BLACKWOOD’S EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.
No. DLXXI.      MAY 1863.      Vol. XCIII.

The title of ‘Prehistoric Man’ in Mr Wilson’s book applies not only to those races who lived and expired before any history whatever was written, but to all races, even those who are contemporary with us, who are incapable of delivering a history of themselves to other nations or their own posterity. They are rather the un-historic, the speechless people—speechless so far as their posterity is concerned, on whom his inquiries are directed. In fact, that portion of the development of mankind which pertains to savage life, or to the very earliest stages of civilisation, is the subject of Mr Wilson’s book. The subject is far from being new, but far from being exhausted; and our author’s archæological knowledge has enabled him to invest it with a novel interest. His position is somewhat singular in its advantages. A European archæologist and antiquarian, he finds himself in that new world where forms of human life are still lingering akin to those which he has been hitherto studying by the light only of such remains as have been preserved for ages buried in the earth. His stone, his bronze, his iron periods are all found living about him. The flint weapon dug up in London or Glasgow from the lowest strata of human remains, has, in this new world, hardly fallen from the hand of the native. The men of the stone period are still alive, though half a century more may see them either absorbed in the more civilised races, or altogether extinguished.

This combination of the knowledge of the antiquarian with the observations of the traveller has a singular charm for us: but there is another combination which is still more attractive; it is where the philosophical historian, familiar with the myths of antiquity, traces in the living barbarians around him the same play of fancy, or the same curious development of thought, that he has been accustomed to study in the obscure records of a dead language. Mr Wilson is an historian as well as an archæologist, and is in both capacities an enlightened student of such living antiquity as may still exist in that continent, where the earliest and the latest forms of civilisation were destined to meet and to recognise each other.

Our author might, we think, have put his materials together in a more compact form, and arranged them more carefully. The headings of the several chapters lead us to expect a more definite arrangement than we find in the book itself: and this must be partly our excuse if our own observations should seem to be of a miscellaneous character. It must be confessed, also, that there is sometimes a want of precision and accuracy of language on just those occasions where precision is most needed, and that this is not compensated by a rather too lavish display of a florid species of eloquence, better fitted for the lecture-room than the written composition. It is good of its kind, but there is too much of it. We presume that a large portion of the book was written originally for the lecture-room. But notwithstanding these minor defects, we confidently recommend these volumes as replete with information on a variety of interesting topics, and suggestive of many trains of reflection. They will assuredly repay an attentive perusal.

Mr Wilson commences with a glance at that problem of the “antiquity of man” which Sir Charles Lyell has still more lately and more fully treated. Perhaps, if he had written after the publication of Sir Charles Lyell’s work, he would have expressed himself with more distinctness on the subject; yet he seems substantially to have arrived at whatever safe conclusions the evidence hitherto collected enables us to rest in. He has said all that can really be said at present on the matter. He observes that “the closing epoch of geology must be turned to for the initial chapters of archæology and ethnology.” It is plain that man could not make his appearance upon the earth till the earth was fitted for his habitation; and it is a reasonable conjecture that it would not long be so prepared for him before, in some part of the world, he made his appearance. Mr Wilson is not disposed to be incredulous as “to the traces of fossil human bones mingling with those of the extinct mammals of the drift;” but we gather from his work that he would be slow to rest his belief on the great antiquity of man solely on the discovery of such flint implements as have been dug out of the valley of the Somme and elsewhere. We think that, notwithstanding the confidence of certain experts who have pronounced that these flints have received their form from the hand of man, there is a well-founded suspicion that, after all, they may have been broken into their present shape by natural or physical forces. They are not ground to a point, it must be remembered, nor sharpened to an edge, only chipped into a wedge-like form. When we read of great numbers of these flints being discovered in a certain spot, and that a selection is made of such as seem to have been chipped by the hand of man, and that this selection is a matter of acknowledged difficulty, we may be excused for suspending our judgment as to the fact whether any one of them was ever the tool or implement of a human being. We may be excused if, in the present state of the evidence, we require that this testimony of the flints be confirmed by other testimony,—by the presence of human bones, or of indisputable works of human art in the same post-pliocene formation.^[2] We do not presumptuously reject their evidence altogether; we do not take it upon ourselves to say that not one of the stones collected from the valley of the Somme has been fashioned by man; we have little trust in our own judgment upon such a matter; but it is not evidence which can stand alone. This Sir Charles Lyell admits himself, though in some passages of his work he seems to forget his own admission. But such antiquity as we can assign to man on other evidence—by the discovery in certain positions of human remains or indisputable relics of human art—is very great, and sufficient for all the purposes of the ethnologist. The elaborate, and, to the geologist, highly interesting work of Sir Charles Lyell demands a separate and careful examination; we here merely content ourselves with remarking that the very great antiquity of man—that which would compel us to believe that he existed for some almost immeasurable period in the condition of the savage—rests hitherto on unsatisfactory grounds.

The ethnologist who believes, as Mr Wilson does, in the unity of the human race, requires a long period of time for the development of those varieties which had become permanent prior to the epoch of the building of the Egyptian Pyramids. Mr Wilson takes what he requires, but does not, as matters stand at present, contest for more. To those who, on the grounds of the sacred text, would dispute his right to even this modest inroad upon the illimitable Past, he answers,—that the chronology popularly supposed to be that of the Bible is in fact the chronology only of certain learned interpreters, and that there is nothing in the sacred text to exclude the supposition that a much longer interval may have passed than is generally supposed between the creation of Adam and, let us say, the appearance of Abraham. Interpreting the Noachian Deluge as partial—as not, in the literal sense of the term, universal—he finds scope enough within the limits of the sacred text for that slow and gradual development of civilised man which his archæology has taught him to believe in. Nor does he find any difficulty whatever in reconciling this slow progress from the savage to the civilised man with what is recorded of the creation of Adam, or the attributes of our first parents. Their superior excellence, he considers, consisted in their perfect morality, in the predominance of the benevolent affections, and in that reason which is one with self-knowledge: it could not have consisted, he argues, in knowledge of the arts and sciences; certainly not in the knowledge of arts quite needless in the warmth, abundance, and security of the garden of Paradise. When, therefore, their descendants, deprived of this high moral excellence, found themselves scattered abroad upon the earth, what could they, in fact, have become but ignorant savages? They would have to evolve from their own natural sagacity those arts of life which their new relation to the external world rendered necessary. They would have to commence that long and toilsome ascent to civilisation which the speculative historian has so often attempted to describe.

We feel persuaded that our author would be unwilling that, in any notice of his work, these explanations should be omitted, and therefore it is that we give them here so prominent a place. For ourselves, so confident are we that scientific truth and religious truth will be found in the end to be inextricably combined, and to be reciprocally sustaining each other, that we are not very solicitous to patch up hasty and perhaps needless reconciliations. At present we have to settle our science; when this is done, it will be time to ask ourselves what it is that needs reconcilement.

Although the archæologist can point with triumph to the evidence of successive tombs, or cromlechs, as proving the sequence of his three ages of stone and bronze and iron, he can nowhere carry us back to the first stone period, and from this to the first development of the bronze and the iron. He can show us that on a certain spot—say the soil on which London stands—there have been generations of men distinguished by the kind of tools they had framed for themselves. But it is the history of men on that spot which his materials enable him to write; they do not enable him to write the history of the progress of man from his earliest condition of existence. For the first men who lived on the banks of the Thames had come, we presume, from other countries; they had had a history, and were the products of some kind of human society before they settled there; and the generations that followed might have received their arts, as in one case we know they did, from foreign nations. It is, after all, therefore, from a priori speculation—from what we infer must have been the course of things—that we describe mankind as proceeding from the rudest modes of existence to the more civilised. The testimony which the archæologist appeals to confirms these speculations; it can do no more. It never brings us to the real history of human art. We have still to guess how men lived at first, whether on the fruits of the earth or by the chase; we have still to guess how men discovered the use of fire, how they elaborated mere vocal signs into a grammatical language; we have still to conjecture when or where the first canoe or the first house was built. We make this remark not to detract from the labours of the archæologist, but simply to put the subject on its right basis. We have nowhere that kind of evidence which takes us back to the first developments of the human intellect; the nature of these must still be matter of inference. We still argue, to a great extent, in a purely speculative manner; we conclude that a progress like that which history and historical monuments enable us to trace, was the kind of progress which the first families of the earth passed through; but we know nothing historically of that early progress.

In the old European or Asiatic continent we had been accustomed to regard the earliest generations of mankind as entirely lost in the mists of antiquity; but, till lately, we looked on the continent of America as being, in respect of its population, far more recent, and as affording a more simple subject for ethnological speculation. The civilisation of Mexico and Peru, destroyed by the Spaniards, was traced to Egypt, or to some other portion of the Old World. The vagrant tribes of savages that lived upon the chase were the still more degenerate children of Europe. But this new continent is now found to have been the habitation of man at so remote a period, that the civilisations of Mexico and Peru, however they originated (and they were probably native), must rank amongst its modern events. Ruins of more ancient cities are found buried in its forest, and monuments of some forgotten worship are traced upon the banks of its rivers. The remains of man himself—parts of the human skeleton—have been found in positions which suggest an antiquity far beyond that of the cities of the Nile or the Euphrates. Some of these cases are well known, and well known on account of the disputes and discussions they have given occasion to; others, from which (geologically speaking) only a modest antiquity has been inferred, seem to our author to be worthy of credit. He says:—

“In the post-pliocene formations of South Carolina, exposed along the bed of the Ashley River, remains of the megatherium, megalodon, and other gigantic extinct mammals, occur, not only associated with existing species peculiar to the American continent, but also apparently with others hitherto believed to have been domesticated and introduced for the first time by modern European colonists. But, still more interesting for our present purpose, as possibly indicating the contemporaneous existence of some of those strange extinct mammals with man, are notices of the remains of human art in the same formation. Professor Holmes, in exhibiting a collection of fossils from the post-pliocene of South Carolina before the Academy of Natural Science at Philadelphia, remarked:—‘Dr Klipstein, who resides near Charleston, in digging a ditch for the purpose of reclaiming a large swamp, discovered and sent to me the tooth of a mastodon, with the request that I should go down and visit the place, as there were indications of the bones and teeth of the animal still remaining in the sands which underlie the peat-bed. Accordingly, with a small party of gentlemen, we visited the doctor, and succeeded not only in obtaining several other teeth and bones of this animal, but nearly one entire tusk; and immediately alongside of the tusk discovered the fragment of pottery which I hold in my hand, and which is similar to that manufactured at the present time by the American Indians.’

“It would not be wise,” continues Mr Wilson, “to found hasty theories on such strange juxtaposition of relics, possibly of very widely separated periods. The Ashley River has channeled for itself a course through the eocene and post-pliocene formations of South Carolina, and where these are exposed on its shores the fossils are washed from their beds, and become mingled with the remains of recent indigenous and domestic animals, and objects of human art. But the discovery of Dr Klipstein was made in excavating an undisturbed, and, geologically speaking, a comparatively recent formation.”

After alluding to the magnificent skeleton of the Mastodon Ohioticus which is now in the British Museum, and in companionship with which an Indian flint arrow-head was found, he adds:—

“Another remarkable account, preserved in the ‘American Journal of Science,’ describes the bones of a mastodon, with considerable portions of the skin, found in Missouri, associated with stone spear-heads, axes, and knives, under circumstances which suggest the idea that it had been entangled in a bog, and there stoned to death, and partially consumed by fire. Such contiguity of the works of man with those extinct diluvial giants warns us at least to be upon our guard against any supercilious rejection of indications of man’s ancient presence in the New World as well as the Old. If the evidence is inconsequential or untruthful, future discoveries will not fail to bring it to nought; if, on the contrary, it involves glimpses of an unseen truth, no organised scepticism will prevent the ultimate disclosure of its amplest revelations.”

Had man, during the whole of this early prehistoric epoch, whatever its duration may have been, lived like the savage, in what we call the stone period? Or had the use of metals and other arts been discovered and lost again—lost, perhaps, because human societies had not attained that coherence and stability necessary to the preservation of the arts? However this may be, it cannot be doubted that the use of the metal tool forms an important era in the progress of civilisation. And Mr Wilson mentions a fact which enables us to understand very readily the transition from the use of stone to the use of metal. Copper is still found in the New World, and probably was at first found in the Old World, in a pure state—in nuggets, as an Australian gold-digger would call them—and these could at once be beaten into the shape of an axe by stone hammers without the application of fire. The fragment of copper was to the Indian a new kind of stone, which had the fortunate property of malleability.

“In the veins of the copper region of Lake Superior, the native metal occurs in enormous masses weighing hundreds of tons; and many loose blocks of considerable size have been found on the lake shore, or lying detached on the surface, besides smaller pieces exposed on and mingled with the superficial soil in sufficient quantities to supply all the wants of the nomade hunter. This, accordingly, he wrought into chisels and axes, armlets and personal ornaments of various kinds, without the use of the crucible and any knowledge of metallurgic arts; and, indeed, without recognising any precise distinction between the copper which he mechanically separated from the mass, and the unmalleable stone or flint out of which he had been accustomed to fashion his spear and arrow heads.”

Whilst applauding the metal tool, copper or iron, and acknowledging what we owe to it, let us not pass over the stone—that handful of rock or flint by the aid of which the metal, in the first instance, was wrought and fashioned—without its meed of gratitude. It seems a slight unnoticeable fact that there should be these manageable fragments of hard substance ready to the hand of man; that the whole earth was not divided between the bed of rock and the bed of sand or clay; that there should have been there mere stones (mere litter, you would say), of which the floor of the earth had better have been swept clean. Yet those nodules of flint formed slowly in the chalk—yet those rolled stones upon the deserted beach, that the sea has fashioned for the human palm, and left high and dry upon the land—seem to have entered as much into the preparation for man as the fauna or the flora amongst which he was to live.

Who first applied fire to the metal, and thus made it plastic as the clay and sharper than the stone? who first discovered fire itself? No one knows; nor is the question worth asking. But there is one thing well worth noticing: it is the answer given to the question, and that in the rudest of times and amongst many various nations. Some god bestowed it. This tendency to look for a supernatural giver is very soon and very widely developed. And what is more, the idea of a giver has called forth amongst rude selfish people struggling for existence, the desire to manifest their gratitude by some act of worship which should also be some act of self-denial. On a certain day of the year all lights shall be extinguished, and one man amongst them (endowed for the very purpose with imaginary sanctity) shall rekindle the flame, thus acknowledging by this symbol its reception from the divine Giver. The ancient Peruvians drew their fire on this solemn occasion at once from the sun; they collected its rays into a focus by a concave mirror of polished metal, and thus ignited some dried cotton, or bark, or fungus. Nothing could be more expressive and appropriate than such a symbolic act. It is a pity that the historian has to record that other symbolic acts (if such they are to be considered) were of a cruel and hideous description. The savage is not accustomed only to thank God; he has, he thinks, to propitiate His favour; and as he has nothing to give, he destroys in honour of the universal Bestower. The worship of the American Indian is tainted more than any other we read of with the rite of human sacrifice.

Various methods for obtaining fire have been invented, but the earliest seems to have been by the friction of two dry pieces of wood. It was a progressive step, we presume, when the bark of a certain tree or a dried fungus was used for tinder. However produced, it was to the savage, in the first instance, itself a tool, the immediate instrument he employed to cut down the tree which would have resisted a long while his flint hatchet. We thought that all known people had made discovery of fire and converted it to their own purposes; but the inhabitants of the Ladrones, when discovered by the Spaniards, are said to have shrunk from fire as from a thing they simply feared: “they called it a devil, a god that bit fiercely when it was touched, and lived on wood, which they saw it devour.”

Mr Wilson entitles the chapter which treats on this subject ‘The Promethean Instinct: Fire.’ The next chapter is headed ‘The Maritime Instinct: the Canoe.’ Then we have ‘The Technological Instinct,’ and so on. Why this ostentatious use of the term Instinct? Did men hunt after fire even before they had seen it, as an animal might be supposed to hunt after food even before it had eaten? Do men build canoes as birds their nests or beavers their dams? What is the leading idea of Mr Wilson when he thus liberally applies to us the term Instinct? We have desires and we have intelligence suggesting means to an end. Is it the desire that is instinctive, or the apprehension of the means whereby the desire can be gratified? Men have a desire to pass from one side of the river to the other; perhaps the animal they were in chase of has swam the stream; they have observed that wood will float, that a large piece of wood will float with a man on it; they procure such piece of wood, and paddle themselves across. The knowledge which the man displays in all this follows from his previous perceptions. Perception, memory, judgment, are all exercised in a quite normal manner, and the desire to float across the stream has arisen from the peculiar circumstances in which the man was placed. What element of mystery is there in this transaction which calls for the name of Instinct? For the word Instinct is applied to certain actions of animals because the ordinary laws of psychology are, or seem, inadequate to explain them—because a certain mystery hangs over the event which we mark by the name Instinct. When we see animals acting, without the teaching of experience, in the same sort of way in which we act after that teaching of experience, we, perplexed to explain this anomaly, pronounce the action instinctive. The bee and the bird build in this inexplicable manner. Probably a more minute investigation may enable us to resolve whatever we call Instinct into some delicacy of the senses, or some rapidity of the judgment, peculiar to the animal. Meanwhile the term is serviceable as marking a class of unexplained phenomena. But how is it applicable to man in his capacity of boat-builder? The sort of canoe he will build, the materials he will use, the tools he will work with, are all determined for him by existing circumstances, and the actual amount of his knowledge. Or is it the vague desire to put to sea, prompting some manner of boat-building, that Mr Wilson calls our “maritime instinct?” Are we driven to sea like ducks to a pond? The peasantry of an inland country are not conscious of any such instinct, and would be very unfortunate if they possessed it.

