof no humble rank. But as far asmilitary men were concerned, thiswas a mere continuation of the traditionsand usages of the Empire—thatperiod of unrefined sensuality andreckless extravagance, during whichNapoleon’s subalterns, following theirleader’s unscrupulous example, filledtheir pockets whenever and whereverthey could, without much regard tothe delicacy of the means employed.Amongst the anecdotes illustrative ofthis state of corruption to be foundin Mr Nolte’s Reminiscences, is oneof a certain general officer, not named,whom he thought it advisable to propitiateby a present. In this case, asin all others of the kind in which hehad to deal with men of good breedingand position, the puzzle was howto administer the douceur so that itmight be taken without embarrassment.Mrs Nolte, to whom her husbandcommunicated his difficulty, undertookto ascertain, through heracquaintances, the tastes and partialitiesof the high functionary inquestion. She discovered that he wasvery fond of snuff-boxes.

“This ascertained,” says Mr Nolte,“I chose a very handsome box, andplaced a bank-note in it, in such amanner that on opening the box theamount, 1000 francs, must immediatelycatch the eye. Then I tookthe first opportunity that presenteditself, when my friend had recourseto his own box for a pinch, to producemine, as if for the same purpose.It immediately attracted his attention.‘That snuff-box is really inexcellent taste!’ he exclaimed. ‘Sinceit pleases you, general,’ I replied,‘oblige me by accepting it as a keepsake!’He thanked me, took the box,and at once opened it. I did not longremain in doubt as to the manner inwhich my present would be received.‘Aha!’ he cried, ‘but it is right youshould know that I am a great snuff-taker.A double pinch never doesany harm, my dear sir!’ and so saying,he pocketed the box. The hintsufficed. On my return home, I encloseda second thousand-franc note,with my card, in an envelope, andsent it to him.”

Another officer of rank, a colonel ofartillery, who had served under Napoleon,and was then in command ofthe arsenal at Havre, made somedifficulty about receiving a muchlarger sum, offered him by Mr Noltein acknowledgment of important andgratuitous services, most kindly rendered.He ended by pocketing theaffront, when it was sent by Mr Nolteunder cover to his confidential servant,and probably, as an old soldierof the Empire, he thought it quite equitableand honourable that he shouldhave his slice of the contractor’s gain.But he afterwards made a most generoususe of a portion of the sum. PoorNolte, after toiling hard for threeyears, during which time he deliveredarms to the amount of nearly eightmillions of francs, fell amongst thieves,as too often happened to him, andwas swindled out of all his earnings.Some time afterwards, when he wasabsent from Paris in pursuit of freshschemes, Colonel Lefrançois happenedto hear that his wife was in embarrassedcirc*mstances, and immediatelycalled upon her. “My dearMadam,” he said, “I have receiveda great deal of money from your husband,much more than I had anyclaim to—I have spent and squanderedthe greater part of it, as one iswont to do with windfalls of thatkind. But now that you need it, itis my duty to return you what remains.Here it is—do me the favourto accept it. You, your husband, andyour little family, will always be dearto me.” This trait contrasts pleasinglywith the numerous others, of a verycontrary nature, to be found in therecord of Mr Nolte’s Parisian experiencesand transactions. These wereof a nature to bring him into unavoidable—but,to him, in no way discreditable—connectionwith various equivocalcharacters. Some of his contractswere for secondhand muskets, which heemployed agents to seek in the brokers’shops of Paris. Many of these agentswere recommended to him by thesubordinate officials of the war-office.Others he fell in with casually. Thus,in the month of December 1831, adown-looking man, of unprepossessingexterior, accosted him on the stairs ofthe artillery depot, in the Rue deLuxembourg, and offered his servicesfor the purchase of old muskets. MrNolte briefly replied, that if he knewof a parcel of such weapons for sale,he would send to look at them, andwould buy them if price and qualitysuited. Accordingly, several smallparcels of arms were purchased of thisman, whose name was Darmenon, andwhose flighty, uncertain manner alwaysdispleased Mr Nolte, and madehim think he must have done somethingthat would not bear daylight.On inquiry of the police, he learnedthat he was a forger, who had servedhis time at the galleys. He couldnot, however, on this account, makeup his mind to refuse the unfortunatefellow’s services, and so, perhaps,drive him again to crime, so he continuedto employ him, and Darmenonmade himself very useful, and, moreover,gave him constant informationof the plans and movements of themalcontents of the Faubourg St Antoine.Through him and other agents,Mr Nolte was kept informed of thenumber of muskets daily brought intoParis, the persons to whom they weredelivered, and various other particulars.It was rare that more than 100or 120 came in at a time. Onemorning, however, Darmenon informedhis employer that 2600 had beenbrought in at an early hour throughthe barrier of St Denis, and had beentaken to the faubourg of the samename. On reporting this at the ministryof war, Mr Nolte receiveddirections to purchase the whole lotimmediately on government account,and regardless of price. The purchasewas effected, but not without somecompetition, which he thought unlikelyto proceed from a merelymercantile motive, and on setting hisagents to work, he found that hiscompetitors were the Legitimists, whohad been very busy for some timepast. He became convinced, fromthis and other information that reachedhim, that there was a plot in existenceagainst Louis Philippe, and he desiredDarmenon to keep a sharp look-out,and inform him of whatever cameto his knowledge. The occupationseemed to the taste of the ex-galley-slave,who reported, on the morningof the 1st February, that severalCarlist emissaries were at work in theFaubourg St Antoine, that towardsnoon there would probably be agathering of workmen, who wouldraise the banner of Henry V., andthat at ten o’clock at night the conspiratorswould leave the house, No.18 Rue des Prouvaires, force theirway into the Tuileries, where therewas to be a ball that evening, surroundLouis Philippe, lead him away, andput him to death. The conspirators,with whom Darmenon confessed himselfto have been long in the habit ofintercourse, had offered him 6000francs for 200 muskets, and had paidhim 2000 francs in advance. Thesecirc*mstantial details, and the sightof the notes, convincing Mr Nolte ofthe truth of the story, he jumped intohis cab and drove to the prefecture ofpolice, then presided over by thenotorious Gisquet. On his way hecalled at the Bourse. There had beena sudden fall of 1½ per cent, owing toalarming rumours and to heavy salesby the Carlists. Gisquet, with whomMr Nolte was acquainted, discredited,or affected to discredit, the wholeaffair, but noted a few particulars, andpolitely thanked his informant for theneedless trouble he had given himself.But, before seven o’clock that evening,Darmenon had the whole 6000 francsin his possession. The 200 musketswere to be sent for before ten o’clock.Mr Nolte again hurried to Gisquet,and asked if he should deliver them.“Yes,” was the reply; “a few at atime; I will have them followed.”Mr Nolte gave the needful instructions,and was informed, the next morning,by his storekeeper, that Darmenon hadhad seventeen muskets delivered tohim, and had been forthwith arrested.The Paris papers of the 2d Februaryannounced that the police, with MrCarlier (then chief of the municipalguard, since prefect of police underthe Republic) at their head, hadforced their way into the house, No.18 Rue des Prouvaires, at 11 o’clockon the previous night, and, after someresistance, had captured the wholeband of conspirators there assembled.From the evidence on the trial, itappeared that Gisquet, incredulous tothe eleventh hour, was even then undecidedwhat to do. He feared theattack of the opposition press, everready to accuse the police of fabricatingthe plots they discovered. Carlierat last put an end to his perplexity,by violently exclaiming, “They arearmed; we are of superior force; wemust enter the house and use ourweapons!” An hour later this wasdone; a municipal guard was killed,and Carlier himself received a slightbullet-wound on the head.

When Marshal Soult, Mr Noltetells us, learned that it was one of hiscontractors who had led the way tothe discovery of the plot, he was displeasedthat he had not been firstinformed of it, instead of the prefectof police. He was jealous of Thiers,then minister of the interior, who, onhis part, bore him no love. Soultwould not have been sorry to exposethe inefficiency of his colleague’s police;Thiers, owing to the course adoptedby Mr Nolte, was enabled to make aboast of its vigilance. All the meritof the affair was attributed to Gisquet,who was promoted to the rank ofofficer of the Legion of Honour. Andwhen that worthy, after he was dismissedfor his venality and scandalousimmorality, wrote his memoirs andattempted justification, he ascribedthe discovery of the plot of the Ruedes Prouvaires entirely to his ownactivity and zeal, and made no mentionwhatever of Mr Nolte.

A chapter of amusing gossip, headed“Reminiscences of the Artistic Worldof Paris,” tempts us to linger, but thelength to which this paper has alreadyextended admonishes us to pause.We conclude by extracting a shortanecdote, which we do not rememberto have before heard, of that eccentricgenius, Horace Vernet. It was sometime before the capture of the Smala,his picture of which added so greatlyto his reputation. Vernet was inMarshal Bugeaud’s camp, where allthe soldiers knew of his presence, andone of them, who had promised tosend his portrait to his mother, wentto him and asked him if he wouldundertake the work, and at whatprice. Vernet’s reply was that hecould not do it for less than a twenty-francpiece. The soldier thought thisrather a high figure, but agreed to payit, provided the likeness was perfect.This the painter promised that itshould be, and accordingly, when thepicture was done, it was exhibitedin the camp, and the striking resemblancewas proclaimed by all thecomrades of the original. Thereuponthe soldier paid the stipulated price,which Vernet quietly pocketed, observingthat an artist must live bythe price of his work. On leavingthe camp, two days afterwards, hesent twenty napoleons to the captainof the soldier’s company, fordistribution to him and his brave comrades.

Seldom, either in print or in theflesh, have we fallen in with so restless,versatile, and excursive a geniusas Vincent Nolte, Esq., of Europe andAmerica—no more limited addresswill sufficiently express his cosmopolitandomicile. The reader will perhapsimagine, after the perusal of thistolerably desultory paper, that wehave traced a considerable portion ofhis journey through life. No ideawas ever more erroneous. We haveonly picked a little here and there,and have taken scarcely any notice ofthe parts the author doubtless considersthe most important in his book,and which will certainly be read withstrong interest by bankers and merchantsold enough to remember themercantile history of the first quarterof the present century. It is chieflyto those intimate and personal commercialdetails that we attribute theuncommon success Mr Nolte’s autobiographyhas had in its place ofpublication, and in Germany generally.Independently of those, it containsmatter of interest and entertainmentfor all classes of readers.

One of the most striking featuresof the present age, with reference toour own country, is to be found inthat wonderful chain of steam communication,which within the last fewyears we have seen gradually linkingtogether the British dominions, andwhich must girdle the globe before itcompletely connects every portion ofour vast empire. But if it is a subjectof national pride that our possessionsare scattered so widely over theface of the earth, the universal ignorancewhich prevails respecting themin the mother country only becomesthe more incomprehensible and deeplyto be deplored. Moreover, the comparativelysmall amount of intelligencewhich has been brought to bearupon the subject has been most partiallyand improperly distributed. Thecolonies of Great Britain have engrossedall the sympathies of the homepublic. The dependencies are utterlyneglected, or, which comes to muchthe same thing, consigned unreservedlyto the tender mercies of the ColonialOffice.

However much may be regrettedthis marked preference in favour ofthe colony, it is easily accounted for.An inviting and almost totally uninhabitedcountry of vast extent andgenial climate, possessing a fertilesoil, and sources of unknown wealth,tempts a certain class of the homecommunity to quit for ever their nativeshores and risk their fortunes in thosedistant lands, which henceforwardpossess an interest in the eyes of thosethey have left behind, and create inthem the spirit of inquiry and enterprise.In the case of the dependency,no such inducement exists. A tropicalclimate is a bugbear utterly appallingto the intending emigrant. Heshudders at the bare idea of passingthe rest of his existence in a temperatureof 90°, exposed to the attacksof cholera, fever, natives, and snakes.He has heard of fortunes having beenmade in India, but he has never heardof children having been brought upthere, and so having failed in theattempt to get a writership for hisson, he pities the lot of those who aremore successful, does not bestow asecond thought upon that continent towhich his country owes, in a greatmeasure, her prosperity, and betakeshimself, with his wife and family, tothe backwoods of Canada.

And if India is treated with suchindifference, what must be the fate ofthat large pear-shaped island at itssouthern extremity, perhaps moreeasily recognised by the well educatedas Taprobane than as Ceylon. Tobe sure, Trincomalee (the white man’sgrave) is a name familiar to theirears, but the existence of Colombo, acity containing 60,000 inhabitants,and the seat of government, is altogetherignored, just as the Cingalesethemselves seldom hear of England,or are accustomed to think of it onlyas the capital of London. The absenceof any recent popular workupon Ceylon may in some measureaccount for, while it cannot quite excuse,this ignorance. And we shouldcertainly deeply commiserate any onewho, in a moment of infatuation, attemptedto acquire his informationfrom the work of Sir Emerson Tenant,which was published about twoyears ago, entitled Christianity in Ceylon.Those who are really interestedin the subject of Christianity will findit treated of there in a cold, unsympathisingmanner, calculated ratherto repel than to attract them. Indeed,the unfavourable reception which thisbook has already met with, proves thatthe general public, but too little mindfulof Christianity at home, care as littlefor its development in Ceylon as didSir Emerson himself during his lateadministration as Colonial Secretaryof the island. Mr Baker has evidentlya much better appreciation of the populartaste, when, instead of “Christianity,”he gives us “The Rifle andthe Hound” in Ceylon; and we entertainno doubt that the result willprove this satisfactorily alike to himselfand to his publishers.

We have, indeed, seldom peruseda work with a keener relish than theone we have just laid down. Ourauthor has shown in it that he canwield his pen as ably as he can handlehis rifle, and in his exciting descriptionof wild sports in Ceylon, he givesthe public a “view halloo” of the gamehe is in sight of there, that must stirwithin him the soul of every truesportsman. But the interest of MrBaker’s book does not consist so muchin the telling and graphic mannerin which he relates his own adventuresand hairbreadth escapes, asin the perfectly new character inwhich he represents the island wherehe has now permanently establishedhimself, and where he seems to beenjoying existence in a capacity hithertountried in that tropical clime; forhe is no coffee-planter reconcilinghimself to a solitary existence in thejungle by the hope of speedily realisingwhat he terms “a comfortableindependence,” upon which to returnto his native land—or Ceylon civil servant,revelling in the prospect of retiringwhen he is grey-headed to enjoyanything but a comfortable independence,viz. £500 a-year, or halfthe highest salary that splendid serviceoffers to unfortunate youngersons. Nor is he stationed out herewith his regiment, altogether regardless,as a soldier ought to be, of a comfortableindependence, and anxious tokeep his hand in for natives by shootingelephants. He is no mere dilettantesportsman, endeavouring to recover theeffects, and dissipate the recollections,of half a dozen London seasons. He isa settler—positively a settler in Ceylon.If our preconceived impressions ofthis colony be true, what a sanguinetemperament our author must possess,to enable him to expose himself socheerfully to the attacks of fever andwild beasts for the rest of his life.There certainly never was such anact of insanity perpetrated; he mightas well have emigrated to the infernalregions at once. We have no doubthis friends told him so before he quittedthe genial clime of his nativeland. But before we condemn himso roundly, let us see where he haspitched his tent, and what sort ofanswer he sends back to the inquiriesof these anxious friends of his.

“Here, then, I am in my private sanctum,my rifles all arranged in their respectivestands above the chimney-piece,the stag’s horns round walls hung withhorn-cases, powder-flasks, and the variousweapons of the chase. Even as I write,the hounds are yelling in the kennel.

“The thermometer is at 62° Fahr., andit is mid-day. It never exceeds 72° inthe hottest weather, and sometimes fallsbelow freezing point at night. Thesky is spotless, and the air calm. Thefragrance of mignonettes, and a hundredflowers that recall Old England, fill theair. Green fields of grass and clover,neatly fenced, surround a comfortablehouse and grounds. Well-fed cattle ofthe choicest breeds, and English sheep,are grazing in the paddocks. Well maderoads and gravel walks run through theestate. But a few years past, and thiswas all wilderness.

“Dense forest reigned where now noteven the stump of a tree is standing; thewind howled over hill and valley, thedank moss hung from the scathed branches,the deep morass filled the hollows; butall is changed by the hand of civilisationand industry. The dense forests andrough plains, which still form the boundariesof the cultivated land, only add tothe beauty. The monkeys and parrotsare even now chattering among thebranches; and occasionally the elephant, inhis nightly wanderings, trespasses uponthe fields, unconscious of the oasis withinhis territory of savage nature.

“The still starlight night is awakenedby the harsh bark of the elk; the loftymountains, grey with the silvery moonlight,echo back the sound, and the wakefulhounds answer the well-known cryby a prolonged and savage yell.

“This is ‘Newera Ellia,’ the sanatoriumof Ceylon, the most perfect climateof the world. It now boasts of a handsomechurch, a public reading-room, alarge hotel, the barracks, and abouttwenty private residences.

“The adjacent country, of comparativelytable-land, occupies an extent of somethirty miles in length, varying in altitudefrom six thousand two hundred to seventhousand feet, forming a base for thehighest peaks in Ceylon, which rise tonearly nine thousand feet.

“Alternate large plains, separated bybelts of forest, rapid rivers, waterfalls,precipices, and panoramic views ofboundless extent, form the features ofthis country, which, combined with thesports of the place, render a residence atNewera Ellia a life of health, luxury, andindependence.”

So Mr Baker is not quite a maniacafter all—in fact, his lines seem castin rather pleasant places; and, if wemay draw our own inferences fromthe brief description he gives us ofhis island home, the pleasures of thechase are only resorted to as an agreeablevariation from the ordinary routineof his agricultural pursuits. He is asolitary specimen in Ceylon of thatrace so highly respected in our owncountry, which combines at once thesportsman, the farmer, and the gentleman.

It has ever been a matter of astonishmentto us that no sportsman ofthe Cinnamon Isle has before this beeninspired by his romantic and adventurouslife to depict those scenes inwhich he has himself revelled, so asto allow the public the gratificationof participating, although only in imagination,in wild sports of a nature asexciting and hazardous as the mannerin which they are prosecuted is noveland enjoyable. We have not onlyexplored, with Gordon Cumming, theinterior of South Africa, but havebeen bored to death by exhibitions inour own country of the trophies whichattest his courage and energy. Althoughwe have never visited the FarWest, we are as familiar with the lifeof the buffalo-hunter or prairie Indianas Washington Irving himself.—Fordid we not live among trappers,with the inimitable Ruxton for ourcompanion, while we have only justreturned from a solitary ramble withPalliser. And so tired are we of shootingtigers and hunting boars in Indiawith the co*ckney who goes out for awinter excursion, or the “Company’s”lady who wishes to astonish her sistersat home, and disgust her husbandat “the station,” that we should infinitelyprefer reading the account inthe county paper of the last run of thesubscription pack, to Mrs M.’s charmingdescription of the Shickar atB——, and the grand Tomashawith which it terminated. And, indeed,if we are accused of giving toounfavourable an impression of Indiansport, it is because, when we compareour own experiences of sport in Bengalwith that in Ceylon, we feel thatthe merits of the latter have beenutterly ignored and overwhelmed bya profusion of rubbishy, exaggeratedpictures of tiger-hunting and pig-sticking,half of which have been drawn, asa sportsman can at once detect, bythose who have never seen a tiger ora wild boar before they gave us thisaccount of their “fearful adventures.”We certainly will maintain that sportin India is very far inferior to sportin Ceylon, inasmuch as it is much moreexciting to shoot an elephant than toride one. The insipidity of rockingabout on the back of an elephant,looking for a tiger among long grass,and running away or not when youfind one, as it suits the fancy of themahout or the elephant, is easily appreciatedby those who have ever indulgedin the delectable amusem*ntof stalking a “rogue,” with nothingbut a pair of rifle barrels and a pair ofstout legs to trust to. We engage tosay, that if there were as much elephant-shootingin Ceylon as there istiger-shooting in India, the proportionof deaths in the former countrywould be as ten to one. We will admitthat “shickar” arrangements aremade on a much more magnificentand luxurious scale in India than inCeylon; but this is a very secondaryconsideration with the true sportsman,and we certainly never enjoyedlife more thoroughly at any timethan while making our jungle trips inthose wild districts in Ceylon whichare so plentifully stocked with game.What an independent existence wasthat! far from the haunts of men bysome secluded tank,—a monument ofthe industry and greatness of a racelong since passed away,—shadowedover by the lofty and graceful tamarindtree, is pitched our snug littlesingle-poled tent. Some camp-stoolsare our seats by day, and fit into oneanother so as to form comfortablebeds; the small circular table is fixedto the tent-pole; the canteen, somegreen native baskets containing ourwardrobe, and a long range of guns,complete the furniture. It is mid-day,and the occupants are taking asiesta in their pyjamas; the cooliesare snoring where the jungle formsthe densest shade; the cook andservants have built a house for themselvesof branches, and are engagedin culinary occupations. No sooneris the intense heat of mid-day pastthan we sally forth, working steadilyfor about four hours; then comes theluxurious fare known well to the Ceylonhunter. Our coolies and ourselvesare alike dependent entirely on ourtrusty rifles. We sometimes indulgein beer, but it is a most extravagantpractice—always, however, in a goodcook. It is not yet quite dusk: wedine in the open air. There is roastpeafowl with buffalo tongue, venisonpasty and jugged hare, with a curryof jungle fowl, with pigs’ fry, if weare not otherwise well supplied; but,as a general rule, wild boar is to beavoided, especially if dead elephantsare abundant in the vicinity. Presentlythe full moon in the cloudlesssky throws the shadows long andsharp over our encampment, and weprepare for night-work. Our tent isquite concealed from the tank to whichwe now repair: it is about three-quartersdry, and the water is notmore than half a mile in circumference.There are two round holesprepared for our reception close tothe water’s edge, of sufficient depth toconceal the occupants. All throughthe night, with the moon lookingcalmly down upon us, brightly reflectedin the waters of the tank, wewatch. As it is early yet, there areplenty of buffaloes still to be seen.Soon large herds of deer come downto drink; they are quite unsuspicious,and pass to and fro withina few yards of the loaded rifles. Thenthe sharp bark of the elk rings throughthe still air, and a noble buck walksknee deep into the water, and a momentafterwards the doe more timidlyfollows. Large sounders of pigs gruntabout constantly. After midnight,more important game appears, androuses the eager sportsmen to morevigorous action; whether we havemade a bag or not depends uponwhether there are elephants in theneighbourhood. If there are, theywill now be heard crashing throughthe jungle. They come very slowly,and the excitement is intense; theykeep stopping by the way, and beatingabout with their trunks. We aregetting very impatient—they neverwill come! At last, one after another,they stalk across the open in the clearmoonlight; a large herd is soonsplashing, and bubbling, and roaringin the muddy water. They areout of shot, and we are obliged tostalk them, for moonlight shootingis deceptive, and we have put lime onthe sight of the guns—a precaution, bythe way, we do not hear that MrBaker adopted when shooting bymoonlight. We no sooner fire thanthe uproar and noise of the retreatingelephants are tremendous: they seldomcharge at night, the whole transactionbeing too sudden and mysterious;but the crashing of the jungle,as the terrified herd sweeps throughit, is inconceivable. An hour or twobefore daybreak chetahs and bearscome stealthily down and stay for amoment, and are gone again. In thecourse of one night, in the northernpart of Ceylon, we have literally seenand fired at every description of thegame we have just enumerated. Atdaybreak we swallow a quantity ofwarm strong coffee, and only returnwhen the barrels of our rifles becometoo hot to hold, unless, indeed, we areabsolutely on the track of an elephant,and then the blazing sun itself is despised.On our way home we dischargeour rifles at the scaly backs ofinnumerable alligators that bask open-mouthedupon the sloping bank, butnever with the hope of getting, thoughsometimes of killing, one. We haveoccasionally put a ball between thegreaves of their armour, but can testifymost assuredly (although MrBaker seems to doubt it) that analligator’s back will turn a rifle ballat twenty yards, as upon one occasionthe ball from a friend’s riflelodged in a tree above us, althoughhe was standing at a distance of abouta hundred yards off, and the alligatorat which he had fired was in a totallyopposite direction. And so the daysfly past, and our trip is at an end, whileour appetite for excitement and adventureremains unappeased; but weare soon reconciled to the change fromthe rough jungle-life to the comfortsof civilisation, for with them we combinethe invigorating air of the mountains,and sport of another kind. Thetent is exchanged at Newera Ellia forthe warm thatched cottage, with itsrustic porch covered with sweet-peaand honeysuckle, and well-furnishedcarpeted rooms, where a comfortablewood-fire crackles upon every hearth,and sheds its grateful influence uponthe party gathered round it, andwhich is composed of the most diversematerials. Bengal civilians, who weresupposed to be dying when they leftthe Sandheads, are narrating with nolittle satisfaction their exploits in themorning’s elk-hunt; officers fromColombo, and middies from Trincomalee,are eagerly canvassing theprospects for the morrow; coffee-planters,tourists, and Ceylon officials,have become excellent friends on shortacquaintance, and are all burning todistinguish themselves. At 5 A.M.it requires some courage to emergefrom beneath a couple of warmblankets: the ground is covered witha thick hoar-frost, and fingers longaccustomed to wield a pen in someIndian cutcherry can scarcely hold thereins. Enterprising ladies, with veryred tips to their noses, join the party,and the meet is a gay and animatedscene. But we must not follow thefortunes of the hunt—our reminiscenceshave already led us beyondthe orthodox limits of a review—andwe shall gladly turn to Mr Baker fora description of those sports which he,in common with ourselves, so highlyappreciates. We would first, however,say a few words more in referenceto the lovely spot in which hehas taken up his abode, and of whichhe has unfortunately given us a verymeagre account.

The few Englishmen of a lowerclass in society who have found theirway to Newera Ellia are thrivingwell; they are, for the most part,discharged soldiers, or persons whoseoriginal object, in coming to Ceylon,was to superintend coffee plantations.English blacksmiths, carpenters, shoemakers,or tailors, are all sure of plentyof employment; while storekeeping, ortaking charge of the residences of thosegovernment functionaries who are fortunateenough to possess them, is aprofitable occupation. The great drawbackto extensive settling in NeweraEllia, is the absence of a permanentmarket. At some seasons of the yearthe plain is overflowing with civiliansand military men from the lower provinces,or from the continent of India,who flock to enjoy its bracing climate;at other times visitors are few and farbetween, and the produce must betransported in bullock-carts to Kandyor Colombo.

The nearest coffee plantations aresituated in Dimboola, seven or eightmiles distant, the elevation of theplain being too great for the growthof the berry. All the ordinary productionsof our kitchen-gardens are to beprocured in abundance, and deliciousstrawberries may here be grown, torecall to the acclimatised Company’sservant the long-forgotten tastes ofhis native land. There can be nodoubt that when the merits of NeweraEllia become better known they willbe more highly appreciated, whileits proximity to India will then insurethose who have settled there aspeedy and profitable return for theiroutlay.

We regret that the scope and tenorof Mr Baker’s work do not admit of afull account of his farming experiences,which must have been both novel andinteresting. His sketches of sceneryare graceful and life-like, evincing awarm susceptibility and a cultivatedmind—qualities which must ever distinguishthe thorough sportsman froma mere butcher on a large scale. “Toa true sportsman,” says our author,“the enjoyment of a sport increasesin proportion to the wildness of thecountry.” The deliberate manner inwhich Mr Baker awaits the furiouscharge of a rogue elephant, with hisrifle on full co*ck, wrapped in the contemplationof the beauties of nature,is truly appalling to us uninitiatedWesterns; and, indeed, at thesecritical moments he is ever most enthusiastic—avery Izaak Walton ofNimrods.

“There is a mournful silence in thecalmness of the evening, when the tropicalsun sinks upon the horizon, a convictionthat man has left this region undisturbedto its wild tenants. No hum ofdistant voices, no rumbling of busywheels, no cries of domestic animalsmeet the ear. He stands upon a wilderness,pathless and untrodden by the footof civilisation, where no sound is ever heardbut that of the elements, when the thunderrolls among the towering forests, orthe wind howls along the plains. Hegazes far, far into the distance, wherethe blue mountains melt into an indefinitehaze; he looks above him to the rockypinnacles which spring from the levelplain, their swarthy cliffs glistening fromthe recent shower, and patches of richverdure clinging to precipices a thousandfeet above him. His eye stretches alongthe grassy plains, taking at one fullglance a survey of woods, and rocks, andstreams; and imperceptibly his mindwanders to thoughts of home, and in onemoment scenes long left behind are conjuredup by memory, and incidents arerecalled which banish for a time the scenebefore him. Lost for a moment in theenchanting power of solitude, where fancyand reality combine in their most bewitchingforms, he is suddenly roused bya distant sound, made doubly loud bythe surrounding silence—the shrill trumpetof an elephant.”

This is a good specimen of our authorin his softer moods; but we must hurryon to more stirring scenes. Someseven or eight years ago Mr Bakervisited Ceylon on a sporting tour, andthe first part of his volume is devotedto an account of his adventures uponthat occasion. He subsequently returnedto Ceylon, and, making NeweraEllia his permanent headquarters, heenjoyed elk-hunting at his own doors;and, having profited by former experience,made his elephant-shootingexcursions in a deliberate and well-organisedmanner. His battery consisted“of one four-ounce rifle (asingle barrel) weighing twenty-onepounds, one long two-ounce rifle (singlebarrel) weighing sixteen pounds,and four double-barrelled rifles, No.10, weighing each fifteen pounds.”The No. 10 double barrels did mostexecution, and were twelve-grooved,carrying a conical ball of two ouncesand a half. It is certainly a populardelusion to suppose that smooth boresare better than these for elephant-shooting.We have already enumeratedthe varieties of game at whichthis formidable battery is directed.