We have no wish to expel the terms instinct and instinctive from our popular diction, even when applied to human actions. There are cases when men act with a suddenness and decision which remind us of the animal in his promptest moods, and we naturally apply to these the term instinctive; and sometimes we apply the term to a tendency or desire which we cannot at the time trace to our senses, or to the usual operations of the mind. But when an author formally—in the very titles of his chapters—supplies us with “Promethean and maritime instincts,” we may be excused if we ask for some precise definition of the term.

“Speech is one of the instincts of man, but it is by the voluntary exercise of his intellectual faculties, as we conceive, that he is enabled to develop it into language.” This sounds oracular, but, like most oracles, it is very obscure. What does Mr Wilson mean by speech as contrasted with language? Is speech the mere giving of names to things, and language the formation of a grammar? But grammar is only a naming of a more complex kind, a naming of things and events in their more complicated relations. And what speech was ever formed that had not some grammar, that was not also a language? If by speech, in contrast to language, is meant the mere utterance of articulate sounds which have no meaning attached to them, then what proof have we that men ever passed through a stage of unmeaning gibberish? or could anything so purposeless be dignified with the name of an instinct? The desire to speak, or to communicate our thoughts or our wants, is sometimes spoken of as an instinct. But the need man has of co-operation, and the ability he has to co-operate, and those general sympathies and affections which render him a social being, are sufficient to explain this desire. Such a desire may be contemplated as existing apart and prior to the possession of language, but there can be no reason for applying the term instinct to it, unless we apply that term to all our desires. So strong and inevitable is this desire to express our thoughts, that we have not the least doubt that, if the human larynx had not been fitted for speech, man would have invented a language of signs. His hands and feet would have talked, if his tongue and palate did not. His larynx being mute and all other faculties remaining the same, he would have talked with his fingers and written as the Chinese write, whose characters are signs for things, not for words.

The maritime or boat-building instinct has, at all events, been very much under the control of circumstances. Sometimes the tree was felled and hollowed, sometimes the bark was stretched over wicker-work, or skins of beasts were employed, or planks were made into a raft. The Egyptian bound some of his water-jugs together and made a raft of them. Some tribes have limited themselves to the paddle or the oar; some have spread the sail, and spread it very boldly. The Malay hoists his large sail over a couple of planks of wood sewed together with bark, and balances this fragile craft by means of two long spars fastened athwart and projecting to windward. In such a vessel as this he will scud fearlessly through tempestuous seas from one island to another. We may boast, and very justly, of our steam-engines, our electric telegraphs, and of other triumphant employments of the powers of nature; but even to this day there is not a more pleasing or thrilling spectacle, or a more glorious instance of the powers of nature turned to the service of man, than when some solitary boatman sits, at the helm with sail outspread, borne by the wind along the surface of the sea. The water floats him, the wind speeds him; he is for the moment master of the two great elements. Verily the savage has his joy, his hour of pride and exultation.

It is curious that the natives of North America limited themselves to the oar or the paddle. The Peruvians appear to have been the only people of this continent who, at the time of its discovery by Columbus, employed the sail. This is a striking instance of the very general fact, almost amounting to a law, that when a people have attained to a certain proficiency in the arts, sufficient to render life tolerable, there ensues a long pause in the career of progress. It requires the stimulus of an urgent want to set at work the inventive faculties of the savage; and when his invention has secured to him an agreeable existence, or what he considers such, there intervenes the force of habit and the attachment to familiar customs. Fortunately the differences of climate, or other external circumstances, require or suggest different inventions, even in this early stage of society, and thus one barbarian may be able to teach another. A people who had brought the canoe propelled by oars to perfection, would probably rest contented with it; they could not have invented the sail themselves; they might receive it from another people with whom it had been, from the commencement, their favourite mode of traversing the sea. Our “technological instincts,” as Mr Wilson calls them, go to sleep in the savage when he is no longer pinched by hunger or cold, or other pressing inconvenience. They awake again in the civilised man, with whom invention itself has become an agreeable effort or an intellectual triumph. Some sort of culinary vessels are wanted, and if these have been once shaped out of clay, the same kind of pottery will content a people for ages. If nature has thrown them the calabash, a ready-made vessel, their instinct of pottery will not be developed at all; they will content themselves with the calabash.

Mr Wilson brings together in a very pictorial manner the two extremes of this human art of boat-building:—

“On the banks of the Scottish Clyde the modern voyager from the New World looks with peculiar interest on the growing fabrics of those huge steamers, with ribs of steel, and planks, not of oak, but of iron, which have made the ocean, that proved so impassable a barrier to the men of the fifteenth century, the easy highway of commerce and pleasure to us. The roar of the iron forge, the clang of the forehammer, the intermittent glare of the furnaces, and all the novel appliances of iron shipbuilding, tell of the modern era of steam; but meanwhile, underneath these very shipbuilders’ yards, lie the memorials of ancient Clyde fleets, in which we are borne back up the stream of human industry far into prehistoric times. The earliest recorded discovery of a Clyde canoe took place in 1780, at a depth of twenty-five feet below the surface, on a site known by the apt designation of St Enoch’s Croft. This primitive canoe, hewn out of a single oak, rested in a horizontal position on its keel; and within it, near the prow, there lay a curiously suggestive memorial of the mechanical arts of the remote era to which the ancient ship of the Clyde must be assigned. This was a beautifully finished stone axe or celt, doubtless one of the simple implements of the allophylian Caledonian to whom the canoe belonged, if not, indeed, the tool with which it had been fashioned into shape.”

From the hollowed trunk of a tree, hewn with a stone axe by this “allophylian,” as Mr Wilson delights in calling him, to the iron steam-vessel that would have carried him and all his tribe across the Atlantic, the advance is great indeed. And a very curious sentiment must arise in the man who has seen this canoe dug up from under the busy streets of Glasgow, and then afterwards in another continent, on some lake or river not yet quite appropriated by the white man, has watched some prowling Indian paddling about in a canoe not much unlike it. The past and the present seem to live together before him: it is not the ends of the earth only that are brought together for him; he appears to embrace the first and the last of the generations of mankind.

We turn from the rude arts of men to their still ruder thinking—to customs springing from some sentiment or some strange imagination. Of these the most universal and the most significant are customs connected with the burial of the dead. To the habit of interring with the dead man the implements he most valued in life—his tools or weapons—we owe the little knowledge we possess of our very primitive ancestors. It is generally said that these articles were buried with the man, that he might have them ready for use in another world; and, no doubt, some vague idea of this kind has extensively prevailed: but if we may speculate on a subject so obscure as the imaginations of the savage, we should say that this idea grew out of the custom of burying with the dead man his own previous possessions, and that the custom itself at first originated in simple regret and respect for the dead. We cannot have any strong sentiment without feeling the desire in some way to manifest it. The dead man was loudly lamented—wept and wailed over—and the mourners often cut and wounded themselves as an exhibition of their grief. Well, at such a moment, instead of appropriating to themselves the possessions of the deceased, the survivors threw them into the grave with him. They were still in a manner his property. It would manifest a disrespect to the dead if at once, as soon as the hand of his chief was cold, another man had seized upon his spear and carried it to his own hut. Thus this one passionate desire to manifest grief and respect to a late friend or chief would sufficiently account for the act of interring with the body the instruments or weapons he had been in the habit of using. The custom once adopted, superstition would step in and enforce it, and the imagination would invest it with a new significance. Some poet of the land would first suggest that, if the dead man rose from his tomb, he would find himself equipped for the chase or for war. Sometimes the buried arms, vessels, or other implements, were broken before they were deposited in the grave, which does not seem to accord with the idea that they were laid there for any future use. It looks like the interpretation of a subsequent generation when it is said that the savage expected the broken tool or perforated vessel, like the decayed human body, to be restored again and made fit for his use. Here is an Indian, a Chinook, buried in his canoe. Within the canoe a broken sword is deposited. Am I to gather that the Chinook expected a maritime life hereafter, and even to revive floating upon the waters? Does not the whole act seem, at least in its initiation, to be symbolical? All was at an end. The man would float no more—would fight no more. The canoe was buried, the sword was broken.

But whether we are right or not in our supposition as to the origin of this idea—namely, that the articles buried in the tomb with the deceased would be useful to him in an after life—it is plain that such an idea has been entertained, and certainly all our learned writers upon these ancient customs of burial attribute this motive to our imaginative forefathers. When, in the old pagan burrows of the wold of Yorkshire or elsewhere, some British or Saxon charioteer has been exhumed, with the iron wheel-tires and bronzed horse-furniture (the wreck of the decayed war-chariot), and the skeletons of the horses, eloquent antiquarians have not failed to say (as Mr Wilson does) that the dead chief was buried thus “that he might enter the Valhalla of his gods, proudly borne in the chariot in which he had been wont to charge amid the ranks of his foes.” We presume they find themselves justified in this interpretation.

Here, again, we find that the new continent sets almost before the eyes of our traveller scenes similar to those which, as a European archæologist, he had been laboriously endeavouring to reconstruct in some remote antiquity.

“Upwards of forty years since, Black Bird, a famous chief of the Omahaws, visited the city of Washington, and on his return was seized with smallpox, of which he died on the way. When the chief found himself dying, he called his warriors around him, and, like Jacob of old, gave commands concerning his burial, which were as literally fulfilled. The dead warrior was dressed in his most sumptuous robes, fully equipped with his scalps and war-eagle’s plumes, and borne about sixty miles below the Omahaw village to a lofty bluff on the Missouri, which towers far above all the neighbouring heights, and commands a magnificent extent of landscape. To the summit of this bluff a beautiful white steed, the favourite war-horse of Black Bird, was led; and there, in presence of the whole nation, the dead chief was placed with great ceremony on its back, looking towards the river, where, as he had said, he could see the canoes of the white men as they traversed the broad waters of the Missouri. His bow was placed in his hand, his shield and quiver, with his pipe and medicine-bag, hung by his side. His store of pemmican and his well-filled tobacco-pouch were supplied, to sustain him on the long journey to the hunting-grounds of the great Manitou, where the spirits of his fathers awaited his coming. The medicine-men of the tribe performed their most mystic charms to secure a happy passage to the land of the great departed; and all else being completed, each warrior of the chiefs own band covered the palm of his right hand with vermilion, and stamped its impress on the white sides of the devoted war-steed. This done, the Indians gathered turfs and soil, and placed them around the feet and the legs of the horse. Gradually the pile arose under the combined labour of many willing hands, until the living steed and its dead rider were buried together under the memorial mound; and high over the crest of the lofty tumulus which covered the warrior’s eagle plumes a cedar post was reared, to mark more clearly to the voyagers on the Missouri the last resting-place of Black Bird, the great chief of the Omahaws.”

But there is one passage in Mr Wilson’s book which, we think, to the student of the ancient myth or religious legend must be replete with interest. It occurs in the chapter which treats on the use of tobacco and that custom of smoking which we have imported from the savage, much to the delectation, no doubt, of those who inhale the fumes of what they are pleased to call the fragrant weed, and much, assuredly, to the disgust and suffering of those who are involved, most unwillingly, in the smoke which others are exhaling around them. Never were two parties more sharply divided than the smokers and the non-smokers. The first will doubtless agree with the Indian in the belief that tobacco was of divine origin. Did not two hunters of the Susquehannas share their venison with a lovely squaw who mysteriously appeared before them in the forest? and did they not, “on returning to the scene of their feast thirteen moons after, find the tobacco-plant growing where she had sat?” and do not Indians tell us that the Great Spirit freely indulges in the intoxicating fumes which they themselves love so well? The non-smokers hold a different faith. They see no celestial gift in this black, fuliginous amusement; and if they do not ascribe to it a devilish origin, they assert that it is enjoyed with a devilish indifference to those to whom their beloved smoke is but stench and sickness. Into this custom of tobacco-smoking Mr Wilson enters at large, and bestows much learning on the inquiry; but it is especially to the institution of the pipe of peace amongst the Indians that we would now direct the attention of the reader.

We have, as Mr Wilson tells the story, the complete dissection of a myth; we see how a legend arises, or may arise, partly from the most trivial causes, and partly from generous impulses and high imaginations. Between the Minnesota and the Missouri rivers there stands a bold perpendicular cliff, “beautifully marked with distinct horizontal layers of light grey and rose or flesh-coloured quartz.” Near this a famous red pipe-stone is procured; a material, we presume, better fitted than any other for making pipes. Traces of both ancient and modern excavation prove that it has been the resort, during many generations, of Indian tribes, seeking this famous red pipe-stone. A spot to which independent tribes came for this purpose, and for this only, became neutral ground; became a spot on which they might meet in peace—perhaps to discuss their points of difference. But in process of time it became a sacred spot, and the peace between hostile tribes was preserved by a religious sanction. There are marks on the rock resembling the track of a large bird. These were converted into the footsteps of the Great Spirit. The Great Spirit, therefore, at one time descended upon the rock and taught—what else could he be supposed to teach?—the sacred neutrality of the spot, and the privilege and duty of all tribes to renew their pipes there, and especially the calumet, or pipe of peace. The last version of the tradition runs thus:—

“Many ages,” say the Sioux, “after the red men were made, when all the different tribes were at war, the Great Spirit called them all together at the Red Rocks. He stood on the top of the rocks, and the red nations were assembled in infinite numbers in the plain below. He took out of the rock a piece of the red stone, and made a large pipe. He smoked it over them all; told them that it was part of their flesh; that though they were at war they must meet at this place as friends; that it belonged to them all; that they must make their calumets from it, and smoke them to him whenever they wished to appease him or get his goodwill. The smoke from his big pipe rolled over them all, and he disappeared in the cloud.”

The Sioux, notwithstanding this good teaching of the very tradition which they still repeat to the stranger, have, by the right of the strongest, taken possession of the sacred neutral ground; and they, and all other tribes of the red race, are either being absorbed into the white population or exterminated by it. The development of the myth and the people of the myth has been therefrom alike arrested. But how clearly we see its growth and formation! To what a mystical faith that flesh-coloured quartz was conducting! And what mingling of the divine and human would have been suggested by the act recorded of the Great Spirit! If these Indian tribes had finally coalesced in one nation, the myth would have been exalted, and the Great Spirit would have taught them an eternal bond of peace and brotherhood. If civilisation and culture had still further advanced, this peace and brotherhood would have embraced all mankind, and assumed the form of the highest moral teaching.

A considerable portion of Mr Wilson’s book is occupied with those ancient remains, whether in the valley of the Mississippi or in the forests of Central America, which speak of a civilisation, or at least of nations and of cities that had existed and left their ruins behind them, anterior to what we call the discovery of the New World. The subject is highly interesting, and it loses none of its interest in the hands of our author. He speaks very decidedly on the great antiquity of the mounds and the earthworks of the valley of the Mississippi; less decidedly on the antiquity of the monumental pillars and other architectural remains which were first brought to the knowledge of the English public through the travels of Mr Stephens in Central America. The work of Mr Squiers still contains, we believe, the fullest account we possess of those vast circular mounds, and other extraordinary earthworks, discovered within the territory of the United States. Both these writers, Mr Stephens and Mr Squiers, produced at the time of the publication of their several works a very vivid impression on the reading public of England. Both of them broke ground into quite new fields of inquiry, but both of them left the mind rather excited than informed. This was to be expected when the subject was of so novel and surprising a character. Mr Squiers saw evidences of serpent-worship and of other religious rites which his study of the antiquities of the Old World had made familiar to his imagination, in the circular mounds which he traced in the open field: and Mr Stephens, as he broke his way through the forests, saw the ruins of another Egypt stand before him.

That no tradition should exist amongst the present race of Indians with respect to these primitive “mound-builders,” is not surprising; nor would this alone indicate any very great antiquity. Mr Wilson thinks the state in which the skeletons were found within the tumuli—crumbling to dust on being touched—is sufficient proof of their great age. One must know all the circumstances of the burial, all the influences to which the skeleton has been exposed, before any safe conclusion can be drawn from this fact. But, leaving undetermined the antiquity of these remains, we think it plain that the first discoverers of them, whether of the mounds or of the ruined cities, have, with the natural enthusiasm pertaining to all discoverers, exaggerated the evidence they display of civilisation, or progress in the arts. After all, the soundest opinion seems to be that the “mound-builders” and the builders of the deserted cities were but the intellectual progenitors of those half-civilised Mexicans and Peruvians whom the Spaniards encountered and destroyed. It is not likely that any higher or equal state of civilisation had been attained and lost before the arrival of the Spaniards.

The quite circular form of an extensive mound or earthwork is thought to imply a knowledge of geometry or trigonometry, because a modern surveyor would proceed in a certain scientific manner to lay out such a circle. But the slow process of measuring a number of radii from a given centre, and connecting their terminal points, would probably have sufficed for all that these early geometers executed. Or they might have drawn a smaller circle, in the first instance, by a movable radius, and then traced a larger and a larger one outside of this, till they had obtained one of the requisite magnitude. Time and labour will accomplish much, and with very little help from art or science. But where imagination seems to play the subtlest tricks with our antiquarians is in their appreciation of the beautiful in such relics of the fine arts as are discovered in these mounds and cities. We have prints given us here of carved pipes found in the tombs, which we are told are very beautiful. To our eye they do not look beautiful at all, and very little in advance of other prints which represent pipes carved by the present race of Red Indians. But it is when the antiquarian critic finds himself amongst the remains of the rude sculptures of Central America that he shows himself most under the influence of this glamour. If we had not the pictures or engravings by which to check the text, we should think that Thebes and Memphis had been long ago outrivalled on the other side of the Atlantic.

Our readers, we are sure, have not forgotten Mr Stephens’s book of travels; they will remember how he entered with his guide into what seemed an untrodden forest at Copan, apparently undisturbed from its very creation; and how, as he made his way with his axe through the brushwood, he found himself face to face with an upright column of stone elaborately carved. In the centre of this a human face of gigantic proportions stared out upon him. Some of these monuments had been overpowered by the vigorous growth of the surrounding trees, and displaced from their upright position by huge branches that half encircled them; others lay upon the ground, as if bound down by the vines and other great creepers of the American forest. Nothing disturbed the solitude of the scene except a grimacing procession of monkeys, who from the branches of the trees were looking alternately at the traveller, and at the mysterious objects which had attracted the traveller’s attention. As he proceeded he came upon a truncated pyramid, with a flight of steps leading to a broad surface, on which evidently some other structure had been raised; and then again he entered a square enclosure with steps, which might have been intended for seats, running up on all sides, reminding him of a Roman amphitheatre. No books had told him of the existence even of this ruined city. Who had built it, who had lived in it, no one could say. The people of the country could only answer him with their “Quien sabe?” who knows?—an answer always sufficient for themselves. There was not even a tradition, not even a palpable lie, to be heard. Men were as silent about these cities as the forest itself.

What wonder that the enthusiasm of the traveller should be excited, and that he should see more than the eye—as a simple optical instrument—disclosed to him? Assuredly his enthusiasm as to the beauty of the sculpture is not supported by the drawings he has given us. He commends to us these drawings of the artist as being, “next to the stones themselves,” the most perfect materials on which to form our judgment. And of one thing we may be certain, that a modern artist, trained to the correct representation of the human figure, would err, if he erred at all, by improving the drawing in these grotesque sculptures. It would require a distinct effort in the modern artist to depart from the true outline and proportions of the human form; and whenever his attention relaxed, he would infallibly become more correct than his original. Well, we see in the delineation here given us a mere pillar, in the centre of which is carved a human face, and lower down two fat arms, which the imagination is to connect with the unmeaning face above them; and we are told in the text “that the character of this image is grand, and it would be difficult to exceed the richness of the ornament.” We turn the page and see another gigantic head, with huge saucer eyes, such as a child would draw, and we are told that “the style is good,” and that “the great expansion of the eyes seems intended to inspire awe.” So are the masks sold in our toy-shops to mischief-loving boys. But very silly savages must those have been in whom such absurd figures could have inspired awe. Mr Stephens is constantly being “arrested by the beauty of the sculpture.” The bas-reliefs at Palenque are indeed superior to anything he met with at Copan, and some drawings from these exhibit an unexpected grace, and an outline perhaps unconsciously improved by the hand of the artist. But here also we are startled at the discrepancy between the description of the enraptured traveller and the representation in the engravings. We have, in one of them, a figure sitting cross-legged upon a narrow bench; his legs are tucked up under him painfully tight, and his balance must be preserved with great difficulty; his large nose is in manifest danger of breaking itself upon the floor. We are told that this figure sits “on a couch, ornamented with two leopards’ heads,” and that “the attitude is easy, and the expression calm and benevolent.” The first discoverer must evidently have looked with something of a lover’s eye.

The learned antiquarian has been nowhere more exposed to delusion than in this New World. Mr Wilson gives us an amusing account of the inscription on the Dighton Rock, which has received so many various interpretations. It stands in New England; and at a time when it was a favourite speculation of its theologians, that the Phœnicians had been the earliest colonists of America, and that the accursed race of Canaan had been banished there, this inscription was decided to be Punic. Dr Stiles, President of Yale College, when preaching in 1783 before the Governor and State of Connecticut, appealed to the Dighton Rock, graven, as he believed, in the old Punic or Phœnician character and language, in proof that the Indians were of the cursed seed of Canaan, and were to be displaced and rooted out by the European descendants of Japhet! “The Phœnicians,” says Dr Stiles, “charged the Dighton and other rocks in Narraganset Bay with Punic inscriptions remaining to this day, which last I myself have repeatedly seen and taken off at large, as did Professor Sewell. He has lately transmitted a copy of this inscription to M. Gebelin of the Parisian Academy of Sciences, who, comparing them with the Punic palæography, judges them to be Punic, and has interpreted them as denoting that the ancient Carthaginians once visited these distant regions.”

Various copies, all professing to be most carefully executed, of this inscription, were sent to antiquarian societies, to museums, to colleges, as well in Europe as in America. A learned Colonel Vallency, of the London Antiquarian Society, undertook to prove that the inscription was neither Phœnician nor Punic, but Siberian. Then it became the fashion to look upon the Danes and the Northmen as the first discoverers of America, or its first colonists, and the Punic was changed into a Runic inscription. The names of Thorfinn and other Norse heroes were plainly read in this wild scrawl upon the Dighton Rock. Learned Danes themselves found no difficulty in deciphering the name at least of the chief hero who conducted the expedition of which this is a memorial, though they confess that the names of his associates are not quite so legible.

“Surely no inscription,” continues Mr Wilson, “ancient or modern, not even the Behistun cuneatics or the trilingual Rosetta Stone, ever received more faithful study. But the most curious matter relating to this written rock is, that after being thus put to the question by learned inquisitors for a hundred and fifty years, it did at length yield a most surprising response. Mr Schoolcraft tested the origin and significance of the Dighton Rock inscription, by submitting a copy of it to Chingwauk, an intelligent Indian chief, familiar with the native system of picture-writing. The result was an interpretation of the whole as the record of an Indian triumph over some rival native tribe, and the conviction on Mr Schoolcraft’s part that the graven rock is simply an example of Indian rock-writing, attributable to the Wabenakies of New England.... And such is the conviction reluctantly formed in the mind of the most enthusiastic believer in the discovery and colonisation of New England by the Northmen.”

We are in danger of losing our way entirely amongst the multitude of interesting subjects which Mr Wilson’s two thick volumes present to us—and present, it must be confessed, in a somewhat confused array. A rather pleasant effect is produced by the bringing together the knowledge of the European archæologist with the observations of the modern traveller; but this leads to a discursive style. In spite of the distinct titles of the several chapters, we never know precisely what we are discussing, and where to look for anything a second time which we may remember to have read. We are now engaged with the wild Indians, and are reminded of such human curiosities as the “Flatheads,” who glory in producing a deformed skull by a distressing pressure on the infant’s head, of which process we have a gilded picture strangely ornamenting our learned volumes. These Flatheads are plainly uninjured in their intellects by this distortion of the skull; so as there is room left for the development of the cerebrum, all seems right; and even when nature keeps the formation of the skull in her own hands, we apprehend this is all that is wanted. These Flatheads contrive to make slaves of the neighbouring round-headed Indians,—who, by the way, are not permitted to flatten the heads of their children, this being jealously guarded as a sign of freedom and aristocratic privileges. They are said to look with contempt on the whites, as bearing in the shape of their heads the hereditary mark of slaves. After contemplating for a time these unprogressive natives, some railroad car comes whizzing past, or the posts of the electric telegraph remind the author of the go-ahead American who is gradually appropriating all the soil to himself. We have a highly characteristic trait mentioned of the new race. Not only does he cut down forests and break up the prairie, but he trades in water-lots—in land still covered with water; appropriates and sells half the soil of a lake which has yet to be reduced to the economical proportion he intends to allow it.

The two races cannot plainly long reside on the same continent; but Mr Wilson brings before us a fact which will probably be new to most English readers. It is almost as much an absorption into the white race as a process of extinction that is now going on amongst the Red Indians. Wherever the whites, whether they are French, or English, or Scotch, have been long settled in the neighbourhood of Indian tribes, there has grown up a mixed race or half-breed. This half-breed, in some instances, remains in the settlement of the whites, but in others it still follows the mode of life of its Indian parent, and a race grows up that is neither European nor Indian. Whole tribes seem now to be constituted of this half-breed, and they are distinguished for their power of endurance and their greater faculty for social organisation. But in proportion as they approximate to the European, the less likelihood is there that they will long remain distinct and separated from the European by their mode of life.

“The idea,” says Mr Wilson, “of the absorption of the Indian into the Anglo-American race will not, I am aware, meet with a ready acceptance, even from those who dwell where its traces are most perceptible; but fully to appreciate its extent, we must endeavour to follow down the course of events by which the continent has been transferred to the descendants of its European colonists. At every fresh stage of colonisation or pioneering into the wild west, the work has necessarily been accomplished by the hardy youths, or the hunters and trappers of the clearing. Rarely indeed did they carry with them their wives or daughters; but where they found a home amongst savage-haunted wilds, they took to themselves wives of the daughters of the soil. To this mingling of blood, even in its least favourable aspects, the prejudices of the Indian presented little obstacle. Henry, in his narrative of travel among the Cristineaux, says, ‘One of the chiefs assured me that the children borne by their women to Europeans were bolder warriors and better hunters than themselves.’ The fact is unquestionable that all along the widening outskirts of the newer clearings, and wherever an outlying trading or hunting post is established, we find a fringe of half-breed population, marking the transitional border-land which is passing away from its aboriginal claimants.... At all the white settlements near those of the Indians the evidence of admixture is abundant, from the pure half-breed to the slightly-marked remoter descendant of Indian maternity, discoverable only by the straight black hair, and a singular watery glaze in the eye, not unlike that of the English gypsy. There they are to be seen, not only as fishers, trappers, and lumberers, but engaged on equal terms with the whites in the trade and business of the place. In this condition the population of all the frontier settlements exists; if, as new settlers come in, the mixed element disappears, it does so purely by absorption.

“Nor are such traces confined to the frontier settlements. I have recognised the semi-Indian features in the gay assemblies at a Canadian Governor-General’s receptions, in the halls of the Legislature, among the undergraduates of Canadian universities, and mingling in the selectest social circles. And this is what has been going on in every new American settlement for upwards of three centuries, under every diversity of circumstance.”

This is a far more agreeable idea than that the Indians are being everywhere starved out of existence by the encroachments of the European. But that portion of the mixed offspring which adhered to the Indian tribe, and became Indian in its habits, affords a still more interesting subject of speculation. On the Red River there is a settlement of half-breeds, numbering about six thousand. A marked difference, we are told, “is observable, according to their white paternity. The French half-breeds are more lively and frank in their bearing, but also less prone to settle down to drudgery of farming, or other routine duties of civilised life, than those chiefly of Scottish descent.” If in both cases the half-breed has been entirely educated by its Indian parent, this would be a good instance of the influence of race as separable from the influence of education. These half-breeds are generally superior in physical as well as mental qualities, and have greater powers of endurance than any of the native tribes exhibit. Mr Wilson assures us “that the last traces of the Red blood will disappear, not by the extinction of the Indian tribes, but by the absorption of the half-breed minority into the new generations of the predominant race.”

Of the warlike tribes of native Indians some have been induced to settle down as agriculturists. Some are Roman Catholics, some Protestants. But we believe it may be stated that all signal amendments or progressive changes have been accompanied by a mixture of European blood. To this very day the full-blooded Indian despises the civilisation of the white man, or at least thinks it something that may be good for the white man, but by no means good for him. The fierce tribes that constituted the famous confederacy of the Iroquois, and who have settled in Canada, have been all more or less tamed, but they have all lost the purity of their race; and when we hear of the hunter of the prairies taking upon himself the mode of life of European colonists, we may be sure that this change has been facilitated by an intermixture of the two races. Some of these tribes have forgotten their own language, and speak only a French patois.

We do not imply by this observation that the native Indian would have been incapable of advancing by a slow and natural progression of their own on the road of civilisation: on the contrary, we believe that the civilisation of the Aztecs and the Peruvians may be seen in its earliest stage amongst the Iroquois. But when the European encounters the savage, there is a gap between them which the latter cannot suddenly traverse. The intermediate steps are not presented to him. The time is not given him by which slow-changing habits can be formed and transmitted. He is required to proceed at a faster pace than his savage nature can accomplish. Now, as every generation that has advanced upon its predecessors, transmits, together with its knowledge, some increasing aptitude for the acquisition of such knowledge, there is no difficulty in believing that the savage would be expedited in his career of civilisation as well by an intermixture of race as by a participation of knowledge.

The whole chapter of Mr Wilson on the Red Race is well worthy of perusal. The reader will find in it many interesting details, which, of course, our space will not permit us to allude to. We shall conclude our notice by some reference to a topic especially interesting when we speak of the progress of civilisation—namely, the mode of transmitting ideas, the art of writing, or letters. Our author, according to his favourite phraseology, entitles his chapter on this subject ‘The Intellectual Instinct: Letters.’

The origin of language may be open to discussion. Its gradual growth from the wants, the social passions, the organisation, the mimetic and reasoning powers of man, may to many persons seem an unsatisfactory account. But no one disputes that writing is an invention of man. Even if the steps of this invention had not been traced, we should have been unable to frame any other hypothesis with regard to an art possessed by one people and not possessed by another. We may define writing to be the transmission of ideas by visible and permanent signs, instead of by momentary sounds and gestures. The art of writing, it must be remembered, is not complete till the characters upon the paper, or the parchment, or the plaster of the wall, or the graven rock, interpret themselves to one who knows the conventional value of the several signs. So long as any picture-writing or symbolic figures act merely as aids to the memory, in retaining a history of events which is, in fact, transmitted by oral tradition, writing is not yet invented. The picture, however faithful, gives its meaning only to those who know many other facts which are not in the picture itself. When a system of signs has been invented, by which alone the ideas of one person, or one generation, can be communicated to another person or another generation, then the art has been attained, whether those signs are hieroglyphics or alphabetical, whether they are signs of things or signs of words.

This is necessary to be borne in mind, because there is a certain use of pictorial and symbolic signs which is in danger of being confounded with the perfect hieroglyph; and we are inclined to think this confusion has been made with regard to some of the sculptured remains discovered in Central America. We doubt if these “hieroglyphics,” which scholars are invited to study and to interpret, are hieroglyphics as the word is understood by the Egyptologist. Granting that they always have a meaning, and are not introduced, in some cases, as mere ornaments (just as we introduce the heads of stags or the figures of little children on any vase we desire to ornament), still it may be a meaning of that kind which could be only intelligible to one who from other sources knew the history or the fable it was intended to bring to remembrance. A representation of this kind, half pictorial and half symbolic, would help to keep alive the memory of an event; but, the memory of it once extinct, it could not revive the knowledge of the event to us. We should waste our ingenuity in vain attempts to read what was not, in fact, any kind of writing.

The Peruvians had manifestly not advanced beyond a system of mnemonics, a kind of memoria technica. With certain knots in strings of different colours they had associated certain ideas. A Peruvian woman could show you a bundle of knotted strings and tell you her whole life “was there.” To her it was, but to no one else. If all the Peruvians agreed to associate the history of Peru with other bundles of knotted cords, their quipus would still be only an aid to memory; the history itself must be conveyed from one mind to another by oral communication. Some of the North American Indians had their wampum, their many-coloured belt, into which they talked their treaty, or any other matter it was desirable to remember. The Mexicans had mingled symbols with their picture-writing, but they had not wrought the hieroglyphic into a system, by means of which alone ideas could be conveyed from one generation to another. With them it could not be said that the art of writing was known. But antiquarians have formed, it seems, a different opinion of the mixture of symbol and picture discovered in the ruins of Copan and Palenque; and, partly on this ground, they arrived at the conclusion that these cities were built and inhabited by a people in advance of the Mexicans or Aztecs discovered by the Spaniards. Mr Wilson says very distinctly of those mysterious sculptures: “They are no rude abbreviations, like the symbols either of Indian or Aztec picture-writing; but rather suggest the idea of a matured system of ideography in its last transitional stage, before becoming a word-alphabet like that of the Chinese at the present day.”

We should be open to the charge of great presumption, if, with nothing before us but a few engravings by which to guide our judgment, we ventured to offer an opinion opposed to that of Mr Wilson, or of others who have made the subject one of especial study. But opposite to the very page (p. 140, vol. ii.) from which we take this last sentence we have quoted, Mr Wilson gives us an engraving of what are denominated “hieroglyphics.” It appears to us as if the pillar here represented had been divided into compartments, and each compartment had been filled by the artist with some appropriate subject, generally some human figure whose action and attitude are unintelligible to us; but the whole conveys the idea, not of a series of hieroglyphics, but of individual representations, each of which has its own independent meaning. Other engravings, indeed, approximate more nearly to the hieroglyphic; the arbitrary sign is more conspicuous, and there is a more frequent repetition of the same subject; but when we consider the poverty of invention that even in later times afflicts the arts, and the tendency to repeat and to copy which is very noticeable in rude times, we are not surprised that the same subject is often found on the same monument, or that it has spread from Copan to Palenque. There is nothing in the engravings before us, or in the account given of them, which proves that a really hieroglyphic system had been invented; and we cannot but suspect that those who undertake the task of deciphering them will inevitably fail, not because the key cannot be found, but because no key ever existed.

Suppose a monument erected or a medal struck in honour of one of our own excellent missionaries; suppose it represented the missionary-standing with one foot on a broken image, or idol, and that by his side knelt some half-naked savage with a cross in his hands—this mixture of picture and of symbol would tell its tale very intelligibly to us, for we have heard before of the labours of the missionary. But suppose this and other pictures of the same kind were handed down to a remote posterity, who had no information except what the pictures themselves conveyed by which to understand them, what hopeless perplexities would they for ever remain! And the use of the repeated symbol might lead to the persuasion that they were composed on some hieroglyphic system. We might imagine learned men toiling for ever over such representation, and never coming to any satisfactory result.