About eighty miles to the north-eastof Kandy, the lake of Minnerialies embosomed amid the most luxuriantvegetation, presenting a sheet ofwater twenty miles in circumference;and here, far distant from the hauntsof men, surrounded by some of theloveliest scenery which Ceylon canboast, Mr Baker introduces us to hisfirst buffalo. Our author’s brotheris the only companion of his sport;they have just arrived in the island,and consequently are complete novicesin its wild sports. No soonerdo they reach Minneria than, carriedaway by the excitement of such closeproximity to their noble game, theysally forth to attack a herd of buffaloes,improperly supplied with ammunition.A bull charges and is wounded, theherd retreats, and our author, leavinghis brother to extinguish thewounded bull, follows another, whodisdains a rapid flight. He is atlength overtaken, and as he facesabout to his pursuer, Mr Baker putstwo balls into his chest at fifteen paces,without effect, “save that his eye,which had hitherto been merely sullen,was now beaming with fury, but hisform was motionless as a statue.”This is decidedly startling—morestartling still to find that there is notanother ball left. It was now thebull’s turn. “I dared not turn toretreat, as I knew he would immediatelycharge, and we stared oneanother out of countenance.” For aquarter of an hour Mr B. staresfiercely but hopelessly at his maddenedantagonist, then a brightthought flashes across him:—

“Without taking my eyes off the animalbefore me, I put a double charge ofpowder down the right-hand barrel, andtearing off a piece of my shirt, I took allthe money from my pouch, three shillingsin sixpenny pieces, and two anna pieces,which I luckily had with me in this smallcoin for paying coolies. Quickly makingthem into a rouleau with the piece of rag,I rammed them down the barrel, andthey were hardly well home before thebull again sprang forward. So quick wasit that I had no time to replace the ramrod,and I threw it in the water, bringingmy gun on full co*ck in the same instant.”

His brother now comes up:—

“It was the work of an instant. B.fired without effect. The horns werelowered, their points were on either sideof me, and the muzzle of the gun barelytouched his forehead when I pulled thetrigger, and three shillings’ worth of smallchange rattled into his hard head. Downhe went, and rolled over with the suddenlychecked momentum of his charge.Away went B. and I as fast as our heelswould carry us, through the water andover the plain, knowing that he was notdead but only stunned.”

We have generally found in thecourse of our own short experiencethat there was nothing for meeting acharge like a little ready money, butthis is squaring accounts with a vengeance.In a moment more Mr Bakermust inevitably have paid the debt ofnature—he paid 3s. 6d. instead, andwe will venture to say he never beforespent that sum more quicklyor satisfactorily to himself. Uponthe following day our two sportsmenare charged by a herd, and againnarrowly escape destruction. “Although,”says Mr Baker, “I havesince killed about two hundred wildbuffaloes, I have never witnessedanother charge by a herd. This was anextraordinary occurrence, and fortunatelystands alone in buffalo-shooting.”Mr Baker only thinks it necessaryto select from his extensivebuffalo-shooting experiences thoseoccasions which involved considerablepersonal hazard, and exhibited, atthe same time, the extraordinarycourage and instinct of the animal.Unless buffalo-shooting be followedup as a sport by itself, the real characterof the animal must remain unknown.“Some will fight and somewill fly, and no one can tell whichwill take place—it is at the option ofthe beast. Caution and good shooting,combined with heavy rifles, arenecessary. Without heavy metal thesport would be superlatively dangerous,if regularly followed up.” MrBaker places great confidence in, and isnot a little proud of, his heavy rifles, andhe gives some wonderful instances ofhis performances with them, whichfully justify his high estimate of theircapabilities. The last day’s work onthe occasion of his subsequent visits toMinneria is worthy of record. Hebegins by knocking over a bull atthree hundred and fifty-two paces,then a cow from horseback at a longrange, and a bull at about four hundredyards. These are mere experiments;presently he comes to closerquarters. A young bull is hidden in athick cover, and our author rides in todislodge him:—

“I beat about to no purpose for abouttwenty minutes, and I was on the pointof giving it up when I suddenly saw thetall reeds bow down just before me. Ibeard the rush of an animal as he burstthrough, and I just saw the broad blacknose, quickly followed by the head andhorns, as the buffalo charged into me.The horse reared to his full height as thehorns almost touched his chest, and Ifired as well as I was able. In anotherinstant I was rolling on the ground, withmy horse upon me, in a cloud of smokeand confusion.

“In a most unsportsmanlike manner (aspersons may exclaim who were not there),I hid behind my horse as he regained hislegs. All was still—the snorting of thefrightened horse was all that I couldhear. I expected to have seen the infuriatedbuffalo among us. I peeped overthe horse’s back, and, to my delight andsurprise, I saw the carcass of the bulllying within three feet of him. His headwas pierced by the ball exactly betweenthe horns, and death had been instantaneous.The horse having reared to hisfull height, had entangled his hind legs inthe grass, and he had fallen backwardswithout being touched by the buffalo, althoughthe horns were close into him.”

On his way home, after this disagreeablerencontre, Mr Baker fallsin with a small herd of five, and dropsboth bulls and an infuriated cow, thelatter in the act of charging, at adistance of fifteen paces. The tworemaining cows and a calf are killedin their retreat, and Mr Baker isstrolling home satisfied with a bagof ten buffaloes, when he suddenlystumbles upon a herd of elephants.These beat an immediate retreat.But singling out a fine bull, Mr Bakerdrops him severely wounded with thefour ounce, and, taking his second gun,he runs up just in time to catch himas he is half risen.

“Feeling sure of him, I ran up withintwo yards of his head, and fired into hisforehead. To my amazement, he jumpedquickly up, and with a loud trumpet herushed towards the jungle. I could justkeep close alongside him, as the grass wasshort, and the ground level, and being determinedto get him, I ran close to hisshoulder, and, taking a steady shot behindthe ear, I fired my remaining barrel. Judgeof my surprise,—it only increased hisspeed, and in another moment he reachedthe jungle: he was gone. He seemed tobear a charmed life. I had taken twoshots within a few feet of him that I wouldhave staked my life upon. I looked atmy gun. Ye gods! I had been firingsnipe shot at him. It was my rascallyhorsekeeper, who had actually handedme the shot-gun, which I had received asthe double-barrelled ball-gun, that I knewwas carried by a gun-bearer. How I didthrash him! If the elephant had chargedinstead of making off, I should have beencaught, to a certainty.”

This is a judgment upon him evidentlyfor boasting too much of hisbattery. The abundance of game atMinneria, however, is not to be comparedto the enormous sports whichMr Baker finds in the almost unexploredcountry beyond Hambautotte.“Here the deer were in such massesthat I restricted myself to bucks, andI at length became completely satiated.There was too much game.During a whole day’s walk I was certainlynot five minutes without seeingeither deer, elk, buffaloes, or hogs.”

Gradually our sportsman gets stillmore particular; he refuses temptingshots, and goes out simply in searchof large antlers. None appearing ofsufficient size he does not fire, andonly kills buffaloes if they look vicious,and he can get a charge out of them.Notwithstanding this dainty shooting,he comes home one morning to breakfast,at eight o’clock, with three finebucks and two buffaloes in his bag.Altogether we cannot charge Mr Bakerwith indiscriminate slaughter. Athorough sportsman, he is a humaneman; but if we may so phrase it, heis a little too conscientious in his sport.He gives us glimpses of much that isinteresting in his search after game;but, because it is unconnected with thematter in hand, he hurries us awayupon the track of a rogue elephant ora buffalo, and will not allow us tolinger for a moment upon those fairyscenes which he has himself conjuredup, or to inquire more deeply intosubjects of interest he has himselfsuggested. We should have liked tohave heard a little more of the Veddahs,for instance; but the district theyinhabit is the finest part of Ceylon forsport, so of course we must not expectto be told about wild men when thereare wild beasts in the case. We have,however, a brief description of themanners and habits (or rather wantof habits) of the animal:—

“The Veddah in person is extremelyugly; short, but sinewy; his long uncombedlocks fall to his waist, lookingmore like a horse’s tail than human hair.He despises money; but is thankful for aknife, a hatchet, or a gaudy-colouredcloth, or brass pot for cooking. The womenare horribly ugly, and are almostentirely naked. They have no matrimonialregulations, and the children aresqualid and miserable. Still these peopleare perfectly happy, and would prefertheir present wandering life to the mostluxurious restraint. Speaking a languageof their own, with habits akin to thoseof wild animals, they keep entirely apartfrom the Cingalese. They barter deer-hornsand bees’-wax with the travellingMoormen pedlars in exchange for theirtrifling requirements. If they have foodthey eat it; if they have none they gowithout until by some chance they procureit. In the mean time they chew thebark of various trees, and search for berries,while they wend their way for manymiles to some remembered store of deer’sflesh and honey, laid by in a hollow tree.”

They are expert trackers, but arenot so skilled in the use of bows andarrows as savages usually are. Withoutany fixed place of residence, theywander over their beautiful country,always finding abundance to eat anddrink, while the warm temperaturerenders any description of clothingsuperfluous. Upon another occasion,Mr Baker, in search of elephants,stumbles upon the ruins of Mahagam.As he is unsuccessful in finding anygame, he gives us a short descriptionof what remains of this ancient city,the first records of which date back tothe year 286 B.C.

“We were among the ruins of ancientMahagam. One of the ruined buildingshad apparently rested upon seventy-twopillars. These were still erect, standingin six lines of twelve columns: everystone appeared to be about fourteen feethigh by two feet square, and twenty-fivefeet apart. This building must thereforehave formed an oblong of three hundredfeet by one hundred and fifty. Many ofthe granite blocks were covered withrough carving; large flights of steps,now irregular from the inequality of theground, were scattered here and there;and the general appearance of the ruinswas similar to that of Pollanarua, butof smaller extent. The stone causewaywhich passed through the ruins was abouttwo miles in length, being for the mostpart overgrown with low jungle andprickly cactus. I traversed the junglefor some distance, until arrested by theimpervious nature of the bushes; butwherever I went the ground was strewedwith squared stones and fallen brickworkovergrown with rank vegetation.”

At Pollanarua the ruins are stillmore interesting, and our author is evidentlyjust becoming romantic whenhis reveries are disturbed in a mannerinexcusable even in a sportsman. Heis strolling through shady glades, andmoralising over palaces which havecrumbled into shapeless mounds ofbricks: “Massive pillars, formed of asingle stone some twelve feet high,stand in upright rows throughout thejungle here and there over an extentof miles of country. The buildingswhich they once supported have longsince fallen, and the pillars now standlike tombstones over vanished magnificence.”While Mr Baker is wanderingamid these ruins, meditating uponthe touching mementoes by which heis surrounded, of a race long sincepassed away—

Instead of quoting Wordsworth,what does Mr Baker do? “I waswithin twenty yards of her before shewas aware of my vicinity, and I baggedher by a shot with a double-barrelledgun. At the report of the gun a herdof about thirty deer which were concealedamong the ruins rushed closeby me, and I bagged another doe withthe remaining barrel.” Really MrBaker should be ashamed of baggingdoes right and left amid pillars whichstand as tombstones over vanishedmagnificence; or, if it was the effectof an impulse irresistible at the moment,the placid reader should bespared the sudden shock which suchan admission is likely to cause.

The most extensive ruins are strewnover all this country, those of Anarajapoura,comprising a surface of twohundred and fifty-six square miles,being the most celebrated. Numeroustanks attest the existence of a densepopulation, where now elephants andbuffaloes roam unmolested. The tankat Doolana, a secluded spot, is afavourite resort for single or rogueelephants; and here Mr Baker andhis brother find a notorious pair,and determine upon their destruction.The difficulty of following anelephant through the dense forestsof Ceylon is so great that the assistanceof native trackers is oftenabsolutely necessary. In this instance,unfortunately, even the trackersmistake the direction, and our twosportsmen are standing hopelesslynear a wall of impenetrable jungle,into which the elephants had beenseen to retreat, wondering how theyare ever to achieve the desired end,when, says Mr Baker,

“I suddenly heard a deep gutturalsound in the thick rattan within fourfeet of me; in the same instant the wholetangled fabric bent over me, and, burstingasunder, showed the furious head ofan elephant with uplifted trunk in fullcharge upon me.

“I had barely time to co*ck my rifle,and the barrel almost touched him as Ifired. I knew it was in vain, as his trunkwas raised. B. fired his right-hand barrelat the same moment without effectfrom the same cause. I jumped on oneside and attempted to spring through thedeep mud: it was of no use; the longgrass entangled my feet, and in anotherinstant I lay sprawling in the enragedelephant’s path within a foot of him. Inthat moment of suspense I expected tohear the crack of my own bones as hismassive foot would be upon me. It wasan atom of time. I heard the crack of agun; it was B.’s last barrel. I felt aspongy weight strike my heel, and, turningquickly heels over head, I rolled afew paces and regained my feet. Thatlast shot had floored him just as he wasupon me; the end of his trunk had fallenupon my heel. Still he was not dead, buthe struck at me with his trunk as Ipassed round his head to give him afinisher with the four-ounce rifle, whichI had snatched from our solitary gun-bearer.

“My back was touching the junglefrom which the rogue had just charged,and I was almost in the act of firingthrough the temple of the still strugglingelephant when I heard a tremendouscrash in the jungle behind me similar tothe first, and the savage scream of anelephant. I saw the ponderous fore-legcleave its way through the jungle directlyupon me. I threw my whole weightback against the thick rattans to avoidhim, and the next moment his foot wasplanted within an inch of mine. His loftyhead was passing over me in full chargeat B., who was unloaded, when, holdingthe four-ounce rifle perpendicularly, Ifired exactly under his throat. I thoughthe would fall upon me and crush me, butthis shot was the only chance, as B. wasperfectly helpless.

“A dense cloud of smoke from theheavy charge of powder for the momentobscured everything. I had jumped outof the way the instant after firing. Theelephant did not fall, but he had hisdeath wound: the ball had severed hisjugular, and the blood poured from thewound. He stopped, but, collecting hisstunned energies, he still blundered forwardtowards B. He, however, avoidedhim by running to one side, and thewounded brute staggered on throughthe jungle. We now loaded the guns;the first rogue was quite dead, and wefollowed in pursuit of rogue numbertwo.”