What different impressions the same pictorial representation may convey to two different persons, we have many an amusing instance of in the history of our Egyptian discoveries, or efforts at discovery. We borrow an example from the pages before us. On the wall of the temple at Philæ, at the first cataract of the Nile, a figure is seen seated at work on what seems a potter’s wheel, and there is a group of hieroglyphics over its head. One learned translator reads and explains thus:—“Kaum the Creator, on his wheel, moulds the divine members of Osiris (the type of man) in the shining house of life, or the solar disk.” Another learned man, Mr Birch of the British Museum, soars, if possible, still higher for a meaning:—“Phtah Totonem, the father of beginnings, is setting in motion the egg of the sun and moon, director of the gods of the upper world.” Mr Wilson, we presume, in accordance with a still later interpretation, calls this figure simply the “ram-headed god Kneph,” without explaining what he is doing with his wheel. If the picture and the hieroglyphic together lead to such various results, we may easily conceive what wild work would be made by an attempt to interpret a pictorial representation alone.

We hesitate to assign to the inscriptions discovered in these ruined cities the true character of hieroglyphics; that is, of a system of symbols by means of which, independently of oral tradition, the ideas of one generation could be conveyed to another. But our readers would probably prefer to have Mr Wilson’s matured judgment to our own conjectures. He says:—

“On the sculptured tablets of Copan, Quirigua, and Palenque, as well as on the colossal statues at Copan and other ancient sites in Central America, groups of hieroglyphic devices occur arranged in perpendicular or horizontal rows, as regularly as the letters of any ancient or modern inscription. The analogies to Egyptian hieroglyphics are great, for all the figures embody, more or less clearly defined, representations of objects in nature or art. But the differences are no less essential, and leave no room to doubt that in these columns of sculptured symbols we witness the highest development to which picture-writing attained, in the progress of that indigenous American civilisation so singularly illustrative of the intellectual unity which binds together the divers races of man. A portion of the hieroglyphic inscription which accompanies the remarkable Palenque sculpture of a figure offering what has been assumed to represent an infant before a cross, will best suffice to illustrate the characteristics of this form of writing.”

What is the antiquity of these ruined cities? The first tendency was to carry them back into some very remote period, far beyond the memory or knowledge of the Mexicans and Peruvians. This was the first impression of Mr Stephens; afterwards he was disposed to bring them nearer the epoch of the Spanish conquest. He had lent a credulous ear to the story of some good padre, who had assured him that a native Indian city, greater than Copan could have ever been, still existed in a flourishing and populous condition, in some district untrodden by the European traveller. And this faith, that a Copan still existed, naturally induced him to believe that the ruined Copan, not belonging to an extinct civilisation, might not be so old as he first presumed it to be. He seems to have thought it possible that some of these cities might have been inhabited at the time of the Spanish conquest, and that others at that period were already a heap of ruins. War appears to have been incessant amongst almost all the tribes of the native Americans. On this account it appears to us very probable that many cities may have been built and destroyed, and a partial civilisation won and lost in them, prior to the epoch of the Spanish conquest. Such oscillations, very likely, occurred in the progress of American civilisation. And in some of these oscillatory movements a nearer approach might have been made to the art of writing than in that one phase of this civilisation in which the European discovered and destroyed it for ever. But our impression is, that, viewing the history of this continent as a whole, there has been a slow irregular progress, which had reached its highest point in the epoch of Montezuma and the Incas of Peru.

The earliest stages of human progress are very slow, and much interrupted by wars of conquest and extermination. We find no difficulty, therefore, in assigning a great antiquity to some of these ruined cities, and a still greater antiquity to the curious mounds and earthworks in the valley of the Mississippi, without necessarily inferring that these are the remains of any civilisation superior to what history has made known to us. And before these mounds were constructed, there might have passed a long epoch in which man wandered wild by the rivers and in the forests of this continent. This last-mentioned epoch of mere savage existence, some of our speculative philosophers would extend to an enormous duration. We are not disposed, by any evidence yet submitted to us, to expand this period to what we must not call a disproportionate length, because we have not the whole life of the human race before us; but which, arguing on those progressive tendencies which, notwithstanding the impediments and checks they receive, constitute the main characteristic of the species, seems an improbable length. Let the geologist, however, to whom this part of the problem must be handed over, pursue his researches, and we need not say we shall be happy to receive whatever knowledge of the now forgotten past he can bring to light.

PART XVI.

NO. XXII.—ON CERTAIN PRINCIPLES OF ART IN WORKS OF IMAGINATION.

Every description of literature has its appropriate art. This truth is immediately acknowledged in works of imagination. We speak, in familiar phrase, of the Dramatic Art, or the Art of Poetry. But the presence of art is less generally recognised in works addressed to the reason. Nevertheless, art has its place in a treatise on political economy, or in a table of statistics. For in all subjects, however rigidly confined to abstract principles or positive facts, the principles and facts cannot be thrown together pell-mell; they require an artistic arrangement. Expression itself is an art. So that even works of pure science cannot dispense with art, because they cannot dispense with expression. What is called method in Science is the art by which Science makes itself intelligible. There is exquisite art in the arrangement of a problem in Euclid. If a man have a general knowledge of the fact that all lines drawn from the centre of a circle to the circumference are equal, but has never seen that fact proved by Euclid, let him attempt to prove it in his own way, and then compare his attempt with the problem in Euclid which demonstrates the fact, and he will at once acknowledge the master’s art of demonstration. Pascal is said to have divined, by the force of his own genius, so large a number of Euclid’s propositions, as to appear almost miraculous to his admirers, and wholly incredible to his aspersers. Yet that number did not exceed eighteen. In fact, art and science have their meeting-point in method.

And though Kant applies the word genius (ingenium) strictly to the cultivators of Art, refusing to extend it to the cultivators of Science, yet the more we examine the highest orders of intellect, whether devoted to science, to art, or even to action, the more clearly we shall observe the presence of a faculty common to all such orders of intellect, because essential to completion in each—a faculty which seems so far intuitive or innate (ingenium) that, though study and practice perfect it, they do not suffice to bestow—viz., the faculty of grouping into order and symmetrical form, ideas in themselves scattered and dissimilar. This is the faculty of Method; and though every one who possesses it is not necessarily a great man, yet every great man must possess it in a very superior degree, whether he be a poet, a philosopher, a statesman, a general; for every great man exhibits the talent of organisation or construction, whether it be in a poem, a philosophical system, a policy, or a strategy. And without method there is no organisation nor construction. But in art, method is less perceptible than in science, and in familiar language usually receives some other name. Nevertheless, we include the meaning when we speak of the composition of a picture, the arrangement of an oration, the plan of a poem. Art employing method for the symmetrical formation of beauty, as science employs it for the logical exposition of truth: but the mechanical process is, in the last, ever kept visibly distinct; while, in the first, it escapes from sight amid the shows of colour and the curves of grace.

And though, as I have said, Art enters into all works, whether addressed to the reason or to the imagination, those addressed to the imagination are works of Art par emphasis, for they require much more than the elementary principles which Art has in common with Science. The two part company with each other almost as soon as they meet on that ground of Method which is common to both,—Science ever seeking, through all forms of the ideal, to realise the Positive—Art, from all forms of the Positive, ever seeking to extract the Ideal. The beau ideal is not in the reason—its only existence is in the imagination. To create in the reader’s mind images which do not exist in the world, and leave them there, imperishable as the memories of friends with whom he has lived, and of scenes in which he has had his home, obviously necessitates a much ampler and much subtler Art than that which is required to make a positive fact clear to the comprehension. The highest quality of Art, as applied to literature, is therefore called “the Creative.” Nor do I attach any importance to the cavil of some over ingenious critics, who have denied that genius in reality creates; inasmuch as the forms it presents are only new combinations of ideas already existent. New combinations are, to all plain intents and purposes, creations. It is not in the power of man to create something out of nothing. And though the Deity no doubt can do so now—as those who acknowledge that the Divine Creator preceded all created things, must suppose that He did before there was even a Chaos—yet, so far as it is vouchsafed to us to trace Him through Nature, all that we see in created Nature is combined out of what before existed. Art, therefore, may be said to create when it combines existent details into new wholes. No man can say that the watch which lies before me, or the table on which I write, were not created (that is, made) by the watchmaker or cabinetmaker, because the materials which compose a watch or a table have been on the earth, so far as we know of it, since the earth was a world fit for men to dwell in. Therefore, neither in Nature nor in Art can it be truly said that that power is not creative which brings into the world a new form, though all which compose a form, as all which compose a flower, a tree, a mite, an elephant, a man, are, if taken in detail, as old as the gases in the air we breathe, or the elements of the earth we tread. But the Creative Faculty in Art requires a higher power than it asks in Nature; for Nature may create things without life and mind—Nature may create dust and stones which have no other life and mind than are possessed by the animalcules that inhabit them. But the moment Art creates, it puts into its creations life and intellect; and it is only in proportion as the life thus bestowed endures beyond the life of man, and the intellect thus expressed exceeds that which millions of men can embody in one form, that we acknowledge a really great work of Art—that we say of the Artist, centuries after he is dead, “He was indeed a Poet,” that is, a creator: He has created a form of life which the world did not know before, and breathed into that form a spirit which preserves it from the decay to which all of man himself except his soul is subjected. Achilles is killed by Paris; Homer re-creates Achilles—and the Achilles of Homer is alive to-day.

By the common consent of all educated nations, the highest order of Art in Literature is the Narrative, that is the Epic; and the next to it in eminence is the Dramatic. We are, therefore, compelled to allow that the objective faculty—which is the imperative essential of excellence in either of these two summits of the ‘forked Parnassus’—attains to a sublimer reach of art than the subjective—that is, in order to make my scholastic adjectives familiar to common apprehension, the artist who reflects vividly and truthfully, in the impartial mirror of his mind, other circumstances, other lives, other characters than his own, belongs to a higher order than he who, subjecting all that he contemplates to his own idiosyncrasy, reflects but himself in his various images of nature and mankind. We admit this when we come to examples. We admit that Homer is of a higher order of art than Sappho; that Shakespeare’s ‘Macbeth’ is of a higher order of art than Shakespeare’s Sonnets; ‘Macbeth’ being purely objective—the Sonnets being the most subjective poems which the Elizabethan age can exhibit.

But it is not his choice of the highest order of art that makes a great artist. If one man says “I will write an epic,” and writes but a mediocre epic, and another man says “I will write a song,” and writes an admirable song—the man who writes what is admirable is superior to him who writes what is mediocre. There is no doubt that Horace is inferior to Homer—so inferior that we cannot apportion the difference. The one is epic, the other lyrical. But there is no doubt also that Horace is incalculably superior to Tryphiodorus or Sir Richard Blackmore, though they are epical and he is lyrical. In a word, it is perfectly obvious, that in proportion to the height of the art attempted must be the powers of the artist, so that there is the requisite harmony between his subject and his genius; and that he who commands a signal success in one of the less elevated spheres of art must be considered a greater artist than he who obtains but indifferent success in the most arduous.

Nevertheless, Narrative necessitates so high a stretch of imagination, and so wide a range of intellect, that it will always obtain, if tolerably well told, a precedence of immediate popularity over the most exquisite productions of an inferior order of the solid and staple qualities of imagination—so much so that, even where the first has resort to what may be called the brick and mortar of prose, as compared with the ivory, marble, and cedar of verse, a really great work of Narrative in prose will generally obtain a wider audience, even among the most fastidious readers, than poems, however good, in which the imagination is less creative, and the author rather describes or moralises over what is, than invents and vivifies what never existed. The advantage of the verse lies in its durability. Prose, when appealing to the imagination, has not the same characteristics of enduring longevity as verse;—first and chiefly, it is not so easily remembered. Who remembers twenty lines in ‘Ivanhoe’? Who does not remember twenty lines in the ‘Deserted Village’? Verse chains a closer and more minute survey to all beauties of thought expressed by it than prose, however elaborately completed, can do. And that survey is carried on and perpetuated by successive generations. So that in a great prose fiction, one hundred years after its date, there are innumerable beauties of thought and fancy which lie wholly unobserved; and in a poem, also surveyed one hundred years after its publication, there is probably not a single beauty undetected. This holds even in the most popular and imperishable prose fictions, read at a time of life when our memory is most tenacious, such as ‘Don Quixote’ or ‘Robinson Crusoe,’ ‘Gulliver’s Travels’ or the ‘Arabian Nights.’ We retain, indeed, a lively impression of the pleasure derived from the perusal of those masterpieces; of the salient incidents in story; the broad strokes of character, wit, or fancy; but quotations of striking passages do not rise to our lips as do the verses of poets immeasurably inferior, in the grand creative gifts of Poetry, to those fictionists of prose. And hence the Verse Poet is a more intimate companion throughout time than the Prose Poet can hope to be. In our moments of aspiration or of despondency, his musical thoughts well up from our remembrance. By a couple of lines he kindles the ambition of our boyhood, or soothes into calm the melancholy contemplations of our age.

Cæteris paribus, there can be no doubt of the advantage of verse over prose in all works of the imagination. But an artist does not select his own department of art with deliberate calculation of the best chances of posthumous renown. His choice is determined partly by his own organisation, and partly also by the circumstances of his time. For these last may control and tyrannise over his own more special bias. For instance, in our country, at present, it is scarcely an exaggeration to say that there is no tragic drama—scarcely any living drama at all; whether from the want of competent actors, or from some disposition on the part of our public and our critics not to accord to a successful drama the rank which it holds in other nations, and once held in this, I do not care to examine; but the fact itself is so clear, that the Drama, though in reality it is, in itself, the highest order of poem, next to the Epic, seems to have wholly dropped out of our consideration as belonging to any form of poetry whatsoever. If any Englishman were asked by a foreigner to name even the minor poets of his country who have achieved reputation since the death of Lord Byron, it would not occur to him to name Sheridan Knowles—though perhaps no poet since Shakespeare has written so many successful dramas; nay, if he were asked to quote the principal poets whom England has produced, I doubt very much whether Ben Jonson, Beaumont, Fletcher, or Otway, would occur to his mind as readily as Collins or Cowper. We have forgotten, in short, somehow or other, except in the single instance of Shakespeare, that dramas in verse are poems, and that where we have a great dramatist, who can hold the hearts of an audience spell-bound, we have a poet immeasurably superior, in all the great qualities of poetry, to three-fourths of the lyrical, and still more of the didactic versifiers who, lettered and bound as British poets, occupy so showy a range on our shelves. It is not thus anywhere except in our country. Ask a Frenchman who are the greatest poets of France, he names her dramatists immediately—Corneille, Racine, Molière. Ask a German, he names Goethe and Schiller; and if you inquire which of the works of those great masters in all variety of song he considers their greatest poems, he at once names their dramas. But to return; with us, therefore, the circumstances of the time would divert an author, whose natural bias might otherwise lead him towards dramatic composition, from a career so discouraged; and as the largest emoluments and the loudest reputation are at this time bestowed upon prose fiction, so he who would otherwise have been a dramatist becomes a novelist. I speak here, indeed, from some personal experience, for I can remember well, that when Mr Macready undertook the management of one of those two great national theatres, which are now lost to the national drama, many literary men turned their thoughts towards writing for the stage, sure that in Mr Macready they could find an actor to embody their conceptions; a critic who could not only appreciate, but advise and guide; and a gentleman with whom a man of letters could establish frank and pleasant understanding. But when Mr Macready withdrew from an experiment which probably required more capital than he deemed it prudent to risk in the mere rental of a theatre, which in other countries would be defrayed by the State, the literary flow towards the drama again ebbed back, and many a play, felicitously begun, remains to this day a fragment in the limbo of neglected pigeon-holes.

The circumstances of the time, therefore, though they do not arrest the steps of genius, alter its direction. Those departments of art in which the doors are the most liberally thrown open, will necessarily most attract the throng of artists, and it is the more natural that there should be a rush toward novel-writing, because no man and no woman who can scribble at all, ever doubt that they can scribble a novel. Certainly, it seems that the kinds of writing most difficult to write well, are the easiest to write ill. Where are the little children who cannot write what they call poetry, or the big children who cannot write what they call novels?—

says Horace of the writers of his day. In our day the saying applies in most force to that class of poemata, which pretends to narrate the epic of life in the form of prose. For the docti as well as the indocti—men the most learned in all but the art of novel-writing—write novels, no less than the most ignorant; and often with no better success. One gentleman wishing to treat us with a sermon, puts it into a novel; another gentleman, whose taste is for political disquisition, puts it into a novel; High Church and Low Church and no Church at all, Tories and Radicals, and speculators on Utopia, fancy that they condescend to adapt truth to the ordinary understanding, when they thrust into a novel that with which a novel has no more to do than it has with astronomy. Certainly it is in the power of any one to write a book in three volumes, divide it into chapters, and call it a novel; but those processes no more make the work a novel, than they make it a History of China. We thus see many clever books by very clever writers, which, regarded as novels, are detestable. They are written without the slightest study of the art of narrative, and without the slightest natural gift to divine it. Those critics who, in modern times, have the most thoughtfully analysed the laws of æsthetic beauty, concur in maintaining that the real truthfulness of all works of imagination—sculpture, painting, written fiction—is so purely in the imagination, that the artist never seeks to represent the positive truth, but the idealised image of a truth. As Hegel well observes, “that which exists in nature is a something purely individual and particular. Art, on the contrary, is essentially destined to manifest the general.” A fiction, therefore, which is designed to inculcate an object wholly alien to the imagination, sins against the first law of art; and if a writer of fiction narrow his scope to particulars so positive as polemical controversy in matters ecclesiastical, political, or moral, his work may or not be an able treatise, but it must be a very poor novel.