He had received his death wound,and was found dead in the jungle a dayor two afterwards. We have no doubta large proportion of those who takeup Mr Baker’s book, will read this, andmany other similar adventures whichit contains, in a spirit of profoundscepticism. Of course, we cannotvouch for their credibility otherwisethan by saying that, from our ownexperience and our knowledge ofthe experience of others, we believenot only in the possibility, but inthe probability of scenes such asthose described by Mr Baker frequentlyoccurring in a long course ofelephant-shooting. When a man canshow three hundred or four hundredtails adorning the walls of his room,he may fairly expect us to considerthem as vouchers for his own goodfaith; and carpet sportsmen may laughas they please, but they will find, ifthey have got the pluck to try toprocure similar ornaments, that elephantsdon’t generally allow their tailsto be cut off without fighting for them,and that the mild specimen in theZoological Gardens is not altogetherto be taken as a type of the race generally.

“I have often heard people exclaim,”says Mr Baker, “upon hearing anecdotesof elephant-hunting, ‘poor things!’

“Poor things, indeed! I should liketo see the very person who thus expresseshis pity going at his best pace with asavage elephant after him: give him alawn to run upon if he likes, and see theelephant gaining a foot in every yard ofthe chase, fire in his eye, fury in his headlongcharge; and would not the flyinggentleman who lately exclaimed ‘poorthing!’ be thankful to the lucky bulletthat would save him from destruction?

“There are no animals more misunderstoodthan elephants; they are naturallysavage, wary, and revengeful, displayingas great courage when in their wild stateas any animal known. The fact of theirnatural sagacity renders them the moredangerous as foes.”

Of course, in describing a series ofrencontres, involving so much personalperil as must necessarily be theaccompaniment of elephant-shooting,there is much scope for exaggeration,and the more marvellous a story reallyis, the more susceptible it is of colouring;so that, unless the narrator becontinually on his guard, he may insensiblybe drawn, by the excitingnature of the incidents he recounts,into a way of relating them whichsmacks so strongly of undue embellishment,that the ignorant reader isdisposed to discredit those facts themselveswhich, had he possessed personalexperience, he would not havehesitated to accept. “Often,” says MrBaker, who anticipates such unlearnedcriticism, “have I pitied Gordon Cumming,when I have heard him talkedof as a palpable Munchausen by menwho never fired a rifle or saw a wildbeast except in a cage, and still thesem*n form the greater proportion ofthe readers of these works.” And weare assured by our author that he hascarefully abstained from working uphis scenes for the sake of effect—that,in fact, if he has erred at all, it isin under-drawing them. Now, althoughwe would not for a momentbe supposed to discredit any one ofthe accounts which he gives us of hisadventures, we cannot do Mr Bakerthe injustice to agree with him in this,and we consider ourselves competentjudges, although we may not have beenpresent. In looking over the illustrationswhich grace the work, and whichare spiritedly done, there appeared tous one fault, if fault it may be called;our author and his friends always seemto be shooting with air-guns—there isa remarkable absence of any smoke.Now, without meaning in the least toinfer that Mr Baker has transferred itfrom the pictorial representations ofthose scenes of which its presencewould have been the appropriateornament to the descriptions of them,which would suffer seriously fromsuch an addition, we only remarkthat he has occasionally given a handlefor that sort of criticism, which we, incommon with himself, so much deprecate.We wish, for instance, that hismeasurements of distance in momentsof extreme peril had been a little morevague than they are. A strikinginstance of the precision with whichour author calculates distance occursin the course of one of his elephanthunts; after a long combat with arogue, he is obliged to throw awayhis heavy rifle and take to his heels.

“I had about three feet start of him,and I saw with delight that the groundwas as level and smooth as a lawn; therewas no fear of tripping up, and away Iwent at the fastest pace that I ever raneither before or since, taking a look behindme to see how the chase went on. I sawthe bullet-mark in his forehead, whichwas covered with blood; his trunk wasstretched to its full length to catch me,and was now within two feet of my back:he was gaining on me, although I wasrunning at a tremendous pace. I couldnot screw an inch more speed out of mylegs, and I kept on, with the brute gainingupon me at every stride. He waswithin a foot of me, and I had not hearda shot fired, and not a soul had come tothe rescue. The sudden thought struckme that my brother could not possiblyovertake the elephant at the pace atwhich we were going, and I suddenlydoubled short to my left into the openplain, and back towards the guns. Therogue overshot me. I met my brotherclose to his tail,” &c. &c.

We remember hearing that MajorRogers once dodged between anelephant’s legs; but Major Rogers’presence of mind was nothing toMr Baker’s, who could deliberatelycalculate his distance when at fullspeed, and who, joyously trotting onwith an elephant’s trunk first three,and then two feet from his back, doesnot think it worth while to doubleuntil the distance is decreased totwelve inches. It is quite possiblethat the elephant’s trunk was in mostunpleasant proximity to the fugitive—indeed,a sporting friend of ours oncehad his cap taken off by a rogue infull chase, and after all fairly outranhis pursuer—so that we do not doubtthat Mr Baker had an uncommonlynear shave, and was excessively gladto find his brother at his pursuer’s tail;but this is just the tone of descriptionthat gives rise to doubts in the mindsof those who do not happen ever tohave run away from an elephant.

It may be said that the same remarkis applicable to the accounts we haveof the powers of the four-ounce. Thereis an elephant killed stone dead atone hundred and twenty yards; abuffalo at six hundred, if not eighthundred. These are both unprecedentedshots; but as sixteen drachmsis a common charge with Mr Baker,and as we certainly never used a rifleheavy enough to bear a charge of anounce of powder, we are not in a positionto question them. Moreover,when we consider the performancesof the Minié, we are inclined to regardthem as quite possible, although distance,if not actually measured, mustalways be very much a matter ofopinion. However, in reading thisnarrative of adventure, the experienceof an intrepid sportsman, it must beremembered that only those incidentsare selected for relation which weremost remarkable or attended with thegreatest risk. They are a collectionof the most perilous moments of a lifeof peril, and we have simply to add upthe long catalogue of those who havefallen victims in Ceylon to that sportwhich Mr Baker so ardently pursues,to perceive its danger; and so farfrom denying the possibility of thosehairbreadth escapes which startle usin every page of this work, we shouldthen be induced rather to wonder thatit* author still lives to tempt thatProvidence by which he has hithertobeen so wonderfully preserved.

But we must not allow the rifle anundue share of our attention. MrBaker has as good reason to be proudof his hounds as of his rifles, and thereis a greater novelty to the Englishsportsman in hunting elk at NeweraEllia than in shooting elephants orbuffaloes at Minneria. A buck elk—theSamber deer of India—standsabout fourteen hands high at theshoulder, and weighs about six hundredpounds: he is in colour darkbrown, with a mane of coarse bristlyhair of six inches in length; the restof his body is covered with the samecoarse hair of about two inches inlength. His antlers are sometimesupwards of three feet long, but seldomhave more than six points. Heis a solitary animal; when broughtto bay he fights to the last, andcharges man and hound indiscriminately,a choice hound being oftenthe price of victory. The countryin which he is hunted is the mountainousdistrict in Ceylon; for thoughhe is to be found in almost every partof the island, the sport is only prosecutedat an elevation which variesfrom four thousand to seven thousandfeet above the sea. The sharp, bracingclimate of Newera Ellia, while it agreesadmirably with the hounds, enablesthe sportsman to undergo that prolongedand violent exercise on footwhich the sport involves, and whichwould be utterly out of the questionin the low country.

The principal features of the highlandsof Ceylon being a series of wildmarshy plains, forests, torrents, mountains,and precipices, a peculiar houndis required for elk-hunting. Upon theoccasion of Mr Baker’s second visit, hearrived with a pack of thorough-bredfoxhounds. These he soon found werequite a mistake; they invariably openupon the scent at a great distance,and after warning the elk too soon,they stick to him too long, and ultimatelyfall victims to chetahs orstarvation, the penalty of inexperiencedperseverance. The offspringof crosses with pointers, bloodhounds,and half-bred foxhounds, are theright stamp for the sport; while theAustralian lurcher proves often ofimmense service upon the open. Thehero of Mr Baker’s pack was a Manillabloodhound of enormous strengthand indomitable pluck. The performancesof old Smut are worthy ofa volume to themselves; and if hismaster could appreciate the merits ofhis favourite hound when alive, heproves himself an historian well qualifiedto do justice to his memory. Thereader will also be proud to makethe acquaintance of Killbuck, Bran,and Lena, who prove themselvesgood dogs and true. About sixteenmiles from Newera Ellia, lie theHorton Plains, situated at an elevationof seven thousand feet above thelevel of the sea. They are perfectlyuninhabited; and here it is that MrBaker introduces us to his favouritesport. He and his friends have takenup their abode in a snug corner of theplains, where they have built forthemselves a hunting-lodge and kennel.They are within hail of civilisation,but they depend almost entirelyupon the dogs for sustenance, combinedwith the efforts of a perfectSoyer of a cook.

“This knight of the gridiron was afamous fellow, and could perform wonders;of stoical countenance, he wasnever seen to smile. His whole thoughtswere concentrated in the mysteries ofgravies, and the magic transformation ofone animal into another by the art ofcookery: in this he excelled to a marvellousdegree. The farce of ordering dinnerwas always absurd. It was somethingin this style. ‘Cook!’ (Cookanswers) ‘Coming sar!’ (enter cook).—‘Now,cook, you make a good dinner; doyou hear?’ Cook: ‘Yes, sar: mastertell, I make.’—‘Well, mulligatawnysoup.’ ‘Yes, sar.’—‘Calves’ head, withtongue, and brain-sauce.’ ‘Yes, sar.’—‘Gravyomelette.’ ‘Yes, sar.’—‘Muttonchops.’ ‘Yes, sar.’—‘Fowl cotelets.’‘Yes, sar.’—‘Beefsteaks.’ ‘Yes, sar.’—‘Marrow-bones.’‘Yes, sar.’—‘Rissoles.’‘Yes, sar.’ All these various dishes heliterally imitated uncommonly well, thedifferent portions of an elk being theironly foundation.”

During a trip of two months at theHorton Plains, Mr Baker killed forty-threeelk, which was working thepack pretty hard. At Newera Elliathe game, though not quite so plentiful,is sufficiently abundant to satisfyany reasonable sportsman, and anextract of three months’ hunting, athis own door, from our author’s game-book,shows a return of eleven bucks,seventeen does, and four hogs.

Though the sport of elk-hunting ismost exciting, the recital of elk-huntingexperiences must ever be somewhatmonotonous: there is so littleroom for varied incident. The hunterfollows the music of his pack overthe open, at a long swinging trot,and bursts his way through the densejungle, and down the steep bank tothe foaming torrent, in the midst ofwhich the elk is keeping the houndsat bay:—

“There they are in that deep poolformed by the river as it sweeps roundthe rock. A buck! a noble fellow! Nowhe charges at the hounds, and strikes theforemost beneath the water with his forefeet;up they come again to the surface,—theyhear their master’s well-knownshout,—they look round and see his welcomefigure on the steep bank. Anothermoment, a tremendous splash, and he isamong his hounds, and all are swimmingtowards their noble game. At them hecomes with a fierce rush. Avoid himas you best can, ye hunters, man, andhounds!”

This reminds us of an amusing experienceof our own, under somewhatsimilar circ*mstances. The masterof one of the packs at Newera Ellia,in those days a good specimen ofa Ceylon Nimrod, and an old elk-hunter,was anxious to show a navalfriend of his the sport in perfection.We happened to be of the party, andbefore long our ears were rejoicedwith that steady chorus which alwaystells of a buck at bay. Away wedashed through the thorny jungle,and arrived at the edge of a deepblack pool, in which the elk wasswimming, surrounded by the entirepack. Another moment and weshould have formed one of the dampbut picturesque group, when our navalfriend, who had been left a little inthe rear, unused to such rough work,came up torn and panting. It suddenlyoccurs to Nimrod, just as he isgoing to jump in, that it is hardly civilto his guest to secure to himself thesportsman’s most delicious moment;he feels the sacrifice he is makingas, with a forced blandness, and ananxious glance at the buck, he presseshis hunting-knife into Captain F.’shand, saying, “After you, sir, pray.”“Eh! after me; where?—you don’tmean me to go in there, do you?”“Certainly not, if you would ratherstay here; in that case be so good asgive me the knife, as there is no timeto be lost.” “Oh, ah!—I didn’t understand;—howvery stupid! Go in—ohcertainly: I shall be delighted;” andin dashed the gallant captain with histwo-edged blade gleaming in themorning sun. For a second the watersclosed over him, then he appearedspluttering and choking, and wavingaloft the naked steel preparatory togoing down again; it was plain thathe could not swim a stroke, and itcost us no little trouble to pull out theplucky sailor, who took the wholething as a matter of course, and wouldevidently have gone anywhere thathe had been told. It is a difficultmatter to stick an elk while swimming,as the hide is very thick, and thewant of any sufficient purchase rendersan effective blow almost impossible.There is also a great risk ofbeing struck by the elk’s fore-legs,while impetuous young dogs are aptto take a nip of their master by mistake.A powerful buck at bay isalways a formidable customer, andthe largest dogs may be impaled likekittens if they do not learn to tempertheir valour with discretion.

“The only important drawback,”says Mr Baker, “to the pleasure of elk-huntingis the constant loss of dogs.The best are always sure to go. Whatwith deaths by boars, leopards, elk,and stray hounds, the pack is withdifficulty maintained. Poor old Bran,who, being a thorough-bred greyhound,is too fine in the skin for such roughhunting, has been sewn up in so manyplaces that he is a complete specimenof needlework;” while Killbuckand Smut, the hero of about fourhundred deaths of elk and boar, haveterminated their glorious careers.Killbuck was pierced by the sharpantlers of a spotted buck, after asplendid course over the plains in thelow country. If the bay of the deeris not so good as that of the elk, theenjoyment of riding to your gamerenders deer-coursing a far moreagreeable sport than elk-hunting.Unfortunately for Killbuck his buckcame to bay as pluckily as any elk,and had pinned the noble hound tothe earth, before his master, whohad been thrown in the course of areckless gallop, could come up tothe rescue. But the boar is the mostdestructive animal to the pack, and afierce immovable bay, in which everydog joins in an impetuous chorus, isalways a dreaded sound to the hunter,who knows well that tusks, andnot antlers, are at work.