Religion and politics are not, indeed, banished from works of imagination; but to be artistically treated, they must be of the most general and the least sectarian description. In the record of the Fall of Man, for instance, Milton takes the most general belief in which all Christian nations concur,—nay, in which nations not Christian still acknowledge a myth of reverential interest. Or again, to descend from the highest rank of poetry to a third rank in novel-writing; when Mr Ward, in his charming story of ‘Tremaine,’ makes his very plot consist in the conversion of an infidel to a belief in the immortality of the soul, he does not depart from the artistic principle of dealing, not with particulars, but with generals. Had he exceeded the point at which he very wisely and skilfully stops, and pushed his argument beyond the doctrine on which all theologians concur, into questions on which they dispute, he would have lost sight of art altogether. So in politics—the general propositions from which politics start—the value of liberty, order, civilisation, &c.—are not only within the competent range of imaginative fiction, but form some of its loftiest subjects; but descend lower into the practical questions that divide the passions of a day, and you only waste all the complicated machinery of fiction, to do what you could do much better in a party pamphlet. For, in fact, as the same fine critic, whom I have previously quoted, says, with admirable eloquence:—

“Man, enclosed on all sides in the limits of the finite, and aspiring to get beyond them, turns his looks towards a superior sphere, more pure and more true, where all the oppositions and contradictions of the finite disappear—where his intellectual liberty, spreading its wings, without obstacles and without limits, attains to its supreme end. This region is that of art, and its reality is the ideal. The necessity of the beau-ideal in art is derived from the imperfections of the real. The mission of art is to represent, under sensible forms, the free development of life, and especially of mind.”

What is herein said of Art more especially applies to the art of narrative fiction, whether it take the form of verse or prose. For, when we come to that realm of fiction which, whether in verse or prose, is rendered most alluring to us, either by the fashion of our time or the genius of the artist, it is with a desire to escape, for the moment, out of this hard and narrow positive world in which we live; to forget, for a brief holiday, disputes between High and Low Church, Tories and Radicals—in fine, to lose sight of particulars in the contemplation of general truths. We can have our real life, in all its harsh outlines, whenever we please it; we do not want to see that real life, but its ideal image, in the fable land of art. There is another error common enough in second-rate novelists, and made still more common because it is praised by ordinary critics—viz., an attempt at the exact imitation of what is called Nature; one writer will thus draw a character in fiction as minutely as he can, from some individual he has met in life—another perplexes us with the precise patois of provincial mechanics—not as a mere relief to the substance of a dialogue, but as a prevalent part of it. Now I hold all this to be thoroughly antagonistic to art in fiction—it is the relinquishment of generals for the servile copy of particulars.... It cannot be too often repeated that art is not the imitation of nature; it is only in the very lowest degree of poetry—viz., the Descriptive, that the imitation of nature can be considered an artistic end. Even there, the true poet brings forth from nature more than nature says to the common ear or reveals to the common eye. The strict imitation of nature has always in it a something trite and mean—a man who mimics the cackle of the goose or the squeak of a pig, so truthfully, that for the moment he deceives us—attains but a praise that debases him. Nor this because there is something in the cackle of the goose, and the squeak of pig, that in itself has a mean association; for as Kant says truly, “Even a man’s exact imitation of the song of the nightingale displeases us when we discover that it is a mimicry, and not the nightingale.” Art does not imitate nature, but it founds itself on the study of nature—takes from nature the selections which best accord with its own intention, and then bestows on them that which nature does not possess—viz., the mind and the soul of man.

Just as he is but a Chinese kind of painter, who seeks to give us, in exact prosaic detail, every leaf in a tree, which, if we want to see only a tree, we could see in a field much better than in a picture; so he is but a prosaic and mechanical pretender to imagination who takes a man out of real life, gives us his photograph, and says, “I have copied nature.” If I want to see that kind of man I could see him better in Oxford Street than in a novel. The great artist deals with large generalities, broad types of life and character, and though he may take flesh and blood for his model, he throws into the expression of the figure a something which elevates the model into an idealised image. A porter sate to Correggio for the representation of a saint; but Correggio so painted the porter, that the porter, on the canvass, was lost in the saint.

Some critics have contended that the delineation of character artistically—viz., through the selection of broad generalities in the complex nature of mankind, rather than in the observation of particulars by the portraiture of an individual—fails of the verisimilitude and reality—of the flesh-and-blood likeness to humanity—which all vivid delineation of human character necessarily requires. But this objection is sufficiently confuted by a reference to the most sovereign masterpieces of imaginative literature. The principal characters in Homer—viz., Achilles, Hector, Ulysses, Nestor, Paris, Thersites, &c.—are so remarkably the types of large and enduring generalities in human character, that, in spite of all changes of time and manners, we still classify and designate individuals under those antique representative names. We call such or such a man the Ulysses, or Nestor, or Achilles, or Thersites of his class or epoch. Virgil, on the contrary, has, in Æneas, but a feeble shadow reflected from no bodily form with which we are familiar, precisely because Æneas is not a type of any large and lasting generality in human character, but a poetised and half-allegorical silhouette of Augustus. There is, indeed, an antagonistic difference between fictitious character and biographical character. In biography, truth must be sought in the preference of particulars to generals; in imaginative creations truth is found in the preference of generals to particulars. We recognise this distinction more immediately with respect to the former. In biography, and indeed in genuine history, character appears faithful and vivid in proportion as it stands clear from all æsthetic purposes in the mind of the delineator. The moment the biographer or historian seeks to drape his personages in the poetic mantle, to subject their lives and actions to the poetic or idealising process, we are immediately and rightly seized with distrust of his accuracy. When he would dramatise his characters into types, they are unfaithful as likenesses. In like manner, if we carefully examine, we shall see that when the Poet takes on himself the task of the Biographer, and seeks to give minute representations of living individuals, his characters become conventional—only partially accurate—the accuracy being sought by exaggerating trivial peculiarities into salient attributes, rather than by the patient exposition of the concrete qualities which constitute the interior nature of living men. Satire or eulogy obtrudes itself unconsciously to the artist; and mars the catholic and enduring truthfulness which, in works of imagination, belongs exclusively to the invention of original images for æsthetic ends.

Goethe, treating of the drama, has said, that “to be theatrical a piece must be symbolical; that is to say, every action must have an importance of its own, and it must tend to one more important still.” It is still more important, for dramatic effect, that the dramatis personæ should embody attributes of passion, humour, sentiment, character, with which large miscellaneous audiences can establish sympathy; and sympathy can be only established by such a recognition of a something familiar to our own natures, or to our conception of our natures, as will allure us to transport ourselves for the moment into the place of those who are passing through events which are not familiar to our actual experience. None of us have gone through the events which form the action of Othello or Phèdre; but most of us recognise in our natures, or our conceptions of our natures, sufficient elements for ardent love or agonising jealousy, to establish a sympathy with the agencies by which, in Othello and Phèdre, those passions are expressed. Thus, the more forcibly the characters interest the generalities of mankind which compose an audience, the more truthfully they must represent what such generalities of mankind have in common—in short, the more they will be types, and the less they will be portraits. Some critics have supposed that, in the delineation of types, the artist would fall into the frigid error of representing mere philosophical abstractions. This, however, is a mistake which the poet who comprehends and acts upon the first principle of his art—viz., the preference of generals to particulars—will be the less likely to commit, in proportion as such generals are vivified into types of humanity. For he is not seeking to personate allegorically a passion; but to show the effects of the passion upon certain given forms of character under certain given situations: And he secures the individuality required, and avoids the lifeless pedantry of an allegorised abstraction, by reconciling passion, character, and situation with each other; so that it is always a living being in whom we sympathise. And the rarer and more unfamiliar the situation of life in which the poet places his imagined character, the more in that character itself we must recognise relations akin to our own flesh and blood, in order to feel interest in its fate. Thus, in the hands of great masters of fiction, whether dramatists or novelists, we become unconsciously reconciled, not only to unfamiliar, but to improbable, nay, to impossible situations, by recognising some marvellous truthfulness to human nature in the thoughts, feelings, and actions of the character represented, granting that such a character could be placed in such a situation. The finest of Shakespeare’s imaginary characters are essentially typical. No one could suppose that the poet was copying from individuals of his acquaintance in the delineations of Hamlet, Macbeth, Othello, Iago, Angelo, Romeo. They are as remote from portraiture as are the conceptions of Caliban and Ariel. In fine, the distinctive excellence of Shakespeare’s highest characters is that, while they embody truths the most subtle, delicate, and refining in the life and organisation of men, those truths are so assorted as to combine with the elements which humanity has most in common. And it is obvious to any reader of ordinary reflection, that this could not be effected if the characters themselves, despite all that is peculiar to each, were not, on the whole, typical of broad and popular divisions in the human family.

Turning to prose fiction, if we look to the greatest novel which Europe has yet produced (meaning by the word novel a representation of familiar civilised life)—viz., ‘Gil Blas’—we find the characters therein are vivid and substantial, capable of daily application to the life around us, in proportion as they are types and not portraits—such as Ambrose Lamela, Fabricio, the Archbishop of Toledo, &c.; and the characters that really fail of truth and completion are those which were intended to be portraits of individuals—such as Olivares, the Duke de Lerma, the Infant of Spain, &c. And if it be true that, in Sangrado, Le Sage designed the portrait of the physician Hecquet (the ingenious author of the “Système de la Trituration),” and, in the poetical charlatan Triaquero, aimed at a likeness of Voltaire, all we can say is, that no two portraits can be more unfaithful to the originals; and whatever belongs to the characters worthy the genius of the author is to be found in those strokes and touches by which the free play of humour involuntarily destroys the exactitude of portraiture. Again, with that masterpiece of prose romance or fantasy ‘Don Quixote,’ the character of the hero, if it could be regarded as that of an individual whom Cervantes found in life, would be only an abnormal and morbid curiosity subjected to the caricature of a satirist. But regarded as a type of certain qualities which are largely diffused throughout human nature, the character is psychologically true, and artistically completed; hence we borrow the word “Quixotic” whenever we would convey the idea of that extravagant generosity of enthusiasm for the redress of human wrongs, which, even in exciting ridicule, compels admiration and conciliates love. The grandeur of the conception of ‘Don Quixote’ is its fidelity to a certain nobleness of sentiment, which, however latent or however modified, exists in every genuinely noble nature. And hence, perhaps, of all works of broad humour, ‘Don Quixote’ is that which most approximates the humorous to the side of the sublime.

The reflective spirit of our age has strongly tended towards the development of a purpose in fiction, symbolical in a much more literal sense of the word than Goethe intended to convey in the extract I have quoted on the symbolical nature of theatrical composition. Besides the interest of plot and incident, another interest is implied, more or less distinctly or more or less vaguely, which is that of the process and working out of a symbolical purpose interwoven with the popular action. Instead of appending to the fable a formal moral, a moral signification runs throughout the whole fable, but so little obtrusively, that, even at the close, it is to be divined by the reader, not explained by the author. This has been a striking characteristic of the art of our century. In the former century it was but very partially cultivated, and probably grows out of that reaction from materialism which distinguishes our age from the last. Thus—to quote the most familiar illustrations I can think of—in Goethe’s novel of ‘Wilhelm Meister,’ besides the mere interest of the incidents, there is an interest in the inward signification of an artist’s apprenticeship in art, of a man’s apprenticeship in life. In ‘Transformation,’ by Mr Hawthorne, the mere story of outward incident can never be properly understood, unless the reader’s mind goes along with the exquisite mysticism which is symbolised by the characters. In that work, often very faulty in the execution, exceedingly grand in the conception, are typified the classical sensuous life, through Donato; the Jewish dispensation, through Miriam; the Christian dispensation, through Hilda, who looks over the ruins of Rome from her virgin chamber amidst the doves.

To our master novelists of a former age—to Defoe, Fielding, Richardson, and Smollett—this double plot, if so I may call it, was wholly unknown. Swift, indeed, apprehended it in ‘Gulliver’s Travels,’ which I consider the greatest poem—that is, the greatest work of pure imagination and original invention—of the age in which he lived; and Johnson divined it in ‘Rasselas,’ which, but for the interior signification, would be the faulty and untruthful novel which Lord Macaulay has, I venture to opine, erroneously declared it to be. Lord Macaulay censures ‘Rasselas’ because the Prince of Abyssinia does not talk like an Abyssinian. Now, it seems to me that a colouring faithful to the manners of Abyssinia, is a detail so trivial in reference to the object of the author of a philosophical romance, that it is more artistic to omit than to observe it. Rasselas starts at once, not from a positive but from an imagined world—he starts from the Happy Valley to be conducted (in his progress through actual life, to the great results of his search after a happiness more perfect than that of the Happy Valley) to the Catacombs. This is the interior poetical signification of the tale of ‘Rasselas’—the final result of all departure from the happy land of contented ignorance is to be found at the grave. There, alone, a knowledge happier than ignorance awaits the seeker beyond the catacombs. For a moral so broad, intended for civilised readers, any attempt to suit colouring and manners to Abyssinian savages would have been, not an adherence to, but a violation of, Art. The artist here wisely disdains the particulars—he is dealing with generals.

Thus Voltaire’s ‘Zadig’ is no more a Babylonian than Johnson’s ‘Rasselas’ is an Abyssinian. Voltaire’s object of philosophical satire would have been perfectly lost if he had given us an accurate and antiquarian transcript of the life of the Chaldees; and, indeed, the worst parts in ‘Zadig’ (speaking artistically), are those in which the author does, now and then, assume a quasi antique oriental air, sadly at variance with meanings essentially modern, couched in irony essentially French.

But the writer who takes this duality of purpose—who unites an interior symbolical signification with an obvious popular interest in character and incident—errs, firstly, in execution, if he render his symbolical meaning so distinct and detailed as to become obviously allegorical—unless, indeed, as in the ‘Pilgrim’s Progress,’ it is avowedly an allegory; and, secondly, he errs in artistic execution of his plan, whenever he admits a dialogue not closely bearing on one or the other of his two purposes, and whenever he fails in merging the two into an absolute unity at the end.

Now, the fault I find chiefly with novelists is their own contempt for their craft. A clever and scholarlike man enters into it with a dignified contempt. “I am not going to write,” he says, “a mere novel.” What, then, is he going to write? What fish’s tail will he add to the horse’s head? A tragic poet might as well say, “I am not going to write a mere tragedy.” The first essential to success in the art you practise is respect for the art itself. Who could ever become a good shoemaker if he did not have a profound respect for the art of making shoes? There is an ideal even in the humblest mechanical craft. A shoemaker destined to excel his rivals will always have before his eye the vision of a perfect shoe, which he is always striving to realise, and never can. It was well said by Mr Hazlitt, “That the city prentice who did not think the Lord Mayor in his gilded coach was the greatest of human beings would come to be hanged.” Whatever our calling be, we can never rise in it unless we exalt, even to an exaggerated dignity, the elevation of the calling itself. We are noble peasants or noble kings just in proportion as we form a lofty estimate of the nobility that belongs to peasants or the nobility that belongs to kings.

We may despair of the novelist who does not look upon a novel as a consummate work of art—who does not apply to it, as Fielding theoretically, as Scott practically, did, the rules which belong to the highest order of imagination. Of course he may fail of his standard, but he will fail less in proportion as the height of his standard elevates his eye and nerves his sinews.

The first object of a novelist is to interest his reader; the next object is the quality of the interest. Interest in his story is essential, or he will not be read; but if the quality of the interest be not high, he will not be read a second time. And if he be not read a second time by his own contemporaries, the chance is that he will not be read once by posterity. The degree of interest is for the many—the quality of interest for the few. But the many are proverbially fickle, the few are constant. Steadfast minorities secure, at last, the success of great measures, and confirm, at last, the fame of great writings.

I have said that many who, in a healthful condition of our stage, would be dramatists, become novelists. But there are some material distinctions between the dramatic art and the narrative—distinctions as great as those between the oratorical style and the literary. Theatrical effects displease in a novel. In a novel much more than in a drama must be explained and accounted for. On the stage the actor himself interprets the author; and a look, a gesture, saves pages of writing. In a novel the author elevates his invention to a new and original story; in a drama, I hold that the author does well to take at least the broad outlines of a story already made. It is an immense advantage to him to find the tale he is to dramatise previously told, whether in a history, a legend, a romance, or in the play of another age or another land; and the more the tale be popularly familiarised to the audience, the higher will be the quality of the interest he excites. Thus, in the Greek tragedy, the story and the characters were selected from the popular myths. Thus Shakespeare takes his story either from chronicles or novels. Thus Corneille, Racine, and Voltaire take, from scenes of antiquity the most familiarly known, their fables and their characters. Nor is it only an advantage to the dramatist that the audience should come to the scene somewhat prepared by previous association for the nature of the interest invoked; it is also an advantage to the dramatist that his invention—being thus relieved from the demand on its powers in what, for the necessities of the dramatic art, is an unimportant if not erroneous direction of art—is left more free to combine the desultory materials of the borrowed story into the harmony of a progressive plot—to reconcile the actions of characters, whose existence the audience take for granted, with probable motives—and, in a word, to place the originality there where alone it is essential to the drama—viz., in the analysis of the heart, in the delineation of passion, in the artistic development of the idea and purpose which the drama illustrates through the effects of situation and the poetry of form.

But in the narrative of prose fiction an original story is not an auxiliary or erroneous, but an essential, part of artistic invention; and even where the author takes the germ of his subject and the sketch of his more imposing characters from History, he will find that he will be wanting in warmth of interest if the tale he tells be not distinct from that of the history he presses into his service—more prominently brought forward, more minutely wrought out—and the character of the age represented, not only through the historical characters introduced, but those other and more general types of life which he will be compelled to imagine for himself. This truth is recognised at once when we call to mind such masterpieces in historical fiction as ‘Ivanhoe,’ ‘Kenilworth,’ ‘Quentin Durward,’ and ‘I Promessi Sposi.’