The following description of a boarat bay will give some idea of thescene that then occurs:—

“There was a fight! The underwoodwas levelled, and the boar rushed to andfro with Smut, Bran, Lena, and Lucifer,all upon him. Yoick to him! and someof the most daring of the maddened packwent in. The next instant we were uponhim mingled with a confused mass ofhounds; and throwing our whole weightupon the boar, we gave him repeatedthrusts, apparently to little purpose.Round came his head and gleaming tusksto the attack of his fresh enemies, butold Smut held him by the nose, and, althoughthe bright tusks were immediatelyburied in his throat, the stanch old dogkept his hold. Away went the boarcovered by a mass of dogs, and bearingthe greater part of our weight in addition,as we hung on to the hunting-knivesburied in his shoulders. For about fiftypaces he tore through the thick jungle,crashing it like a cobweb. At length heagain halted; the dogs, the boar, andourselves were mingled in a heap of confusion.All covered with blood and dirt,our own cheers added to the wild bay ofthe infuriated hounds, and the savageroaring of the boar. Still he fought andgashed the dogs right and left. He stoodabout thirty-eight inches high, and thelargest dogs seemed like puppies besidehim; still not a dog relaxed his hold, andhe was covered with wounds. I made alucky thrust for the nape of his neck. Ifelt the point of the knife touch the bone;the spine was divided, and he fell dead.

“Smut had two severe gashes in thethroat, Lena was cut under the ear, andBran’s mouth was opened completely upto his ear in a horrible wound.”

But the boar sometimes comes offvictorious; and the death of poorold Smut has never been revenged.He was almost cut in half before MrBaker reached the bay, which lastedfor an hour. At the end of thatperiod, Smut, gashed with many additionalwounds, was expiring, andthree of the best remaining dogs wereseverely wounded; the dogs werewith difficulty called off the victoriousmonster; and Mr Baker records, withfeelings of profound emotion, the onlydefeat he ever experienced, and whichterminated fatally to the gallant leaderof his pack.

The usual drawbacks and discomfortsattendant upon a new settlementhaving been overcome, our authorassures us that Newera Ellia forms adelightful place of residence. But itmust not be supposed that, on theoccasion of his second visit to Ceylon,he confined himself to elk-hunting andagriculture. He is frequently temptedfrom his highland home to the elephantcountry, which is only abouttwo days’ journey distant; and thelatter part of his volume aboundswith exciting descriptions of new encounterswith rogues, involving theusual amount of personal hazard; andlest the too ardent pursuit of thisfascinating sport seems scarcely tojustify the apparent cruelty it involves,it must be remembered thatit is not more cruel to kill a largeanimal than a small one, though thisis a distinction we are too apt tomake; and when the large animal isalso often destructive to life and property,its slaughter is not only justifiable,but commendable in those whoare disposed to risk their lives for thebenefit of the public and their owngratification.

Indeed, so extensive are the ravagescommitted by elephants, thata price is offered by government fortheir tails; since, however, the procuringof tails has become a fashionableamusem*nt among Europeans,the reward has been reduced to themiserable sum of 7s. 6d. The Moorishpart of the community were the recognisedelephant-slayers, so long as therewas profit to be made by these means.They now devote themselves almostentirely to the capture of elephantsalive for the purpose of exportation toIndia. Mr Baker gives an amusingaccount of having assisted to catch anelephant. He started with his brotherand thirty Moormen, armed withropes, towards a herd of seven, ofwhose presence in the neighbourhoodintelligence had been received. Uponcoming in sight of the herd, one wasselected for capture. Mr Baker andhis brother and their gun-bearers,taking the wind, advance under coverof the jungle to open the ball. Thisthey do in style, bagging six elephantsin almost the same number of minutes.The seventh starts off in full retreatwith the multitude at his heels. Atlast an active Moorman dexterouslythrows a noose of thick but finelytwisted hide rope over one of his hind-legs.Following the line which the unconsciouselephant trails after him likea long snake, they wait until he entersthe jungle, and then unceremoniouslycheck his further progress by taking adouble turn round a tree.

“Any but a hide rope of that diametermust have given way; but this stretchedlike a harp-string, and, at every effort tobreak it, the yielding elasticity of thehide threw him upon his head, and thesudden contraction after the fall jerkedhis leg back to its full length.

“After many vain but tremendous effortsto free himself, he turned his rageupon his pursuers, and charged every oneright and left; but he was safely tied,and we took some little pleasure in teasinghim. He had no more chance thana fly in a spider’s web. As he chargedin one direction, several nooses werethrown round his hind-legs; then histrunk was caught in a slip-knot, then hisfore-legs, then his neck, and the ends ofall these ropes being brought togetherand hauled tight, he was effectuallyhobbled.

“This had taken some time to effect(about half an hour), and we now commenceda species of harness to enable usto drive him to the village.

“The first thing was to secure histrunk by tying it to one of his fore-legs;this leg was then fastened with a slackrope to one of his hind-legs, which preventedhim from taking a longer stridethan about two feet; his neck was thentied to his other fore-leg, and two ropeswere made fast to both his fore and hindlegs; the ends of these ropes being mannedby thirty men.”

He was then driven to the village,and three days afterwards was sufficientlytamed to be mounted. Hisvalue was then about £15.

Mr Baker at last becomes as daintyin his elephant-shooting as we havealready found him in the deer country.Where elephants are abundant he despisesa herd, and confines himself torogues, where they are procurable,always singling out the most vicious-looking,and this must in some measureaccount for the redundancy of adventurein his narrative. For thoughelephant-shooting is always attendedwith some risk, the comparative extentof this depends entirely upon themanner in which the sport is pursued.If tails are the desiderata, then a herdin a nice open jungle presents the bestchance of obtaining a supply with theleast possible amount of personal danger;but if sport is really sought, then arogue upon the open is certain to affordenough to satisfy the most ardent Nimrodthat ever drew trigger. The fatigueof elephant-shooting is somethinginconceivable to those who have not forsix or eight consecutive hours labouredunder a tropical sun with a heavyrifle,—the barrels of which are so hotthat they can scarcely be touched,—overwide plains, and through longgrass, matted over hidden rocks andtangled jungle, with an underwood ofthe twining bamboo and thornymimosa. It is only the most intenseexcitement that could carry a manthrough fatigue such as this; and aprize worthy of all that he has undergoneis needed to reward him for theday’s work. Under these circ*mstances,it is clear that, the more imminentthe peril, the more satisfactoryis the sport considered. There wouldbe very little gratification in toilingall day in a temperature of 130°, ifthere was no opportunity presented ofrisking one’s life. Mr Baker’s enjoymentmust have reached its climaxwhen he was actually wounded by anelephant’s tusk. This indeed compensatedfor much hardship and discomfort.It happened in this wise:

About two days’ journey fromNewera Ellia is situated a large tractof country called the Park. This isthe most favourite resort of Ceylonsportsmen, as elephants are generallyabundant. The scenery is beautiful,of a character which may be inferredfrom the name it now bears amongEuropeans. It is of vast extent,watered by numerous large rivers, andornamented by rocky mountains, suchas no English park can boast. Thelemon grass grows over the greaterpart of this country to a height often or twelve feet, and large herdsof elephants wander through it, thecrowns of their capacious brown heads,or the tips of their trunks, tossedoccasionally into the air, alone attestingtheir presence.

A number of these appearing overthe waving grass, delight the eyes ofMr Baker and his brother one morningas they sally forth from their nightencampment with their usual deadlyintent. Upon discovering the daringintruders, the herd, consisting of ten,rally round the two leaders, whosedeep growls, like rumbling peals ofthunder, is the call in time of danger.Our author and his brother immediatelyadvance towards the dense mass,nothing daunted by so imposing anarray. A part of the herd beat a retreat,but five charge viciously; theyare dropped in as many successiveshots, the last at a distance of onlyten paces; four more are slain in retreat,a faithless mother alone escaping,whose little charge, so unusuallydeserted, Mr Baker captures, by takinghold of his tail and trunk, andthrowing him on his back. Thosewho have seen an unweaned elephantcalf will admit this to be no verydifficult feat. Having secured theinfant, and left him in charge of hisbrother and the gun-bearers, MrBaker returns to seek his legitimatetrophies in the shape of tails.

“I had one barrel still loaded, and Iwas pushing my way through the tangledgrass towards the spot where the fiveelephants lay together, when I suddenlyheard Wallace shriek out, ‘Look out, sir!Look out!—an elephant’s coming!’

“I turned round in a moment; andclose past Wallace, from the very spotwhere the last dead elephant lay, camethe very essence and incarnation of a‘rogue’ elephant in full charge. Histrunk was thrown high in the air, hisears were co*cked, his tail stood highabove his back as stiff as a poker, and,screaming exactly like the whistle of arailway engine, he rushed upon methrough the high grass with a velocitythat was perfectly wonderful. His eyesflashed as he came on, and he had singledme out as his victim.

“I have often been in dangerous positions,but I never felt so totally devoid ofhope as I did in this instance. Thetangled grass rendered retreat impossible.I had only one barrel loaded, andthat was useless, as the upraised trunkprotected his forehead. I felt myselfdoomed; the few thoughts that rushthrough men’s minds in such hopelesspositions flew through mine, and I resolvedto wait for him till he was closeupon me before I fired, hoping that hemight lower his trunk and expose hisforehead.

“He rushed along at the pace of ahorse in full speed; in a few moments,as the grass flew to the right and leftbefore him, he was close upon me, butstill his trunk was raised and I wouldnot fire. One second more, and at thisheadlong pace he was within three feetof me; down slashed his trunk with therapidity of a whip-thong, and with ashrill scream of fury he was upon me.

“I fired at that instant; but in thetwinkling of an eye I was flying throughthe air like a ball from a bat. At themoment of firing I had jumped to theleft, but he struck me with his tusk infull charge upon my right thigh, andhurled me eight or ten paces from him.That very moment he stopped, and, turninground, he beat the grass about withhis trunk, and commenced a strict searchfor me. I heard him advancing close to thespot where I lay as still as death, knowingthat my last chance lay in concealment.I heard the grass rustling close to thespot where I lay; closer and closer he approached,and he at length beat the grasswith his trunk several times exactlyabove me. I held my breath, momentarilyexpecting to feel his ponderousfoot upon me. Although I had not feltthe sensation of fear while I had stoodopposed to him, I felt like what I neverwish to feel again while he was deliberatelyhunting me up. Fortunately Ihad reserved my fire until the rifle hadalmost touched him, for the powder andsmoke had nearly blinded him, and hadspoiled his acute power of scent. To myjoy I heard the rustling of the grass growfainter; again, I heard it at a stillgreater distance; at length it was gone.”

“There could not,” says our authornaïvely, “be a better exemplificationof a rogue than in this case.”The knowing way in which he hadremained patiently concealed, whilehis enemies expended their ammunitionand energies upon the herd, andthe sudden and furious manner inwhich he came upon them, while unsuspectinglyappropriating the tailsof his brethren, quite justifies thisopinion of Mr Baker’s. He escapestriumphantly, as he deserves to havedone, and leaves Mr Baker to contemplatehis wounded leg for somedays, during which he is unable tomove. We must do our author thejustice to say that he seeks his revengeas soon as he is able to put hisfoot to the ground, and a few daysafterwards we find him chasing a herd,until he says “my leg, which hadlost all feeling, suddenly gave way,and I lay sprawling on my face, incapableof going a step farther. Ihad killed four elephants; it was verybad luck, as the herd consisted ofeleven, but my leg gave way whenmost required.” If Mr Baker is notsatisfied, we are. We shall not,therefore, follow him through the excitingdetails of a jungle trip, withwhich he concludes his most interestingwork, and from which he and histwo companions, the Hon. Mr StuartWortley and Mr E. Palliser, return inthree weeks, with a bag of fifty elephants,five deer, and two buffaloes.We have said enough to indicate to thereader in search of excitement by hisfireside where it is to be found—morethan enough to tempt the enthusiasticsportsman to exchange for a season thecomforts of home for the wild stirringlife of the elephant-hunter; and wemay venture to assure him that hewill ever recur with delight to theenjoyment and rough luxury that ajungle trip alone affords, and he willbe ready to adopt, as we do ourselves,the concluding words of our author:

“The well-arranged tent, the neatlyspread table, the beds forming a trianglearound the walls, and the clean gunspiled in a long row against the gun-rack,will often recall a tableau in after years,in countries far from this land of independence.The acknowledged sports ofEngland will appear child’s play; theexciting thrill will be wanting, when asudden rush in the jungle brings the rifleon full co*ck; and the heavy guns willbecome useless mementos of past days,like the dusty helmets of yore, hangingup in an old hall. The belt and thehunting-knife will alike share the fate ofthe good rifle, and the blade, now sokeen, will blunt from sheer neglect.The slips, which have held the necks ofdogs of such staunch natures, will hangneglected from the wall; and all thesesouvenirs of wild sports, contrasted withthe puny implements of the Englishchase, will awaken once more the longingdesire for the ‘Rifle and the Hound inCeylon.’”

We do not intend upon the presentoccasion, however legitimate the opportunity,to trespass long upon thepatience of our readers, in discussingthe merits or demerits of Gray’s poeticalstyle. Some few remarks weare tempted to make, chiefly of a conciliatorycharacter; but we shall veryrapidly pass on to his Life and Letters,which are the more immediate subjectof the book before us. In criticaldebates upon English poetry, thename of Gray has been often a rallyingpoint for the disputants: he hasbeen held up as a bright example byone party, and by another, as a salutarywarning to all youthful aspirants.“Of all English poets,” says SirJames Mackintosh, “he was the mostfinished artist. He attained the highestdegree of splendour of whichpoetical style seems to be capable.”We all know what Wordsworththought of the splendour of this poeticalstyle, and how severely he andothers have dealt with it.

Poetry is a very difficult subject toreason about; and the more refined,and the more bold, and the morecomplex the associations of thoughtin which it deals, the more difficultdoes it become to prove, by any processof argument, that it is good orbad. As little can you teach a manto enjoy poetry, to discover it whenit lies before him, by any rules, orprocess of reasoning, analytic or synthetic,as you could teach a man bythe same methods to write poetry.For there is always in the more subtlekinds of poetry an element of unreason;plain truth is somewhere set atdefiance; and who can possibly draw theline, or say precisely to what extentimagination, under the sway of feelingor sentiment, shall be allowed totransgress on the palpable verities ofour senses, or our better judgment?How can reason decide exactly, wherereason herself shall be set aside infavour of emotion? Emotion, afterall, must have her voice in the matter;and the final result must be some uncertaincompromise between them.

We will draw an illustration of ourmeaning from no vulgar critic. Therefined taste of Mr Landor willbe at once admitted; nor will he lieopen to the objection often broughtagainst our northern critics, that theyare too metaphysical or analytic intheir strictures upon metaphoricallanguage. We extract the two followingannotations, from his conversationbetween himself and Southey,on two several passages in Milton’sParadise Lost. They will aptly illustratethe difficulty which every onewill encounter who has to reason uponthe right and wrong of a poet’simagination.

“What a beautiful expression isthere in verse 546, which I do not rememberthat any critic has noticed—

Here the hill itself is instinct with lifeand activity.”