In the tragic drama, however, historical subjects appear to necessitate a different treatment from that which most conduces to the interest of romantic narrative. There is a dignity in historical characters which scarcely permits them to be transferred to the stage without playing before the audience the important parts which they played in life. When they enter on the scene they excite a predominating interest, and we should not willingly see them deposed into secondary agencies in the conduct of the story. They ought not to be introduced at all, unless in fitting correspondence with our notions of the station they occupied and the influence they exercised in the actual world; and thus, whether they are made fated victims through their sufferings, or fateful influences through their power, still, in the drama, it is through them that the story moves: them the incidents affect—them the catastrophe involves—whether for their triumph or their fall.

The drama not necessitating an original fable nor imaginary characters, that which it does necessitate in selecting a historical subject is, the art of so arranging and concentrating events in history as to form a single action, terminating in a single end, wrought through progressive incidents clearly linked together. It will be seen that the dramatic treatment is, in this respect, opposed to the purely historical treatment; for in genuine history there are innumerable secondary causes tending to each marked effect, which the dramatist must wholly eliminate or set aside. He must, in short, aim at generals to the exclusion of particulars.

And thus, as his domain is the passions, he must seek a plot which admits of situations for passion, and characters in harmony with such situations. Great historical events in themselves are rarely dramatic—they are made so on the stage by the appeal to emotions with which, in private life, the audience are accustomed to sympathise. The preservation of the Republic of Venice from a conspiracy would have an interest in history from causes appealing to political reasoning, that would be wholly without interest on the stage. The dramatist, therefore, places the preservation of Venice in the struggle of a woman’s heart between the conflicting passions, with which, in private life, the audience could most readily sympathise. According as Belvidera acts, as between her husband and her father, Venice will be saved or lost. This is dramatic treatment—it is not historical. All delineations of passion involve the typical; because whoever paints a passion common to mankind presents us with a human type of that passion, varied, indeed, through the character of an individual and the situations in which he is placed; but still, in the expression of the passion itself, sufficiently germane to all in whom that passion exists, whether actively or latently, to permit the spectator to transfer himself into the place and person of him who represents it. Hence the passions of individuals, though affecting only themselves, or a very confined range of persons connected with them, command, in reality, a far wider scope in artistic treatment than the political events affecting millions in historical fact. For political events, accurately and dispassionately described, are special to the time and agents—they are traced through the logic of the reason, which only a comparative few exercise, and even the few exercise it in the calm of their closets, they do not come into the crowd of a theatre for its exercise. But the passions of love, ambition, jealousy—the conflict between opposing emotions of affection and duty—expressed in the breast of an individual, are not special,—they are universal. And before a dramatic audience the safety of a state is merged or ignored in the superior interest felt in the personation of some emotion more ardent than any state interest, and only more ardent because universal amongst mankind in all states and all times. If the domestic interest be the strongest of which the drama is capable, it is because it is the interest in which the largest number of human breasts can concur, and in which the poet who creates it can most escape from particulars into generals. In the emancipation of Switzerland from the Austrian yoke, history can excite our interest in the question whether William Tell ever existed—and in showing the large array of presumptive evidence against the popular story of his shooting the apple placed on his son’s head. But in the drama William Tell is the personator of the Swiss liberties; and the story of the apple, in exciting the domestic interest of the relationship between father and son, is that very portion of history which the dramatic artist will the most religiously conserve,—obtaining therein one incalculable advantage for his effect—viz., that it is not his own invention, and therefore of disputable probability; but, whether fable or truth in the eyes of the historical critic, so popularly received and acknowledged as a truth, that the audience are prepared to enter into the emotions of the father, and the peril of the son.

It is, then, not in the invention of a story, nor in the creation of imaginary characters, that a dramatist proves his originality as an artist, but in the adaptation of a story, found elsewhere, to a dramatic purpose; and in the fidelity, not to historical detail, but to psychological and metaphysical truth with which he reconciles the motives and conduct of the characters he selects from history, to the situations in which they are placed, so as to elicit for them, under all that is peculiar to their nature or their fates, the necessary degree of sympathy from emotions of which the generality of mankind are susceptible.

But to the narrator of fiction—to the story-teller—the invention of fable and of imaginary character is obviously among the legitimate conditions of his art; and a fable purely original has in him a merit which it does not possess in the tragic or comic poet.

On the other hand, the skilful mechanism of plot, though not without considerable value in the art of narrative, is much less requisite in the Novelist than in the Dramatist. Many of the greatest prose fictions are independent of plot altogether. It is only by straining the word to a meaning foreign to the sense it generally conveys, that we can recognise a plot in ‘Don Quixote,’ and scarcely any torture of the word can make a plot out of ‘Gil Blas.’ It is for this reason that the novel admits of what the drama never should admit—viz., the operation of accident in the conduct of the story: the villain, instead of coming to a tragic close through the inevitable sequences of the fate he has provoked, may be carried off, at the convenient time, by a stroke of apoplexy, or be run over by a railway train. Nevertheless, in artistic narrative, accident, where it affects a dénouement, should be very sparingly employed. Readers, as well as critics, feel it to be a blot in the story of ‘Rob Roy’ when the elder brothers of Rashleigh Osbaldistone are killed off by natural causes unforeseen and unprepared for in the previous train of events narrated, in order to throw Rashleigh into a position which the author found convenient for his ultimate purpose.

A novel of high aim requires, of course, delineation of character, and with more patient minuteness, than the drama; and some novels live, indeed, solely through the delineation of character; whereas there are some tragedies in which the characters, when stripped of theatrical costume, are very trivial, but which, despite the poverty of character, are immortal, partly from the skill of the plot, partly from the passion which is wrought out of the situations, and principally, perhaps, from the beauty of form—the strength and harmony of the verse. This may be said of the French drama generally, and of Racine in especial. The tragic drama imperatively requires passion—the comic drama humour or wit; but a novel may be a very fine one without humour, passion, or wit—it may be made great in its way (though that way is not the very highest one) by delicacy of sentiment, interest of story, playfulness of fancy, or even by the level tenor of everyday life, not coarsely imitated, but pleasingly idealised. Still mystery is one of the most popular and effective sources of interest in a prose narrative, and sometimes the unravelling of it constitutes the entire plot. Every one can remember the thrill with which he first sought to fathom the dark secret in ‘Caleb Williams’ or ‘The Ghost-Seer.’ Even in the comic novel, the great founder of that structure of art has obtained praise for perfection of plot almost solely from the skill with which Tom Jones’s parentage is kept concealed; the terror, towards the end, when the hero seems to have become involved in one of the crimes from which the human mind most revolts, and the pleased surprise with which that terror is relieved by the final and unexpected discovery of his birth, with all the sense of the many fine strokes of satire in the commencement of the tale, which are not made clear to us till the close.

To prose fiction there must always be conceded an immense variety in the modes of treatment—a bold licence of loose capricious adaptation of infinite materials to some harmonious unity of interest, which even the most liberal construction of dramatic licence cannot afford to the drama. We need no lengthened examination of this fact; we perceive at once that any story can be told, but comparatively very few stories can be dramatised. And hence some of the best novels in the world cannot be put upon the stage; while some, that have very little merit as novels, have furnished subject-matter for the greatest plays in the modern world. The interest in a drama must be consecutive, sustained, progressive—it allows of no longueurs. But the interest of a novel may be very gentle, very irregular—may interpose long conversations in the very midst of action—always provided, however, as I have before said, that they bear upon the ulterior idea for which the action is invented. Thus we have in ‘Wilhelm Meister’ long conversations on art or philosophy just where we want most to get on with the story—yet, without those conversations, the story would not have been worth the telling; and its object could not, indeed, be comprehended—its object being the accomplishment of a human mind in the very subjects on which the conversations turn. So, in many of the most animated tales of Sir Walter Scott, the story pauses for the sake of some historical disquisition necessary to make us understand the altered situations of the imagined characters. I need not say that all such delays to the action would be inadmissible in the drama. Hence an intelligent criticism must always allow a latitude to artistic prose fiction which it does not accord to the dramatic, nor indeed to any other department of imaginative representation of life and character. I often see in our Reviews a charge against some novel, that this or that is “a defect of art,” which is, when examined, really a beauty in art—or a positive necessity which that department of art could not avoid—simply because the Reviewer has been applying to the novel rules drawn from the drama, and not only inapplicable, but adverse, to the principles which regulate the freedom of the novel. Now, in reality, where genius is present, art cannot be absent. Unquestionably, genius may make many incidental mistakes in art, but if it compose a work of genius, that work must be a work of art on the whole. For just as virtue consists in a voluntary obedience to moral law, so genius consists in a voluntary obedience to artistic law. And the freedom of either is this, that the law is pleasing to it—has become its second nature. Both human virtue and human genius must err from time to time; but any prolonged disdain, or any violent rupture, of the law by which it exists, would be death to either. There is this difference to the advantage of virtue (for, happily, virtue is necessary to all men, and genius is but the gift of few), that we can lay down rules by the observance of which any one can become a virtuous man; but we can lay down no rules by which any one can become a man of genius. No technical rules can enable a student to become a great dramatist or a great novelist; but there is in art an inherent distinction between broad general principles and technical rules. In all genuine art there is a sympathetic, affectionate, and often quite unconscious adherence to certain general principles. The recognition of these principles is obtained through the philosophy of criticism; first, by a wide and patient observation of masterpieces of art, which are to criticism what evidences of fact are to science; and next, by the metaphysical deduction, from those facts, of the principles which their concurrence serves to establish. By the putting forth of these principles we cannot make bad writers good, nor mediocre writers great; but we may enable the common reader to judge with more correctness of the real quality of merit, or the real cause of defect, in the writers he peruses; and by directing and elevating his taste, rectify and raise the general standard of literature. We may do more than that—we may much facilitate the self-tuition that all genius has to undergo before it attains to its full development, in the harmony between its freedom and those elements of truth and beauty which constitute its law. As to mere technical rules, each great artist makes them for himself; he does not despise technical rules, but he will not servilely borrow them from other artists; he forms his own. They are the by-laws which his acquaintance with his special powers lays down as best adapted to their exercise and their sphere. Apelles is said to have made it a by-law to himself to use only four colours in painting: probably Apelles found his advantage in that restraint, or he would not have imposed it on his pallet. But if Zeuxis found that he, Zeuxis, painted better by using a dozen colours than by confining himself to four, he would have used a dozen, or he would not have been Zeuxis.

On careful and thoughtful examination we shall find, that neither in narrative nor dramatic fiction do great writers differ on the principles of art in the works which posterity accepts from them as great—whereas they all differ more or less in technical rules. There is no great poetic artist, whether in narrative or the drama, who, in his best works, ever represents a literal truth rather than the idealised image of a truth—who ever condescends to servile imitations of nature—who ever prefers the selection of particulars, in the delineation of character or the conception of fable, to the expression of generals—who does not aim at large types of mankind rather than the portraiture of contemporaries—or, at least, wherever he may have been led to reject these principles, it will be in performances that are allowed to be beneath him. But merely technical rules are no sooner laid down by the critics of one age, than they are scornfully violated by some triumphant genius in the next. Technical rules have their value for the artist who employs them, and who usually invents and does not borrow them. Those that he imposes on himself he seldom communicates to others. They are his secret—they spring from his peculiarities of taste; and it is the adherence to those rules which constitutes what we sometimes call his style, but more properly his manner. It is by such rules, imposed on himself, that Pope forms his peculiar cæsura, and mostly closes his sense at the end of a couplet. When this form of verse becomes trite and hackneyed, up rises some other poet, who forms by-laws for himself, perhaps quite the reverse. All that we should then ask of him is success: if his by-laws enable him to make as good a verse as Pope’s in another way, we should be satisfied; if not—not. One main use in technical rules to an author, if imposed on himself, or freely assented to by himself, is this—the interposition of some wholesome impediment to the over-facility which otherwise every writer acquires by practice. And as this over-facility is naturally more apt to be contracted in prose than in verse, and in the looseness or length of the novel or romance, than in any other more terse and systematic form of imaginative fiction—so I think it a wise precaution in every prolific novelist to seek rather to multiply, than emancipate himself from, the wholesome restraints of rules; provided always that such rules are the natural growth of his own mind, and confirmed by his own experience of their good effect on his productions. For if Art be not the imitator of Nature, it is still less the copyist of Art. Its base is in the study of Nature—not to imitate, but first to select, and then to combine, from Nature those materials into which the artist can breathe his own vivifying idea; and as the base of Art is in the study of Nature, so its polish and ornament must be sought by every artist in the study of those images which the artists before him have already selected, combined, and vivified; not, in such study, to reproduce a whole that represents another man’s mind, and can no more be born again than can the man who created it; but again to select, to separate, to recombine—to go through the same process in the contemplation of Art which he employed in the contemplation of Nature; profiting by all details, but grouping them anew by his own mode of generalisation, and only availing himself of the minds of others for the purpose of rendering more full and complete the realisation of that idea of truth or beauty which has its conception in his own mind. For that can be neither a work of art (in the æsthetic sense of the word) nor a work of genius in any sense of the word, which does not do a something that, as a whole, has never been done before; which no other living man could have done; and which never, to the end of time, can be done again—no matter how immeasurably better may be the other things which other men may do. ‘Ivanhoe’ and ‘Childe Harold’ were produced but the other day; yet already it has become as impossible to reproduce an ‘Ivanhoe’ or a ‘Childe Harold’ as to reproduce an ‘Iliad.’ A better historical romance than ‘Ivanhoe,’ or a better contemplative poem than ‘Childe Harold,’ may be written some day or other; but, in order to be better, it must be totally different. The more a writer is imitated the less he can be reproduced. No one of our poets has been so imitated as Pope, not because he is our greatest or our most fascinating poet, but because he is the one most easily imitated by a good versifier. But is there a second Pope, or will there be a second Pope, if our language last ten thousand years longer?

When the announcement first appeared that a biography of the late Sir Howard Douglas was in progress, the impression made upon our minds was anything but favourable to the enterprise. Of the good and gifted man himself, as he mixed in general society, our recollections were indeed of the most pleasurable kind. He stood before us with his kindly manner, his noble appearance, his high bearing, his generous nature, the perfect model of what an English officer and gentleman ought to be. And casting our eyes across the room to the shelf on which his ‘Naval Gunnery’ and ‘Military Bridges’ were ranged, we thought of him as a man of science more than ordinarily well read in his profession. But not all our desire to find in connection with him materials for a consecutive history, helped us to any other conclusion than this, that the story of his life, if told at length, must be a dull one. We acknowledge, less with shame than with satisfaction and some surprise, that we were quite mistaken. Sir Howard Douglas’s career had more of romance about it than that of many a man who has filled a much larger space in the world’s observation. It was successful as far as it carried him, because a sound judgment controlled good abilities, and directed them to a wise end. And, above all, it reads this lesson to coming generations, that he who honestly seeks the wellbeing of others rarely fails, sooner or later, to secure his own. Nor must we omit to render to Sir Howard’s biographer the commendation which he deserves. Mr Fullom has executed his task well; neither overlaying his narrative with details, which sometimes weary, nor keeping back anything which might conduce to its completeness, he has given us one of the pleasantest books which, for some time past, has come under our notice.

The house of Douglas has from the earliest times been renowned in Scottish story. Its alliance with the royal family began in the fourteenth century, when the Lord of Dalkeith took to wife Mary the fifth daughter of James I. On this same Lord of Dalkeith the earldom of Morton was not long afterwards conferred by his brother-in-law, James II. From father to son, or from uncle to nephew, the earldom passed through twelve generations, and narrowly escaped coming in the thirteenth to the father of Sir Howard. But Charles Douglas, if he missed a coronet, won for himself a baronetcy and great distinction as a British sailor. He it was who, when Arnold and Montgomery besieged Quebec, forced his squadron through the ice on the St Lawrence and relieved the place. He it was who first of all constructed a flotilla for himself, and then swept the Canadian lakes of the rebel gunboats; and by-and-by, on the 12th of April 1782, he caught, as if by inspiration, that idea, the application of which enabled Admiral Rodney to break the enemy’s line, and to save at a critical moment the honour of the British fleet.

Of this Sir Charles Douglas, Howard was the eldest son by a second marriage. Sir Charles’s first wife, a foreign lady, had brought him two sons and a daughter, so that Howard’s prospects, so far as title and fortune were concerned, could not have been in his infancy very bright: and they would have been entirely overcast by the early death of his mother, had not her place been well supplied by a maternal aunt. Under the roof of this lady, Mrs Bailey of Olive Bank, near Musselburgh, the little fellow grew and prospered, repaying all the tenderness with which he was reared by his affectionate and gentle disposition, as well as by his industry and success over his books.

Howard’s brothers both entered the navy. This was natural, and it was perhaps equally so that Howard should desire to follow their example; but Sir Charles considered that, if his three sons were all to embrace the same profession, the chances were that they would only stand in each other’s way. He gave directions, therefore, that Howard should be educated for a different walk in life, and the boy ascended in due time from the charge of the governess to the grammar-school. Yet the child’s tastes were entirely naval all the while. He built toy ships, and sailed them on a pond in the garden; he made friends of the fisher-lads and cabin-boys along the coast, and became so initiated into the mysteries of their craft that none among them could better manage than he a fishing-boat or a ship’s yawl. It thus became clear to Sir Charles Douglas, who visited his sister in 1789, previously to assuming the command on a foreign station, that nature had designed his youngest son for a career similar to his own, and he made up his mind to take Howard with him, and to rate him as a midshipman on board the flag-ship. But the coveted flag he was never destined to hoist. A sudden illness carried him off while the guest of his sister, and Howard’s lot was cast for him in the army.

The Royal Academy at Woolwich was more easily entered in those days than it is now. A pass examination was, however, required; and young Douglas, strange to say, in spite of his marked bias for practical mechanics, failed in the elements of geometry. But he had made so good a figure in other respects, and appeared so cast down by the circumstance, that the examiner, Dr Hutton, encouraged him to try again; and three weeks spent with a clever crammer sufficed to bring him up to the mark. He therefore presented himself a second time, passed, and was admitted.

There is one defect in Mr Fullom’s history which puts his readers to considerable inconvenience—he is not very accurate in his dates. We do not quite make out, for example, when young Douglas made his way into the Academy, or how long he continued a cadet; but we are told, what is extremely probable in itself, that he was much beloved by his contemporaries, and that he soon took the lead among them both in the playground and in the class-room. His passion for naval affairs continued as strong as ever, and he indulged it by frequent boat excursions on the Thames. He swam, also, like a duck, and paid many a furtive visit to Deptford dockyard, where he studied by fits and starts the art of shipbuilding. His vacations he spent in Scotland, passing to and from Leith in one of the smacks;—an intense delight to him, because he was instructed by the crews in the arts of knotting and splicing, of plaiting points and gaskets, of making gammets, and heaving the lead. It is not often that a youth displays such unmistakable aptitude for a career which he is not destined to follow; and it still more rarely happens that the amusements of the boy, whom circumstances in after life place in a groove apparently wide apart from them, turn out to have been by no means the least useful branches of his education, either to himself or to others.

After completing his college course, Douglas received a lieutenant’s commission, and in 1795 assumed the command of a small artillery corps in the north of England. His headquarters were in Tynemouth Castle, and he had detachments at Sunderland, Hartlepool, and Berwick-upon-Tweed. His entire force in gunners fell short of fifty men; yet this was at a time when the risk of invasion appeared to be imminent, and Douglas and his gunners were necessarily exposed to bear the brunt of it. The young lieutenant felt how perfectly inefficient his force was, and cast about to devise some means of increasing it. He asked first for a reinforcement of artillerymen, which could not be afforded. He then suggested to the general officer of the district the propriety of drilling a portion of his infantry to the great-gun exercise; and himself, with unwearied diligence, instructed thirty men from each of the regiments quartered within many miles of Tynemouth. He was not, however, satisfied even with this—the thought struck him that he might enlist the sympathies of the fishermen and coasting sailors in the cause which he had at heart; and having obtained through General Balfour the sanction of the Government, he invited them to form themselves into companies of volunteer artillery. Upwards of five hundred fine fellows answered to the call; and the thoughtful lad had soon the satisfaction of knowing that danger, if it did come, would not find him unprepared, and that the merit of having provided a remedy for a great and acknowledged evil was entirely his own.

It is not to be supposed that the young man was so given up to serious matters as to turn away from the recreations common to his age and profession: on the contrary, Douglas seems to have been at Tynemouth the gayest of the gay. He danced well, rode well, established a yacht in which he made many adventurous cruises, and won the hearts of young and old by his frank and graceful manners. But sterner work awaited him, and the romance of his existence began.

Early in August 1795 he received orders to take charge of a detachment of troops, which, with women and children, were to proceed from Woolwich to Quebec. He joined the Phillis transport at Gravesend, and found himself the senior officer, with six subalterns besides himself on board. To him the prospect of a voyage across the Atlantic was a positive delight. What cared he about the inadequacy of accommodation, or the wretched nature of the food which was then issued to soldiers embarked? His thoughts were entirely given up to the great object of his boyish fancy—the actual navigation of a ship out of sight of land, and all the enterprise and excitement incident thereto. Never neglecting his own proper duties, he accordingly found time to make himself one of the crew, and, sharing their labours, and evincing perfect intelligence of all that was required, he won more than the goodwill, the confidence and respect of every one on board.

The Phillis was a slow sailer. She encountered various changes of weather, behaving, upon the whole, tolerably well, though sometimes uneasy and always uncomfortable. At last, however, a tempest overtook her about forty leagues to the east of the southern entrance of the Gulf of St Lawrence, and the sea swept over her decks, knocking the boats from their fastenings. The gale lasted all that day and throughout the night; but a lull came in the morning, and the women and children, who had been kept below, were allowed to come on deck. The same evening the officers entertained the skipper, and all were rejoicing in the prospect of escape from danger, when the mate suddenly broke into the cabin and requested the captain to follow him. Douglas guessed from the manner of the two men that something must be wrong. He ran up the companion-stair, and heard—for he could see nothing—the roar of breakers close ahead. The ship had drifted before the wind, and was already in imminent danger. Immediately the soldiers were ordered up, and, with their assistance, the best bower anchor was let go. But though it seemed to check the vessel for a moment, it soon began to drag; and, with breakers on the bow, practised eyes discovered that there was land on both quarters—that the ship was embayed.

It was evident, under such circumstances, that the single chance of saving the lives of those on board was to force the Phillis, if possible, round a projecting reef on her lee bow. But this could be done only by making more sail, and to go aloft at that moment and shake out reefs was a service of the utmost hazard. The seamen ordered to do so hung back, whereupon Douglas sprang into the shrouds, and, followed by two cabin-boys, accomplished the operation. The consequence was that the Phillis bore up and cleared the point, though very narrowly; but it was a mere respite from danger. The storm grew more and more tremendous. The boats could with difficulty be moved, and one of them (the long-boat) was scarce got over the side ere she went to pieces. The ship was now upon the rocks, and another boat was lowered chiefly by the exertions of the soldiers. But she in her turn seemed in danger of being broken to pieces; whereupon Douglas, followed by two officers, sprang in, hoping to fend her off from the ship’s side. Already she was more than half full of water, which compelled the three youths to spring back, in doing which Douglas missed his footing and fell into the sea. Happily he had divested himself of most of his clothing, and his skill as a swimmer stood him in good stead, for he rose upon the top of a wave, and one of his friends, seizing his collar at the moment, dragged him on to the deck.

Shipwreck under any circumstances is an awful thing. The wreck of the Phillis went on, so to speak, through two days and as many nights. Men and women went overboard; children died from exposure in their mothers’ arms. One poor fellow struck out in despair for the land, and was lost among the breakers. The first raft which the survivors constructed carried two of their number to the shore, who, regardless of the fate of their companions, immediately deserted. A second raft was put together, and on that Mr Douglas reached the land. He had carried a rope with him, and began immediately to construct a bridge. Fortunately the wind lulled at this moment, and the wreck was cleared of its living occupants. But scarcely was this done ere the Phillis went to pieces without an opportunity having been afforded of securing the means of subsistence even for a single day.

The sufferings of these poor people on the barren cliff to which they escaped were dreadful. Happily the waves brought ashore some pieces of cloth as well as a cask of wine and a quantity of smoked pork. But the sailors seized the wine and drank it; and the first night was spent in cold and misery, for the snow lay deep on the ground, and there was no fuel with which to make a fire. All lay down and slept—a sleep from which they would probably never have wakened had not Douglas been roused by a fearful scream, to which the wife of his servant gave utterance. She had gone mad from privations and excitement, and died shrieking to the last, so that her voice was heard over the wind and rain. She had outlived all the women who went on board at Gravesend, and not a child survived.

Mr Douglas was at this time barely nineteen years of age, yet such was the force of his character that all about him, seamen as well as soldiers, looked to him for instructions. He rescued a second cask of wine from being broached this time by soldiers, though not without a struggle. “We are all equals now,” said the leader of the mutineers; “we’ll take no orders from you or anybody else.” “Won’t you!” cried Douglas, springing at his throat with a knife; “you are under my command; and if you don’t obey, by heavens, I’ll kill you!” The man yielded; the small stock of provisions and wine was secured, and after a vain attempt to penetrate through the forest, the whole party returned again to the cliff—there to wait till either help should come from the sea, or famine do its work and destroy them.

A feeling of despair was beginning to gain the mastery, when one day the cry was heard, “A sail! a sail!” They had already set up a spar, and hoisted a piece of cloth upon it; but the object was small, and might not be discerned from a distance, and then what a fate awaited them! It was not, however, so ordered. The sail approached; she was a small schooner trading between St John and Great Jarvis; and the crew gave back the cheer which the poor castaways raised in their agony, crowding at the same time to the beach. They were all taken off and carried to the place whither the schooner was bound, and spent the winter, roughly but not unhappily, among the honest fishermen who had there established themselves.

The winter seemed long, the days being very short in that latitude. Not ungrateful, but tired of the monotony, Douglas purchased a whale-boat, and, having fitted it with a deck, determined, as soon as the season should advance a little, to risk a voyage to the West Indies. Several of his brother officers agreed to share the danger with him, and they got a St Lawrence pilot and a seaman from Newfoundland to join them. But a succession of heavy gales hindered them from starting till April was far spent. At last, just as their preparations were completed, there arrived in the harbour a schooner bound from Halifax to St John, the commander of which had heard of their misfortunes, and gone out of his way to offer them assistance. Adventurous as they were, Douglas and his friends did not hesitate to abandon their own project, and to avail themselves of the superior accommodation thus placed at their disposal. They were accordingly conveyed in the first instance to St John, Mr Douglas doing seaman’s duty throughout the voyage, and by-and-by to Halifax, whither, after discharging cargo, the schooner returned.

The Duke of Kent, the father of her present Majesty, was at that time Governor and Commander-in-Chief in Nova Scotia. He had heard of the fate of the Phillis, and of the sufferings of the crew and passengers, and sent an aide-de-camp to request that such of the officers as might be in a state to be moved, should present themselves at Government House. Douglas and his friend Mr Forbes obeyed the summons, and were most kindly treated by the Royal Duke. But their destination was Quebec, whither, as soon as means of transport could be found, they proceeded. The reception awarded them there, and especially Mr Douglas, was gratifying in the extreme. The important services rendered by the father to the colony had not yet passed out of men’s minds, and they believed that they saw in the son qualities which proved him worthy of his parentage. He was taken at once, so to speak, to the hearts of the people, and had the still higher gratification to find that the authorities, civil and military, entertained a just appreciation of his talents, and were determined to make use of them.

There was an alarm of a French fleet hovering near the coast, and not a single cruiser lay in the St Lawrence. The Governor became anxious, and having often observed Mr Douglas guiding with remarkable adroitness a sailing-boat in boisterous weather about the bay, he bethought him that the nautical skill of the young officer might be applied to better purposes than those of mere amusement. Douglas was sent for, and asked if he would be disposed to take command of an armed coaster, and go off as far as the Banks of Newfoundland in search of the enemy. He accepted the trust without a moment’s hesitation; and, carrying with him, in addition to a good crew, artillerymen enough to man his ten guns, he hoisted his pennant on board a schooner of 250 tons burden, and stood out to sea. Though never coming up with the French fleet—which, indeed, had steered in a different direction—he found more than one opportunity of showing how well qualified he was, under trying circumstances, to manage a ship of war, and probably to fight her. And many a time in after life he used to tell the story, adding that, “after all, a naval life was that for which nature had peculiarly fitted him.”

So passed a year in Lower Canada, at the close of which the roster of service carried Mr Douglas to Toronto, where he still found vent for his marine propensities on Lake Ontario. He became likewise a great sportsman, as well with the gun as with the fishing-rod, and made frequent incursions into the forests in search of game. This brought him more than once in contact with the Red men, over whom, by his cool courage and endurance of fatigue, he acquired a remarkable ascendancy. Among other circumstances worth noticing was his encounter in the bush with a young white girl, of surpassing beauty, who had lived among the Indians from her infancy. He states in his note-book that she had been carried off by a party of warriors who had ravaged a settlement, and that they treated her, as she grew up, with the utmost kindness and respect. “A strange chance discovered her to her brother, and he entreated her to return home; but she refused, declaring that she was perfectly happy, and could not support a different existence.”

In the autumn of 1798, tidings reached Mr Douglas of the death of the elder of his half-brothers. The event rendered necessary his immediate return to England, and he took a passage in the last ship of the season, a little brig, timber-laden and bound for Greenock. It seems to have been his destiny never to go to sea without encountering danger and difficulty. One night, shortly after clearing the Bay of St Lawrence, Mr Douglas was awakened by the vessel giving a sudden lurch, for which he could not account otherwise than by supposing she had struck on some sunken rock. He jumped out of bed, and, staying only to throw a greatcoat about him, ran upon deck. A brisk gale was blowing, and the brig, having got into the trough of the sea, staggered under single-reefed topsails, main-top-gallant-sails, and jib, and fore-and-aft main-sail, with the wind on the beam. The mate, whose watch it was, had got drunk, and gone below, and the helmsman seemed quite at a loss how to guide the rudder. Douglas saw that there was not a moment to be lost. He took the command of the ship, called up all hands, issued with clearness and promptitude orders which were instantly obeyed, and kept the vessel from foundering. The tumult brought the captain on deck, who stood by astonished and speechless. No sooner, however, had he satisfied himself of the untrustworthiness of the mate, than he directed the vessel to be put about, and would have returned to Quebec had not Mr Douglas volunteered to do mate’s duty during the remainder of the passage. There could be no hesitation on the captain’s part, after what he had just seen, to accede to this proposal: so the brig held her course, and arrived safe in the Clyde, where, with protestations of mutual respect and esteem, he and his friendly skipper parted.

Mr Douglas had not been long in Scotland before he fell in love, and soon afterwards married Miss Anne Dundas, a young lady of great personal beauty and cultivated mind. He obtained his promotion likewise in 1799; and having done duty for a while as adjutant of a battalion, he was subsequently posted to the horse-artillery. But better things than the command of a troop were in store for him. The military authorities had established at High Wyckham a cadet school, with a senior department attached to it, in which officers might be instructed for the Staff; and General Zamy, an old aide-de-camp of Frederick the Great, being appointed commandant, it was proposed to Captain Douglas that he should undertake the superintendence of the Staff College. Captain Douglas was not unnaturally reluctant to give up the proper line of his profession, but finding the Duke of York bent upon the arrangement, and being tempted to accede to it by the offer of a step of rank, he passed from the artillery into the line as a major, and took the place for which both his natural talents and acquired information eminently fitted him.

From 1804 up to 1814 Douglas continued to be connected with the educational department of the army. It would be impossible to overestimate the importance of the services which he rendered. He not only instructed candidates for Staff employment by lessons gathered from the past, but deduced, from his own clear perception of things, hints and suggestions which were then entirely new. He had many differences because of this habit with General Zamy, who, like veterans in general, was slow to believe that the tactics and strategy of his own youth could be improved upon. But in 1806 the old man retired, and Douglas, with the rank of lieutenant-colonel, took his place at the head of the establishment. A fresh impulse was immediately given to the course of study. Not surveying only, but pontooning, artillery, and the theory of the whole art of war, were taught, and those brilliant Staff officers sent out who in the Peninsular struggle gave to the Great Duke such efficient support. Sir Howard, however—for he had by this time succeeded by the death of another brother to the baronetcy—yearned for active employment in the field. He applied for and obtained permission to join Sir John Moore’s army, which he overtook just as the retreat from Benevente began; and he shared its fortunes both in the painful marches which it accomplished, and in the battle near Corunna, which enabled it to re-embark without dishonour. By-and-by, when the expedition to the Scheldt was fitted out, Sir Howard prevailed upon the Duke of York to appoint him to the Staff of Lord Chatham’s army as Deputy Quartermaster-General. The enterprise grievously failed; and the loss by disease among the troops and ships’ companies engaged was very severe. But even under such circumstances Sir Howard proved of great service to his chief: for having kept a journal of each day’s proceedings as it occurred, he was able to show, when examined concerning the causes of the failure, that by far the largest share of blame rested with the navy, or rather with the officer whom the Admiralty had placed at its head.

For two years subsequently to his return from Walcheren, Sir Howard led a quiet and useful life as head of the Military College. In 1811, however, a fresh opportunity was found for employing him abroad. The Government of that day put a far higher value on the services of the Spanish guerillas than they deserved, and were incredulous of Lord Wellington’s assurances, that on the regular armies of Spain no dependence could be placed. It seemed to Lord Liverpool and his colleagues that the Spaniards, if properly armed and supplied, were capable by their own valour of driving the French beyond the Pyrenees; and they made choice of Sir Howard Douglas to go among them, because they believed that he possessed talents and energy enough to awaken them to a sense of their duty. He received instructions, therefore, towards the end of July, to proceed without delay to Lord Wellington’s headquarters, and to arrange with him all details respecting his future proceedings. Perhaps there is no interval in the long and useful career of Sir Howard Douglas which afforded him more frequent opportunities of doing good service to his country than that which, extending over little more than a year, was spent by him in Spain; but the tale is one which will not bear condensation.

After conferring with Lord Wellington on the Portuguese frontier, Sir Howard rode across the country to Oporto, and thence took a passage by sea to Corunna. He entered there into relations with Spanish juntas, Spanish generals, and the chiefs of guerilla bands, and found them all, with the exception of one or two individuals belonging to the latter class, even more impracticable than he had been led to expect. He gave them first arms, money, clothing, and had the mortification to learn that the best battalions and batteries, as soon as they became fit for war, were shipped off for South America. He turned next to the irregulars, and succeeded in getting a levy en masse set on foot, which very much perplexed, and gave constant occupation to, the French troops scattered over that and the adjoining provinces. But the circumstance which more than any other affected his own fortunes, was a combined attack on the fortified convent of St Cintio Rey by Sir Home Popham’s squadron from the sea, and the guerilla band of Don Gaspar on shore. It was while watching the effect of the Venerable’s fire that Sir Howard became struck with the ignorance of the first principles of gunnery which manifested itself both among officers and men, and that he conceived the idea of applying, should leisure ever be afforded him, a proper remedy to the evil. From that idea emanated his first great treatise, to which the British navy owes so much, and of which the rulers of the British navy, the Lords of the Admiralty, did not condescend, for many months after it had been submitted to them, even to acknowledge the receipt.