Agreed: it is a beautiful expression;and if any one insists that a hilldoes not climb, but is a thing to beclimbed upon, we pronounce him ablockhead for his pains. Neverthelessthe blockhead has palpable truth uponhis side. The hill does not climb infact, and there is no process we knowof by which it can be made to climbin his imagination. Now for oursecond comment—

Often and often have these versesbeen quoted without a suspicion howstrongly the corporeal is substitutedfor the moral. However Atlanteanhis shoulders might be, the might ofmonarchies could no more be supportedby them than by the shoulders ofa grasshopper.”

Here, Mr Landor takes part withplain matter-of-fact against that playof poetic imagination, which oftensucceeds in making one deep and harmoniousimpression out of incongruousmaterials, merely by the dexterousrapidity with which these are passedbefore the mind. We confess to haveadmired the bold, vague, instantaneous,transitory combination of physicalwith moral properties, which wehave in these celebrated lines. Themonarchies do not rest directly onthe “shoulders,” but on the sage manwith these broad shoulders, and theepithet “Atlantean,” by suggestingimmediately a mythological person,has already half allegorised the figure.The shoulders which are for an instantbrought before the mind’s eye,have never supported any less honourableweight than that of a wholeworld. Mr Landor, however, maybe right; we are not disputing thecorrectness of his criticism; we areonly pointing out the inherent difficultiesof the subject. Mr Landormay be right; but what answer wouldhe give to the man of plain understandingwho did not comprehend howa hill could climb, and who shouldinsist upon it, that a mound of earthcould no more be “instinct with lifeand activity” than broad shoulderscould help a man to govern well?

Turning over the pages of a workof Meinherr Feuchtersleben on MedicalPsychology, we met with the remark,that the effort to enjoy or attendto some of our finer sensationswas not always followed by an increasein those pleasurable sensations.Thus, he says, we distend our nostrilsand inspire vigorously when we wouldtake our fill of some agreeable odour,and yet certain of the more refinedscents escape us by this very effortto seize and appropriate them. Passingby a bed of violets, the flowersthemselves perhaps unseen, howcharming a fragrance has hit uponthe unwarned sense! Turn back,and strenuously inhale for the verypurpose of enjoying it more fully, thefairy favour has escaped you. Itfloated on the air, playing with thesense of him who sought not for it;but quite refusing to be fed upon voraciouslyby the prying and dilatednostril. Something like this may beobserved in the case of poetical enjoyment.The susceptible reader feelsit, though he sought it not, and themore varied the culture of his mind,the more likely is he to be visited bythis pleasure; but it will not be capturedby any effort of hard, vigorousattention, or the merely scrutinisingintellect. The poetry of the verse,like the fragrance of the violet, willnot be rudely seized; and he whoknits his brow and strains his facultyof thought over the light and musicalpage may wonder how it happensthat the charm grows less as his desireto fix and to appropriate it hasincreased.

When, therefore, we discuss themerits of a poetical style, we enterupon a subject on which we must notexpect to reason with strict certainty,or arrive at very dogmatic conclusions.To the last some minds will find a gloriousimagination, where others willperceive only a logical absurdity.We can only come, as we have said,to some compromise between reasonand emotion. They meet together inthe arena of imagination, and mustsettle their rival claims as they bestcan.

That Gray was a true poet surely noone will deny. Who has bequeathed,in proportion to the extent or volumeof his writings, a greater number ofthose individual lines and passageswhich live in the memory of all men,and are recognised as the most perfectexpression of a given thought or sentimentthat our British world has produced?But such lines and passagesrarely bear the stamp of the poet’smannerism. They would not havegained their universal acceptation ifthey had. Highest excellence is allof one style. That manner whichconstitutes the peculiarity of Gray,and which distinguishes him from otherpoets, we certainly do not admire, andwe will give the best reasons for ourdislike to it that we are able.

Poetry we have somewhere hearddefined as “passionate rhythmical expression;”and, if our memory fail us,and we do not quote correctly, we neverthelessventure to promulgate thisas a very sufficient definition. It ispassionate rhythmical expression; andit becomes imaginative because it ispassionate. Every one knows thatstrong feeling runs to metaphor andimagery to express itself; or, in otherwords, that a predominant sentimentwill gather round itself a host of kindredideas held often together by almostimperceptible associations. In proportionas the mind is full of ideas orremembered objects, will be the complexstructure which will grow out ofthis operation. It is not, therefore,because a strain is complex, ornate,or full of learning, that it ceases tobe spontaneous or natural. If Miltonrolls out thought after thought,gathered from the literature of Romeor Greece, the verse may be quiteas natural, quite as genuine an expressionof sentiment as any balladin the Percy Reliques. But what isdesired is, that, learned or not, thestrain have this character of spontaneity,that it be the language in whichsome mortal has verily and spontaneouslythought. We do not mean, ofcourse, that the style should not becorrected by afterthought, but thecorrections should be made in thesame spirit, the language moving fromthe thought and passion of the man.Now, there is much of Gray’s writingof which it cannot be said that thelanguage or imagery flows by anysuch spontaneous process; in whichwe are perpetually reminded of effortand artifice, which, as it never camefrom, so it can never go home straightwayto any human soul.

We might venture even to take foran instance the popular line—

This quotation has obtained a generalcurrency: “ashes” and their “fires”bear each other out so well, that thecareless reader has no doubt themeaning is all right. Yet we suspectthat very many quote the line withoutany distinct meaning whatever attachedto it. And for this reason,—noEnglishman would ever naturallyhave expressed the sentiment in thislanguage. Men, at least some men,are careful where they shall lay theirbones; they would sleep amongsttheir fathers, their countrymen, theirchildren; some seek a retired spot;some where friends will congregate;some choose the sun, and some theshadow. They endue the dead claythat will be lying under the turf withsome vague sentiment of feeling—withsome residue of the old affections.Would any Englishman, impressedwith such a feeling, go backin imagination to classic times, whenthe body was burnt, and speak of“ashes” which never will exist,rather than of the slumbering corpsewhich his eye must be following, ashe speaks, into the earth? Here is thewhole stanza:—

It is altogether, it will be seen, a veryelaborate structure. Gray was a genuinelover of nature; yet he wouldrather make a patchwork out ofpoetical phrases, and the traditionalimagery of the poets, than place himselfin the scene he meant to describe,and watch in imagination the effectsit would produce upon him. Thecritics have remarked that, in theopening stanzas of the Elegy, eventsare described as contemporaneouswhich must have been successive. Wehave sunset in one stanza:—

And in the next, we have advancedinto the perfect moonlight:—

It may be argued, indeed, that timedoes not stand still with the poet;and that, as he lingered in the churchyard,twilight had given way to midnight.But we are afraid that thetrue answer is simply this—that theivy-mantled tower, the moon, andthe owl, were, at all events, to be introducedas fit accompaniments of thescene; and that no question was everasked how they would harmonise withthe sunset view of distant fields, thatwe had glanced at just before.

That one who loved mountains, andfrequented them, should put a stringof unmeaning words like these intothe mouth of his Welsh bard! Thereis absolutely nothing in them. Giveyour Welsh harper the finest earimaginable, and put him on whatmountain you will, what “desertcaves” will he hear sighing in responseto giant oaks, and these againto the torrent beneath?

The oaks waving in wrath “theirhundred arms,” is a fine frenzyenough; but it is spoilt again by the“hoarser murmurs breathe,”—wordsin which no man ever thought.

Instances of this artificial mannerof building up the rhyme, it would besuperfluous to multiply. Let us ratherdrop a hint against carrying ourstrictures to an undue degree of severity.There is, especially, a runningcharge of plagiarism brought againstGray, and all such composite poets,which is altogether unfair. If theyhave formed their style in the study ofother poets, it follows that they mustrepeat the phrases of their predecessors;but, if they do this in the expressionof a new thought of theirown, such use of their language mustnot be described as plagiarism. Acritic before us thus comments onsome lines in the Elegy:—

“This stanza is made up of variouspieces inlaid. ‘Stubborn glebe’ is fromGay; ‘drive a-field’ from Milton;‘sturdy stroke’ from Spencer.”[14] Now,there is not one of these expressionswhich does not here fall very properlyinto its place; and a writer familiarwith poetic diction would make useof them without any reference to theauthors from whom they might havebeen, in the first place, received. Indeed,it would be quite impossible forany one to compose in this mosaicfashion; nor is there any end to thecharges of plagiarism that might, onthis principle, be brought. If suchexpressions as “sturdy stroke,” and“drive a-field,” are to be traced to theownership of some predecessor, onedoes not see how one is to move atall. The language of the country,like its arable land, is all appropriated.In the passage herecommented on, the critic needednot have stopped where he did.“How jocund,” he might have added,is from Fletcher, and “how bent thewoods,” from Dryden; and then onlyconsider if these three lines werecomposed after such a fashion, whata wonderful piece of workmanshipthey must be! Whilst we areas hostile as any to laborious, consciousartifice, or the mere repetitionof traditional phrases and images, wemust deprecate a species of criticismwhich would shut out the poet fromhis legitimate resources, deter himfrom the careful study of his predecessors,and either drive him into apoor, timid, barren style of composition,or else induce him to seek thepraise of originality by coining newwords and fantastical expressions.

We must now address ourselves tothe work before us, The Correspondenceof Gray and Mason, as here presentedto us by the careful editorshipof Mr Mitford.

Mr Mitford has by his editorial officesfor ever associated his own namewith that of the poet Gray. In theAldine edition of his works he performedthe good office of restoring thegenuine text of Gray’s letters, whichhis first biographer, Mason, had sosingularly garbled. For this and othergood services of the same kind thepublic were already indebted to MrMitford. He has now, we presume,completed his labours on this subjectby the publication of The Correspondenceof Gray and Mason in the formMason himself had preserved it, withcopious notes explanatory of all thingsnecessary to be known, and somewhich, we are happy to think, are notquite necessary items in the sum ofhuman knowledge.

The publication of this octavo volumein its separate form was, wesuppose, inevitable. The course ofeditorial labours will not run smoothany more than any other courses. Indue order of things, Mr Mitford, whenhe prepared his edition of Gray’s Lettersfor the press, should have hadthe materials which form this volumeput into his hands; he could thenhave incorporated in his book suchadditions to the letters of Gray as areto be found here; he could haveavoided reprinting a considerable numberof them, and might have given ussuch of the letters of Mason (noneothers are of the least value) as throwlight upon the biography and writingsof the poet Gray. But this naturalorder of things was not to be permitted.It was, we must presume, afterthe Aldine edition had been printed thatthe manuscript of Mason came underhis inspection. Thus this large newvolume was judged indispensable, althoughit is manifestly destined to avery brief existence; and, in spite ofits luxury of type, and its neat liveryof green and gold, must be absorbed,its personality entirely lost, in thenext and more complete edition of theworks of Gray.

When Mason prepared the lettersof his distinguished friend for publication,he was not sufficiently unreasonableto thrust many of hisown upon the notice of the reader;but he took care to preserve carefullyin a manuscript volume thecorrespondence of both parties, orat least such portions of his ownletters as he thought were creditableto himself. This manuscriptvolume he bequeathed to hisfriend Mr Stonhewer; from him “itpassed,” Mr Mitford tells us in hispreface, “into the hands of his relative,Mr Bright of Skeffington Hall,Leicestershire. When, in the year1845, the library of Gray was soldby the sons of that gentleman, thendeceased, this volume of Correspondencewas purchased by Mr Penn ofStoke Park, and by him was kindlyplaced in my hands for publication.”

Mr Mitford has not only judged itworthy of a separate publication, buthas bestowed the utmost pains in preparingit for the press. His industrialannotation strikes us with a sortof wonder. We are amazed at thepertinacity of research, all the morelaudable, we presume, because theprize held forth was of such almostinappreciable value. “So you havechristened Mr Dayrolles’ child,” saysMr Gray to the Rev William Mason,and passes on, regardless, to othermatter—to something pertaining tothe then Chancellor of the Exchequer.Not so the conscientious editor.Who is this Mr Dayrolles? and whyhas the christening of his child by theRev. William Mason been glanced atby the poet? Forthwith a ransackingamongst all memoirs; we are referredto Chesterfield’s Letters, Maty’sedition, and Lord Mahon’s edition, andWalpole’s Miscellaneous Letters; andat length, in a manuscript memorandum(so far do we extend our researches),we find the bit of scandal:this “Mr Dayrolles’ child” is not thechild of Mr Dayrolles at all, but ofone Mr Stanhope; and to this it wasthat, we are told, “Mr Gray silentlypointed.”—P. 129.

It is not always that we get evensuch a result. Sometimes we have along list of references, with somedates and facts, dry as a parish register.Here is a note on a certain MrCambridge.

“On Mr Cambridge and his habits ofconversation, see ‘Walpole’s Letters toLady Ossory,’ vol. i. pp. 132, 140, 410;vol. ii. p. 242; Walpole to Mason, vol.i. p. 235; and ‘Nichol’s Literary Illustrations,’vol. i. p. 130; and ‘RockinghamMemoirs,’ vol. i. p. 215, for his letterto Lord Hardwicke, in June 1765.In conversation he was said to be full ofentertainment, liveliness, and anecdote.One sarcastic joke on Capability Browntestifies his wit, and his Scribleriad stillsurvives in the praises of Dr Warton;yet the radical fault that pervades it iswell shown in Annual Review, ii. 584.”—P.184.

Even the “one sarcastic joke” weare not permitted to hear; but weare kindly told in what volume ofthe Annual Review we shall find the“radical fault,” pointed out of asatire that lives only “in the praisesof Dr Warton.” One more instancewe must select, that our readers mayform some just appreciation of theindefatigable research of our learnededitor. The name of Sir RichardLyttleton being mentioned, we areinvited to the perusal of the followingnote:—

“Richard Lyttleton, K.B. He marriedthe Lady Rachel Russell, sister ofJohn Duke of Bedford, and widow ofScrope Egerton, Duke of Bridgewater.He was first page of honour to QueenCaroline; then successively Captain ofMarines, Aide-de-Camp to the Earl ofStair at the battle of Dettingen, andDeputy Quartermaster-General in SouthBritain, with the rank of Lieut.-Coloneland Lieut.-General, &c. He was fifthson of Sir Thomas, fourth baronet andyounger brother of George, First LordLyttleton.—See some letters by him in‘Chatham Correspondence,’ vol. ii. p. 173,&c. He was Governor of Minorca in1764, and subsequently Governor ofGuernsey.—See ‘Walpole’s Misc. Letters,’iv. pp. 363, 424. He died in 1770.His house, in the Harley Street corner,1 Cavendish Square, was bought by thePrincess Emily, and was afterwards MrHope’s, and then Mr Watson Taylor’s.—See‘Grenville Papers,’ i. pp. 49, 249;and ii. pp. 442, 449. When in Minorca,he was involved in some dispute withSamuel Johnson, who held a situationunder him.—See reference to it in ‘Walpole’sLetters to Lord Hertford,’ Feb.6, 1764.”

All this, we doubt not, is verypraiseworthy; but where is it to end?A learned man writing to anotherlearned man, says, in honest bluntvernacular, “Have you seen MrThomson?” and passes on to othermatter. Is the heart of an editor tobeat within him till he has discoveredwho this Thomson was, and everythingdiscoverable about him—whathouse he lived in, and whom hequarrelled with? This Thomson ismentioned only once, and we havenothing of him but his name. Themore mysterious, seems the indefatigableeditor to think; and the moremeritorious, if from so slight a cluehe can succeed in identifying thisdefunct Thomson. Whereupon aransacking of all libraries and innumerablereferences,—see this, seethat! see, see! We wonder if thereis any one man in Great Britain,not an editor, so laboriously idle asto climb the steps of a library tosee after all these surprising discoveries.

Books, it seems, are used by differentpersons for very different purposes.Some build up theories of allsorts with them; children take themout of the book-case, and buildhouses and castles with them, perhapsalmost as substantial; the goodmonks in one of the monasteries of theLevant, Mr Curzon tells us, usedthem as mats, or cushions, to protecttheir bare feet from the cold pavementof the chapel; and others,again, pull them about, and toss overthe leaves with restless agitation—tofind who Mr Thomson was! Ofthe two last, we infinitely prefer thequiet serviceable employment of themby the monks whom Mr Curzonvisited.

“There is a pleasure in poeticpains”—there must be a charm inlabour editorial that only editors canknow. There is withal, it seems, agravity of duty, a weight of responsibility,which they only can duly appreciate.We are happy to hear, thatin proportion to the dulness is thevirtue of their labours. “To givesome personality,” says our presenteditor in his preface, “to names, mostof them new, even to those who are acquaintedwith the common biographiesof Gray, has been found, from thelapse of time, a matter of some difficulty;and success has only beenattained by the assistance of variousfriends. To have passed over thispart of the task would have been unsatisfactory,and considered a derelictionof duty!” It is added, with alittle inconsistency, that the personswhose names are here heard for thefirst time, “formed the select andintimate society of one who was notremarkable for the facility with whichhis acquaintance was gained.” Whatintimate friend have we here addedto the well-known list? But let usgrant that the mantle of the poet ennoblesall it touches, does the ReverendWilliam Mason also rank among theinspired?—for we find that his lettersare edited with the same reverentialcare.

We shall be answered, that if we donot think highly of the immortal authorof Elfrida, and Caractacus, andThe English Garden, others do. MrMitford does. “The place in his librarywas pointed out to me,” he patheticallytells us, “where Masonusually sate and wrote. His poeticalchair—sedes beata—was kindly bequeathedto me; and I have left it bywill to the Poet Laureate of the day,that it may rest amongst the sacredbrotherhood!” What an announcementfor Mr Tennyson to read! Whatwill he do with the chair when itcomes? A superstitious man wouldhardly venture to sit in it. Whoknows what spirit of drowsiness maybe still clinging about it?

If we have been provoked into anyimpatient remarks on this excess ofeditorship, we would at the sametime express—as we feel—an undiminishedrespect for Mr Mitford. He isa literary veteran who has performedmany a good service. We wouldrather retract every word, and begthat every expression be set down tomere petulance on our part, than bethought wanting in personal respectto one who has well earned his reputableposition in the world of letters.But we cannot help ourselves; wemust “tell the tale,” as the tale tellsitself to us.

Of the few additions made in thepresent volume to the letters of Gray,those which congratulate Mason onhis clerical promotion, and on his marriage,are amongst the most sprightlyand entertaining. The following extractsmay be new to our readers:—

“Dear Mason,—It is a mercy that oldmen are mortal, and that dignified clergymenknow how to keep their word. Iheartily rejoice with you in your establishment,and with myself that I havelived to see it—to see your insatiablemouth stopped, and your anxious periwigat rest and slumbering in a stall. TheBishop of London, you see, is dead; thereis a fine opening. Is there nothing furtherto tempt you? Feel your own pulse,and answer me seriously. It rains precentorships;you have only to hold upyour skirts to catch them.”***

“Dear Doctor,—I send your reverencethe lesson, &c. No sooner do people feeltheir income increase than they wantamusem*nt. Why, what need have youof any other than to sit like a Japanesedivinity, with your hands folded on yourfat belly, wrapped, and, as it were, annihilatedin the contemplation of your owncopuses and revenues?”

His felicitations upon his friend’smarriage are not always distinguishedfor their delicacy. With full allowancefor the difference of the times,we still encounter a certain coarsenesswe should not have expected in thefastidious Gray. But the followingis a very charming letter:—

“Dear Mason,—Res est sacra miser(says the poet), but I say it is the happyman that is the sacred thing, and thereforelet the profane keep their distance.He is one of Lucretius’ gods, supremelyblest in the contemplation of his own felicity,and what has he to do with worshippers?This, mind, is the first reason whyI did not come to York; the second is,that I do not love confinement, and probablyby next summer may be permittedto touch whom, and where, and with whatI think fit, without giving you any offence;the third and last, and not the least perhaps,is, that the finances were at so lowan ebb that I could not exactly do whatI wished, but was obliged to come theshortest road to town and recruit them.I do not justly know what your taste inreasons may be since you altered yourcondition, but there is the ingenious, thepetulant, and the dull; any one wouldhave done, for in my conscience I do notbelieve you care a halfpenny for reasonsat present: so God bless ye both, and giveye all ye wish, when ye are restored tothe use of your wishes.

“I am returned from Scotland charmedwith my expedition: it is of the HighlandsI speak; the Lowlands are worthseeing once, but the mountains are ecstatic,and ought to be visited in pilgrimageonce a-year. None but those monstrouscreatures of God know how to join somuch beauty with so much horror. Afig for your poets, painters, gardeners,and clergymen, that have not been amongthem; their imagination can be made upof nothing but bowling-greens, floweringshrubs, horse-ponds, Fleet-ditches, shellgrottoes, and Chinese rails. Then I hadso beautiful an autumn—Italy couldhardly produce a nobler scene—and thisso sweetly contrasted with the perfectionof nastiness, and total want of accommodation,that Scotland only can supply!Oh, you would have blessed yourself! Ishall certainly go again.”

“Dear Mason,—I rejoice; but hasshe common sense? Is she a gentlewoman?Has she money? Has she anose? I know she sings a little, andtwiddles on the harpsichord, hammers atsentiment, and puts herself in an attitude,admires a cast in the eye, and can sayElfrida by heart. But these are only thevirtues of a maid. Do let her have somewife-like qualities, and a double portionof prudence, as she will have not onlyherself to govern but you also, and thatwith an absolute sway. Your friends, Idoubt not, will suffer for it. However,we are very happy, and have no otherwish than to see you settled in the world.We beg you would not stand fiddlingabout it, but be married forthwith.”

It is impossible, and indeed wouldbe doing injustice to the editor, toregard this present volume in anyother light than as a supplement tohis edition of the Works of Gray. Wemust beg leave, therefore, to revertbriefly to the life and letters as theyare set forth in this preceding publication.It so happens that Mr Mitfordwas not fortunate even here in theorder and method in which his materialsreached him, and were consequentlyarranged. Fresh accessionscame in at the latest hour; a fifthvolume was to be added, in whichthere was much repetition; wholeletters being reprinted that had alreadyappeared in their place in the previousvolumes. Sometimes also an interestingfact is slipped into an appendix,where it may chance to have escapedthe eye of all but very attentivereaders.

One such fact arrested our ownattention, and is a fact of great significance.To some of our readers wemay be rendering a welcome serviceby bringing it forward. We arereferred to Sir Egerton Brydges asthe authority for it.

Few lives, even of literary men,are said to have been more devoid ofincident than Gray’s; yet it is probablethat, if we could lift the curtainfrom his domestic life during theperiod of his youth, we should findthat it was disturbed enough, and ofsuch a nature as must have left deeptraces in the subsequent character ofthe man. Gray, it will be remembered,was (to adopt the language ofHorace Walpole) “the son of a moneyscrivener by Mary Antrobus, a millinerin Cornhill, and sister to twoAntrobus’s who were ushers of EtonSchool. He was born in 1716, andeducated at Eton College, chieflyunder the direction of one of his uncles,who took prodigious pains with him,which answered exceedingly. FromEton he went to Peter House atCambridge,” &c. &c. So in all biographiesglides on the simple accountof his career. Nothing is said of thathome in Cornhill, or wherever it wasin the City.

But now, some years ago, at a saleof books belonging to one Isaac Reid,there was purchased a manuscriptvolume of law cases, written out veryprobably by some studious pupil, forhis future behoof and instruction.Amongst these law cases was onedrawn up by the mother of Gray, orby some one on her part, and laidformally before counsel for his opinion.It reveals in its one solitary statementthe history of years; it tells of domesticdiscord of the harshest character,and this brought on and imbittered bypecuniary difficulties. Whilst youngGray was studying at Peter House,Cambridge, his mother was drawingup the following case for the opinionof counsel.

Case.

“Philip Gray, before his marriage withhis wife (then Dorothy Antrobus, andwho was then partner with her sisterMary Antrobus), entered into certainarticles of agreement”—(permitting, inshort, the said Dorothy Antrobus to continuethe said partnership for her ownsole and separate use.)

“That in pursuance of the said articles,the said Mary, with the assistance of thesaid Dorothy her sister, hath carried onthe said trade for near thirty years, withtolerable success for the said Dorothy.That she hath been at no charge to thesaid Philip; and during all the said timehath not only found herself in all mannerof apparel, but also for all her children tothe number of twelve, and most of thefurniture of his house; and paying £40a-year for his shop, almost providingeverything for her son, whilst at Etonschool, and now he is at Peter House atCambridge.

“Notwithstanding which, almost eversince he hath been married, he hath usedher in the most inhuman manner, bybeating, kicking, pinching, and with themost vile and abusive language; that shehath been in the utmost fear, and dangerof her life, and hath been obliged thislast year to quit her bed and lie with hersister. This she was resolved, if possible,to bear; not to leave her shop of trade forthe sake of her son, to be able to assist inthe maintenance of him at the University,since his father won’t.

“There is no cause for this usage unlessit be an unhappy jealousy of all mankindin general (her own brother not excepted);but no woman deserves or hathmaintained a more virtuous character:or it is presumed, if he can make her sisterleave off trade, he thinks he can thencome into his wife’s money, but thearticles are too secure for his vile purposes.

“He daily threatens he will pursue herwith all the vengeance possible, and willruin himself to undo her and his only son;in order to which he hath given warningto her sister to quit his shop where theyhave carried on their trade so successfully,which will be almost their ruin: but heinsists she shall go out at Midsummernext; and the said Dorothy, his wife,in necessity must be forced to go alongwith her to some other house and shop,to be assisting to her said sister in the saidtrade, for her own and her son’s support.

“But if she can be quiet, she neitherexpects nor desires any help from him:but he is really so very vile in his nature,she hath all the reason to expect mosttroublesome usage from him that can bethought of.”—Vol. i. Appendix B.

Then follow some questions, and theanswer of Counsel, which it is notnecessary to extract. What musthave been the effect of such domesticscenes as are here disclosed to us, onthe sensitive mind of Gray, may bepartly guessed. Nor need we be surprisedthat the college youth at PeterHouse, and the associate of HoraceWalpole, early contracted a habit ofsilence upon the events of his ownlife. Bonstettin, whom he took socordially to his friendship, says, “Jeracontais à Gray ma vie et mon pays,mais toute sa vie à lui était ferméepour moi. Jamais il ne me parlait delui. Il y avait chez Gray entre le presentet le passé un abîme infranchisable.Quand je voulais un approche,de sombre nuées venaient le couvrir.”—Vol.V., Notes, p. 181.

We understand now why Gray heldhis mother in so much esteem, andwhy the father was rarely spoken of,while her name was never mentionedto the latest day without a tremblingof the voice; why there was found athis death, still unopened, in his room,the chest containing her wearing-apparel:he had never dared to openit, or had never reconciled himself topart with its contents. To his motherhe owed his education and the positionhe occupied in life—a greater debtthan even that life which she twicegave. He was the only one of twelvechildren who survived. The rest diedin their infancy, as we are told, “fromsuffocation produced by a fulness ofblood;” and this strange family destinywould have befallen Gray also,but that his mother “removed theparoxysm which attacked him, byopening a vein with her own hand.”

The chief incident of Gray’s life, sofar as biographers have been able torecord it, is his intimacy with Walpole;—hisjourney with him upon the Continent,and the rupture that tookplace between them. Of this quarrelwe find an explanation in a note whichis by no means honourable to Walpole.Entertaining a suspicion that Grayhad spoken ill of him to some friendsin England, he clandestinely openedand re-sealed one of Gray’s letters.After this, there was “little cordialitybetween them.” We should thinknot, for, short of a crime, could oneman be guilty towards another of amore dishonourable action? But weare not satisfied with the authority onwhich this explanation is given. Theaccount will be found in a note, vol. ii.p. 175. We have only that sort ofhearsay evidence which lawyers haveuniversally agreed in rejecting. AMr Isaac Reed makes a private memorandum(some time after the conversation)of what a Mr Roberts, of thePell office, had told him. This is notsufficient authority for what, we presumein the time of Walpole as wellas our own, would be regarded as agrave charge, if brought against agentleman. Of Mr Roberts, of thePell office, and how he heard thestory, we are told nothing. Mr IsaacReed merely says of him “that hewas likely to be well informed.”

The quarrel, its cause and its reconciliation,are, perhaps, now ofvery little moment, but the intimacywith Walpole must always remain asone of the most important facts in thelife of Gray. For what is the characterwhich Gray reveals to us? Infew words, it is the incongruous combinationof the sensitive poet andman of letters, with the affectationand levity of a man of the world.This latter phase of his charactermust have owed much of its developmentto his early intercourse withthe son of a prime-minister, and onewhose wit and pleasantry would fullyjustify and explain an influence overhis graver companion. Gray was aman who had a heart, and had learntto hide it under the affectation ofindifference; neither could he havebeen without the stirrings of a nobleambition; but he had taught himselfthat it was a prettier thing to graftthe man of letters on the refinedgentleman, than to give himself, heartand soul, to some intellectual enterprise.He thinks, or he can write,that “Literature, to take it in itsmost comprehensive sense, and includeeverything that requires inventionor judgment, or barely applicationand industry, seems indeed drawingapace to its dissolution;” but hemakes no serious effort to arrest thisdissolution. What is the literatureof a country but the efforts of suchmen as he? There was a youngercontemporary, one Gibbon, thenturning over the same classic pagesas himself, who was soon to add tothe literature of England a Historywhich would display more learningand more eloquence than had ever beforebeen united together. Antiquarianas he was, what epoch has he illustratedfor us? Zoologist, botanist; hecorrects the latinity of Linnæus! Hemakes notes innumerable—notes onStrabo, notes on Plato; the text ofwhat author has he amended orexplained for us? When appointedProfessor of History, he does not evenwrite a single lecture.

“The political opinions of Gray,H. Walpole says, he never rightlyunderstood;” and his biographer addsthat his religious opinions lie in a certainobscurity. Some writers “notfavourable to the cause of Christianity,”have ranked him, it seems,amongst freethinkers: orthodox andpious friends have no doubt whateverabout his orthodoxy or his piety.The perusal of his Letters never ledus, for a moment, to rank himamongst unbelievers; but if any oneshould suggest that he had not thoughton the subject with sufficient earnestnesseven to be a doubter, we mightbe disposed to acquiesce in this explanation.He lived in a time whenthere was little earnestness of thought,and he was not of that energetic naturewhich rises above the influenceof the age. He was scandalised atRousseau and Voltaire because theywere disturbers of the peace: one isnot sure that there was a deeperfeeling in his hostility towards them.The manner in which a person iswritten to is often as significant asthe manner in which he himselfwrites. Throughout their correspondence,the Rev. William Mason neveralludes to his clerical profession inany one respect but as a means of livingwell and comfortably in the world—asa career in which promotion andgood living are to be encountered.The credit of this quite secular tonemust be divided between the correspondents:perhaps in the greatermeasure to the elder and more influentialof the two.

These correspondents were, nodoubt, excellent friends; but Graynever speaks to a third person in avery flattering manner of Mason. Heis disposed always to deny any veryclose intimacy. He appears to havesaid to himself, Men will laugh at ustwo poets, communing upon verse,and flattering each other upon themuse; they will make me out also nobetter than a poet; whereas I amgentleman by profession and poet byaccident. Writing to Walpole, hesays, “I like Mr Aston Hervey’sFable, and an ode by Mr Mason, anew acquaintance of mine.” Of thisnew acquaintance he had written toWarton, more than two years before,in the following strain: “MrMason is my acquaintance; I likedthat ode very much, but have foundno one else that did. He has muchfancy, little judgment, and a gooddeal of modesty. I take him for agood and well-meaning creature; butthen he is really in simplicity a child,and loves everybody he meets with;he reads little or nothing, writesabundance, and that with a design tomake his fortune by it.” In anotherplace he says of him that he “has not,properly speaking, anything one cancall a passion about him, except alittle malice and revenge.” Suchphrases as these occur in his correspondencewith Warton and Brown:“I do not hear from Mason;” “Youthink us great correspondents, but,”&c. To us it seems that he reallyliked the younger poet, who more,perhaps, than any other man heknew, sympathised with him on thepoetical side of his character; butthen he did not like to be groupedwith him, in the eyes of the wits andthe worldlings. They will compareus, and associate us, and think usrival candidates for popular applause.

We see this morbid sense of ridiculebetray itself in his publication of hispoems. He insists upon it that thepoems shall be published as mereillustrations of the drawings ofBentley, which accompanied them.The book met with applause, and theElegy became at once a popular favourite.He seems, in a letter toWarton, to reprove and to repudiatethis abundant praise. “I shouldhave been glad that you and two orthree more people had liked them,which would have satisfied my ambitionon this head amply.” For allthis, when he published the Bard, andother odes which, from their nature,appealed still more to the select few,he was not a little nettled because“the town” found them obscure.

In his manner and carriage, Grayis described as being cold and fastidiousto an offensive degree. A contemporaryand admirer, Rev. WilliamCole, says, “I am apt to think thecharacters of Voltaire and Mr Graywere similar. They were both littlemen, very nice and exact in theirpersons and dress, most lively andagreeable in conversation, exceptthat Mr Gray was apt to be too satirical,and both of them full of affectation.”And then contrasting himwith Dr Farmer, he thus describes thetwo men: “The one (Dr Farmer)a cheerful, companionable, hearty,open, downright man, of no great regardto dress or common forms ofbehaviour; the other (Gray) of amost fastidious and recluse distance ofcarriage, rather averse to sociability,but of the graver turn; nice, and elegantin his person, dress, and behaviour,even to a degree of finicalnessand effeminacy.”—Vol. i., Appendix.The contrast here drawn betweenGray and Dr Farmer, suggests to usthe dissimilarity and mutual distastewhich existed between Gray and astill greater contemporary, Dr Johnson.They repelled each other farmore by diversity of manner than byopposition of opinion. Gray refusedto be personally acquainted withJohnson. Passing him in the streetsof London, he whispered to the companionwith whom he was walking,“There is the Great Bear! there goesUrsa Major!” and accompanied thewords with a sort of shrinking and recoil.It is well known that the antipathywas mutual. The judgmentpassed upon Gray in the Lives of thePoets is the harshest and the leastequitable criticism throughout thatwork. One cannot help admitting,however, that, if Gray had writtenthe life of Johnson, there would havebeen a piece of criticism produced stillless equitable. Gray is rarely just toany of his contemporaries. He seldomadmires, and the little praise hebestows is distributed most capriciously.He speaks as highly ofLyttleton’s Monody as of the Odes ofCollins. He mentions Sterne butcoldly, and when he would be complimentary,always selects his Sermons!You would say that a certainsuperciliousness has been creeping overand into the very heart of the man.

But now change the point of view,and from this the world-aspect turnto the poetic side of the character. Itwas not a heartless man who wrotethe Elegy and the Bard, who was thefriend of West, who in later timeswas the friend of Bonstettin, who atall times could find society in meditation,and companionship in beautiesof nature. The Letters of Gray aretoo well known to render it necessaryfor us to make extracts from them, toshow how often a vein of deep feelingruns through a half-playful style ofdiction. His pathos touches us stillmore, whether he is describing nature,or speaking of himself and of hisfriends, from the restraint he has evidentlyput upon his own enthusiasm,or his own tenderness. The “melancholyGray” was a far higher beingthan the witty and Walpolian Gray;and it is the blending of the two togetherthat has made the singularcharm of the Letters.

If evidence were wanted to provethat there existed uncorrupted in themind of Gray springs of pure andgenuine feeling, we should find thatevidence in his attachment to Bonstettin.This young foreigner, byhis own ardent temper, had brokendown all those cold artificial barriersin which it is said the poet habituallyintrenched himself. Gray had takenlodgings for him at Cambridge, nearhis own rooms, and they spent theevenings together, reading the Greekpoets and philosophers. When Bonstettinreturned to his native country,Switzerland, Gray felt the loss of hisfriend in a manner which he does notseek even to disguise, but expresseswith unaffected warmth:—

“Never did I feel, my dear Bonstettin,to what a tedious length the few shortmoments of our life may be extended byimpatience and expectation, till you hadleft me: nor ever knew before with sostrong a conviction how much this frailbody sympathises with the inquietude ofthe mind. I am grown old in the compassof less than three weeks, like theSultan in the Turkish tales, that did butplunge his head into a vessel of water,and take it out again, as the standers-byaffirmed, at the command of a Dervise,and found he had passed many years incaptivity, and begot a large family ofchildren. The strength and spirits thatnow enable me to write to you are onlyowing to your last letter, a temporarygleam of sunshine. Heaven knows whenit may shine again. I did not conceivetill now, I own, what it was to lose you,nor felt the solitude and insipidity of myown condition before I possessed the happinessof your friendship.

“But enough of this—I return to your letter.It proves at least that, in the midstof your new gaieties, I still hold someplace in your memory; and, what pleasesme above all, it has an air of undissembledsincerity. Go on, my best and amiablefriend, to show me your heart simply,and without the shadow of disguise, andleave me to weep over it, as I now do, nomatter whether from joy or sorrow.”

“Alas! how do I every moment feel thetruth of what I have somewhere read,‘Ce n’est pas le voir, que de s’en souvenir’;and yet that remembrance is theonly satisfaction I have left. My life nowis but a conversation with your shadow—theknown sound of your voice stillrings in my ears—there, on the corner ofthe fender, you are standing, or tinklingon the pianoforte, or stretched at lengthon the sofa. Do you reflect, my dearestfriend, that it is a week or eight daysbefore I can receive a letter from you,and as much more before you can havemy answer; and that all that time I amemployed, with more than Herculeantoil, in pushing the tedious hours along,and wishing to annihilate them: the moreI strive, the heavier they move, and thelonger they grow. I cannot bear thisplace, where I have spent many tediousyears, within less than a month since youleft me. I am going for a few days tosee poor Nicholls,” &c., &c.

“I am returned, my dear Bonstettin,from the little journey I made into Suffolk,without answering the end proposed.The thought that you might have beenwith me there, has imbittered all myhours. Your letter has made me happy,as happy as so gloomy, so solitary a beingas I am, is capable of being made. Iknow, and have too often felt, the disadvantagesI lay myself under; how muchI hurt the little interest I have in you, bythis air of sadness, so contrary to yournature and present enjoyments; but sureyou will forgive, though you cannot sympathisewith me. It is impossible for meto dissemble with you: such as I am Iexpose my heart to your view, nor wishto conceal a single thought from yourpenetrating eyes.”

These are not the letters of a youth;they are the outpourings of the matureman. How grossly do we err indeedwhen we think that youth is the especialor exclusive season of friendship,or even of love. In the experienceof many it has been found that thewant of the heart, the thirst for affection,has been felt far more in manhoodthan in youth. It was so, perhaps,with Gray. We are not disposedto think that there was any peculiarmerit in Bonstettin to justify thisoverflow of sentiment. But the heartof the man was full, and his was thehand that shook the mantling cup tillit ran over.

We have already quoted a part of abrief account which Bonstettin givesof Gray—that account proceeds thus:“Je crois que Gray n’avait jamaisaimé,—c’était le mot de l’énigme.Gray avait de la gaieté dans l’esprit,et de la mélancolie dans le caractère.Mais cette mélancolie n’est qu’un besoinnon satisfait de la sensibilité.”That Gray had never loved, is an explanationwhich would better suit thenovelist than the more sedate biographer.Nevertheless, M. Bonstettingives us something to reflect upon.It is well said that Gray had gaietyin his mind, but sadness at his heart;and who can tell how far that sadnesswas due to repressed or unoccupiedaffection?

We had intended to offer to ourreaders some rather copious extractsfrom Gray’s Letters, to illustrate theseveral phases of his character; butspace would be wanting, and perhaps,the Letters being sufficientlyknown, this labour would be needless.Unfortunately, a few brief detachedextracts would not serve our purpose.We cannot help remarking, indeed,the false impression often created byjust such partial extracts. A sentencewhich itself is the product onlyof a momentary feeling, and which isneutralised, perhaps, in the very nextpage, is made to express a permanentsentiment of the writer. “Be itmine,” says Gray at one moment,“to read eternal new romances ofMarivaux and Crébillon;” and thisquotation has been so often repeated,that a person who had not read theLetters might imagine that Gray wasa most exemplary reader of novels.How very different a kind of readingoccupied his hours we need not say.He was apt, indeed, to represent himselfas an idler, but there was somethingof affectation in this—an affectationnot unfrequent amongst literarymen, who represent themselves asmore indolent than they are, becausethey know people will be expectingsome ostensible result of their industry,or because they desire this resultto wear the appearance of an easyand a rapid performance. The muchmarvelling Mr Mason, with his roundopen eyes that see nothing, he toohas his manner of quotation. “‘Tobe employed is to be happy,’ saidGray; and if he had never said anythingelse, either in prose or in verse,he would have deserved the esteemof all posterity!” So a discovery asold as Solomon, as old as man, is assignedto Mr Gray! Yet if a gratefulposterity should turn to the very letterfrom which this quotation is made,they would find that Gray was notthe most energetic nor the most completepreacher on his own text. Hefelt, as every one not a savage or anidiot must feel, that employment wasan imperative necessity; but he oftenseems driven to the expedient of findingemployment for the sake of employment.Now if he had devotedhimself to some one literary task, ofmore or less utility to the world, andwrought steadily for its accomplishment,he would have carried his philosophyand his happiness one stepfarther. Next to living solitary, thegreat error of his career was thathe had not adopted, either as poetor historian, some large and usefultask.

1. Life in Abyssinia; being Notes collected during Three Years’ Residence and Travelsin that Country. By Mansfield Parkyns. In Two Volumes. London: 1853.

2. A young Mahommedan, now resident at Adoua, was robbed one night of thescalp of one side of his head.—Parkyns, ii. 293.

3. Blackwood’s Magazine for September 1851.

4. “Τὸ μὲν οὖν κολακεύειν, αἰσχρόν, τὸ δὲ ἐπιτιμᾶν, ἐπισφαλές· ἄριστον δὲ τὸμεταξὺ, τουτέστι τὸ ἐσχηματισμένον.”—Dem. Phal. de Elocutione.

5. Not such asphaltum as is now commonly used; he had a method of preparingit to render it innocuous.

6. We owe it to Mr Stansfield to say, that had the authority we quoted given, withMr Stansfield’s answers, the subsequent explanation of them, we should not have usedsuch an expression as that he “confessed an astonishing indifference.” We thereforequote his explanation. He is asked, (Question 3628,) “You have stated that youhave not studied these pictures in the National Gallery much; that you were notvery conversant with the works of the old masters; and that you had not studiedthose pictures in particular; so you, from your previous knowledge of them, feelcompetent to give an opinion whether or not they have been injured in the minutedetails to which reference has been made? Yes. I think I may; because when Ispoke of my ignorance, I did it in reference to my not possessing the information thatI know many gentlemen belonging to the Academy have. I should refer to Mr Dyceat once as a very great authority, and also to Sir Charles Eastlake himself. I havenot their experience in Italian works of art, but still the pictures that are before usI have looked at with admiration, and I know that if there is any material injurydone to them I should detect it as soon as any one.”

7. Gen. x. 3; Ezek. xxvii. 14, xxxviii. 6; Herod, iv. 5.

8. Histoire de la vie de Hiouen-thsang, et de ses voyages de l’Inde, depuis l’an 629jusqu’en 645. Par Hoei II. et Yen-thsong. Traduite du Chinois par Stanislas Julien.Paris: 1853.

9. Speeches of the Right Honourable T. B. Macaulay, M.P. Corrected by himself.London, 1854.

10. Funfzig Jahre in beiden Hemisphären. Reminiscences of a Merchant’s Life. ByVincent Nolte. 2 volumes. Hamburg: Perthes-Besser. London: Williams andNorgate. 1853.

11. Memoires de G. J. Ouvrard. Paris, 1826.

12. The Rifle and the Hound in Ceylon. By S. W. Baker, Esq. London: 1854.

14. Gray’s Works, Appendix, vol. i. p. 112.