There can be no doubt that to Sir Howard’s activity in Galicia the successful issues of Lord Wellington’s campaign, in the early summer of 1812, were greatly owing. Had he not managed to find employment for two whole divisions of French infantry, these, with a division of cavalry, must have joined Marmont’s army; in which case the battle of Salamanca would have either not been fought at all, or it might have ended less triumphantly than it did. But no man can work impossibilities; and the time arrived when, having accomplished the main purpose of his mission, Sir Howard received orders to return to England. He could not quit the Peninsula, however, without once again communicating with Lord Wellington, whom he found just about to undertake the siege of the Castle of Burgos. To Douglas’s practised eye the place appeared of immense strength in proportion to the means disposable for its reduction; and a private reconnaissance led him to conclude that the whole plan of attack was faulty. In both opinions he stood alone; yet such was the respect in which his judgment was held, that the chiefs of artillery and engineers communicated what he had said to Lord Wellington, and Lord Wellington sent for him. The following is Mr Fullom’s account of this interview:—“‘Well, Sir Howard, you have something to say about the siege?’ ‘I think the place is stronger than we supposed, my Lord.’ ‘Yes, by G—; but our way is to take the hornwork, and from there breach the wall, and then assault over the two advanced profiles.’ ‘I would submit to your Lordship whether our means are equal to such an attack?’ ‘I am not satisfied about our ammunition,’ replied Lord Wellington. ‘The enemy’s guns are 24-pounders, my Lord, and we have only three 18-pounders and five 24-pound howitzers. The 18-pounders will not breach the wall, and our fire must be overpowered, unless your Lordship brings up some guns from the ships at Santander.’ ‘How would you do that?’ ‘With draught oxen as far as the mountains, and then drag them on by hand; we can employ the peasantry, and put a hundred men to a gun.’ ‘It would take too long.’ ‘I think the place may be captured, with our present means, from the eastern front, my Lord,’ returned Sir Howard; and he disclosed his plan, with his reasons for thinking it the most practicable. Lord Wellington made no remark. Possibly he saw the defects of his own plan, but it had been deliberately adopted, and he was not convinced that it ought to be abandoned.”

Mr Fullom has not told this anecdote quite correctly. Sir Howard was more closely questioned as to the mode of conveyance for the guns, and answered more pertinently, than is here set down. He suggested that the 24-pounders should be dismounted, the guns placed in the boles of trees hollowed out, and the carriages run forward by themselves. Thus the narrowest track through woods and round rocks would suffice for the conveyance of the former, while the latter, being comparatively light, would offer no formidable resistance wherever men or bullocks could travel. Lord Wellington, however, adhered to his own plan, and sustained the only reverse which marks the progress of an experience in war extending wellnigh over a quarter of a century. It is just towards both parties to observe, that the baffled hero was too magnanimous not to acknowledge his error. “Douglas was right,” he exclaimed, as he mounted his horse to begin the retreat; “he was the only man who told me the truth.”

Sir Howard returned to England, and there resumed his occupations as a military instructor; but his mind was full of a project for forcing attention to gunnery on the chiefs of the navy; and the disastrous results of the first frigate-actions in the American war not a little quickened his zeal. He had a more herculean task before him, however, than he himself imagined. Strange to say, his disinclination to the study of pure mathematics had never been overcome; and now he found himself obliged to master all the arcana of the science, so far as these had any relation to the movement of a vessel through water under all possible contingencies. While pursuing these studies he effected such improvements in the reflecting circle and semicircle for land and marine surveying as attracted the attention of the Royal Society, which immediately elected him a member; and then he gave himself up steadily to the object for which all this abstruse study had been only the preparation. He produced a treatise in which every point connected with the theory and practice of artillery was handled. He discussed not only the power and range of various kinds of ordnance, with the uses of their several parts, and the effects of transit, windage, recoil, and suchlike, but he explained how a school of naval gunnery could be established, and submitted the whole in MS. for the consideration of the Lords of the Admiralty. Weeks and months passed by, however, without bringing him so much as a written acknowledgment of its receipt; and then, and not till then, he wrote privately to his friend Sir Graham Moore. Sir Graham made such apology as the case would admit of, and did his best to fix upon the subject the attention of his colleagues; but a year elapsed before any decided steps were taken. At last the scheme was adopted; and in 1819, Sir Howard, having first of all obtained the sanction of the Government, gave his valuable treatise to the world. It attracted at once the attention of scientific men both at home and abroad, and led to frequent correspondence between the author and all persons capable of appreciating and taking an interest in so important a matter.

Promoted to the rank of Major-General, Sir Howard was nominated in 1824 to the Governorship of New Brunswick, and to the command of the troops stationed there, and in Nova Scotia, Cape Breton, Prince Edward Island, Newfoundland, and Bermuda. Mr Fullom tells an amusing story of Sir Howard being met on the pier at Halifax by Mr Justice Haliburton, which fails in this respect, that it happens unfortunately not to be accurate. It was not Sam Slick, but his cousin of the same name, who in 1796 had served in the Fusiliers, and in 1824 greeted his old comrade as Governor of New Brunswick. But there is so much of vraisemblance in the matter, that the anecdote may very well remain where it is. On the other hand, Mr Fullom’s narrative of Sir Howard’s administration of the province is not only correct to the letter, but extremely interesting. It came to pass while he was there that one of those fires occurred, of the appalling effects of which we in this old world of Europe can form no conception. It was an unusually dry summer, the third of a succession of such, when first in the town, and by-and-by far off in the forest, flames suddenly broke out. Government House was the first to be burned down; then whole streets ignited at once; and just as a line began to be drawn between what remained of the town and the ashes of dwellings consumed, a lurid glare, seen afar off, gave warning that even a worse calamity was in progress.

“Several days elapsed before the fire subsided, and then it became masked by a smoke which darkened the whole country. But night proved that it had not burned out; for showers of flame shot up at intervals, and trees stood glaring in the dark, while the mingled black and red of the sky seemed its embers overhead. Thus a week passed, when Sir Howard determined to penetrate the forest, and visit the different settlements. A friend has described his parting with Lady Douglas and his daughters, whose pale faces betrayed their emotion, though they forbore to oppose his design, knowing that nothing would keep him from his duty. But this was not understood by others, and the gentlemen of the town gathered round his rough country waggon at the door, and entreated him to wait a few days, pointing to the mountains of smoke, and declaring that he must be suffocated if he escaped being burned. He thanked them for their good feeling, grasped their hands, and mounted the waggon. It dashed off at a gallop, and wondering eyes followed it to the woods, where it disappeared in the smoke.

“The devastation he met exceeded his worst fears; for the settlements he went to visit no longer existed. The fire seems to have burst in every quarter at once; for it broke out at Miramichi the same moment as at Fredericktown, though one hundred and fifty miles lay between. But here its aspect was even more dreadful, and its ravages more appalling, as Miramichi stood in the forest completely girt round except where escape was shut off by the river. Many were in bed when they heard the alarm; many were first startled by the flames, or were suffocated in their sleep, leaving no vestige but charred bones; others leaped from roof or window, and rushed into the forest, not knowing where they went, or took fire in the street, and blazed up like torches. A number succeeded in gaining the river, and threw themselves in boats or on planks, and pushed off from the banks, which the fire had almost reached, and where it presently raged as fiercely as in the town. One woman was aroused from sleep by the screams of her children, whom she found in flames, and caught fire herself as she snatched up an infant and ran into the river, where mother and child perished together. Then came the hurricane, tearing up burning trees and whirling them aloft, lashing the river and channel to fury, and snapping the anchors of the ships, which flew before it like chaff, dashing on the rocks, and covering the waves with wreck. Blazing trees lighted on two large vessels, and they fired like mines, consuming on the water, which became so hot in the shallows that large salmon and other fish leaped on shore, and were afterwards found dead in heaps along the banks of the river. What can be said of such horrors, combining a conflagration of one thousand miles with storm and shipwreck, and surprising a solitary community at midnight? Happily the greater number contrived to reach Chatham by the river; but floating corpses showed how many perished in the attempt, and nearly three hundred lost their lives by fire or drowning.”

No small portion of Sir Howard’s time henceforth was spent in devising means for the relief of the unfortunate people whom this calamity had ruined. He made strong appeals to the benevolence of the British public, which were not disregarded, and he advanced from his own funds more than he could well spare. Nor was he inattentive to other matters. He made a voyage from harbour to harbour throughout the extent of his military command, and, with his usual luck, twice narrowly escaped shipwreck. Indeed, so completely was his name up as a Jonah, that the captain of the Niemen frigate, with whom he had been a passenger, took the alarm.

“The following day” (the day after one of these mishaps) “brought Captain Wallace to dine with the Governor, and it came out that he had been hearing tales about his Excellency which he did not consider to his advantage, for he suddenly asked him if he had not once been shipwrecked. Sir Howard replied by telling the story, and the captain’s face became longer as he proceeded, though he made no remark till the close. He then observed that his regard for him was very great, and he valued their interchange of hospitality in port and ashore, but should never like to take him to sea again; for he had been twenty years afloat without mishap, except on the two occasions when they had been together; and he should now look upon his appearance in his ship as a passenger as a very bad omen indeed.”

On both occasions the ship had struck for lack of proper beacons, and Sir Howard at once applied the remedy. He caused lighthouses to be built where they were most required; and in order to improve the internal communications of the province, he made roads, and proposed a plan for connecting by a canal the Bay of Fundy with the Gulf of St Lawrence. Meanwhile he was not neglectful of the intellectual wants of the colonists, as yet very imperfectly attended to. He founded, endowed, and, after a good deal of opposition, obtained a charter for the University of Fredericktown, of which, in 1829, he became the first Chancellor, giving at the same time his own name to the College. These were works of peace; and he was equally careful in guarding against the chances of war. The treaty of 1783 had left the boundary-line between Great Britain and the United States very imperfectly defined; and as the inhabitants of the latter country increased in number, they began to encroach on the territories of the former. A good many squatters had forced themselves into New Brunswick, and been driven away, till at last a person named Baker, bolder than the rest, took possession of an outlying portion of land, and hoisted the American standard. The proceeding was much approved by the Government of Maine, and strong parties of the militia were turned out in anticipation of a collision with the garrison of Fredericktown.

Sir Howard Douglas, however, knew better than to precipitate hostilities. He contented himself with sending a civil message to Baker, requesting him to withdraw; and when no attention was paid to it, he gave such orders to the troops as would bring them to the frontier in a few hours should their presence be required. This done, a parish constable was desired to perform his duty; and the man, coming upon Baker without any fuss or parade, cut down the flag-staff, seized the squatter, and carried him off in a waggon to the capital of the province. All Maine was thrown into a ferment. The Governor threatened, and demanded that Baker should be set at liberty. Sir Howard refused so much as to see the messenger intrusted with this demand, justly alleging that he could hold communication on such subjects only with the Central Government at Washington. The result was, that Baker, being put upon his trial, was found guilty, and sentenced to pay a fine; which fine, after an enormous amount of bluster, was duly paid. For his firm yet judicious conduct throughout this awkward affair Sir Howard received the approbation of the Home Government, becoming at the same time more than ever an object of enthusiastic admiration to the people whom he governed.

While approving all that their representative had done, the British Government saw that it would be impossible with safety to leave the boundary question longer unsettled. Arrangements were accordingly made with the United States for referring the points at issue to arbitration; and the King of the Netherlands being accepted as arbitrator, Sir Howard was requested to return to Europe, and to watch proceedings. The King’s decision gave, however, little satisfaction to either party. England, indeed, would have acquiesced in it, though feeling herself wronged; but America failed to get all that she coveted, and refused to be bound. It remained for her, by sharp practice at a future period, to gain her end; and for England, under the management of Lord Ashburton and Sir Robert Peel, to be made a fool of. The part played by Sir Howard Douglas during the progress of this negotiation was every way worthy of his high reputation; but that which strikes us most is the sagacity with which, so early as 1828, he foretold events in the States themselves, which have since come to pass. In a paper addressed to the Secretary for the Colonies, which points out endless grounds of quarrel between the Federal Government and the Governments of the several States, he thus expresses himself:—

“Here we may see the manner in which the Union will be dissolved—viz., the secession of any State which, considering its interest, property, or jurisdiction menaced, may no longer choose to send deputies to Congress. This is a great defect in the Bond of Union, which has not, perhaps, been very generally noticed, cloaked as it is under article 1st, section 5th of the Constitution, which states ‘that where there are not present, of either House, members sufficient to form a quorum to do business, a smaller number may be authorised, for the purpose of forming one, to compel the attendance of absent members.’ But this appears only to be authorised for the purpose of forming a quorum, and only extends over members actually sworn in, who, being delegated to Congress by the States they represent, are subjected to whatever rules of proceeding and penalties each House may provide, with the concurrence of two-thirds of its members. But there is nothing obligatory upon the several ‘Sovereign States’ to send members to Congress, or to prevent those sent from being withdrawn. The ‘Sovereign States’ have never bound themselves to do either; so that the process of dissolution in this way is very simple, and the danger imminent of a separation being thus effected, whenever the interests of any particular State or States are touched by the Government, or brought into discussion in Congress, although those interests may be outvoted by the preponderating influence of other States having different interests. But the State or States which are to suffer will not, it is clear, send members to vote their own injury or ruin; and it may safely be pronounced, from what I have shown in this paper, that this is the manner in which the American Union will come to a natural death.”

Sir Howard returned to England from the Hague, to find the Government bent on equalising the duties on foreign and colonial timber, and thereby depriving the people of New Brunswick of one of the most lucrative branches of their trade. He could not sit still and see done what he himself regarded as an act of great injustice. He made immense exertions, therefore, personally and through the press, to defeat the Ministerial measure, and he succeeded. It was impossible, under such circumstances, to return to New Brunswick, and he therefore resigned the government. Not even their satisfaction at the victory which he had achieved for them could reconcile the New Brunswickers to the loss of their Governor; and they marked their gratitude for all that he had done by presenting him with a magnificent service of plate. Indeed, it is very touching to remember how, up to the latest day of his life, every person connected with New Brunswick, on visiting England, sought him out as if he had been a private friend, and laid open to him matters, not of public only, but of private business. The Whig Ministers, on the other hand, naturally piqued at their defeat, left him for four years without any employment. Hence it was not till 1835, when Sir Robert Peel acceded to office, that Sir Howard received the appointment of Lord High Commissioner of the Ionian Islands. It was again his fate to be mixed up with calamities brought on by natural causes, and with political difficulties of no common order. There arrived one day from Ireland, at Government House, a Right Rev. Dr Hynes, a protégé of Daniel O’Connell, who introduced himself to Sir Howard as Bishop of Corfu, and handed him a letter from Lord Glenelg, at that time Colonial Secretary.

“‘You seem not to be aware that there is already a Bishop in Corfu,’ remarked Sir Howard. Dr Hynes intimated that he was a Catholic Bishop appointed by the Pope. ‘I know of but one Bishop here, sir,’ replied Sir Howard, ‘and no other could be recognised.’ Dr Hynes remonstrated, and pointed out the importance to England of the Roman Catholic interest in the islands; but Sir Howard could not be persuaded that the British Government was not strong enough to hold its ground without this bulwark. The prelate appealed to the letter of the Minister of the Colonies, but was shown that this was no recognition, nor could such be given without the sanction of the Ionian Senate. He declared he would assume his functions, and abide the consequences; but met a firmness surpassing his own, and learned that he would not be permitted to remain on the island. He denied that he could be expelled, and warned the Lord High Commissioner that his conduct must be answered in England. ‘I have only to say,’ was the reply, ‘that you will be removed by the police if you are not gone within twenty-four hours.’”

The Bishop was unable to resist such an argument as this, and Papal aggression received a temporary check in Corfu. But Sir Howard had another battle to fight, and he fought it to a successful issue. Wherever he exercised authority, his great object seems to have been to promote the physical and moral wellbeing of society, and he applied himself with this view to compile a sound code of laws for the Ionians. Nothing could be more offensive to those who profited by bad laws; and the priests in particular, set on by the Patriarch of Constantinople, as he was set on by Russia, offered all the opposition in their power. Sir Howard’s mode of defeating this move of the Hellenistic faction proved at once novel and effective. He waited till the preparations for revolt (for open revolt was meditated) were complete; and then surrounded the house where the chief conspirators sat, arrested them all, and took possession of papers which placed the complicity of the Patriarch beyond doubt. These he sent to the British Minister at Constantinople, who obtained without difficulty the deposition of the Patriarch, and the setting up of a successor less disposed to become a tool in the hands of Russia.

Of the great earthquake which shook Zante to its centre the memory will not soon pass away. It began just as Sir Howard entered the harbour on one of his tours of inspection, and continued, with shocks recurring at narrow intervals, for a whole fortnight. The people, paralysed with terror, knew not what to do, or whither to betake themselves, till the Lord High Commissioner appeared among them, calm and collected. He gave the necessary orders for extricating the wounded from the ruins: he directed men, women, and children where to go; caused temporary barracks to be erected for their shelter; and appeared to them as a guardian angel in their hour of need. His good offices on that occasion, as well as a brief experience of the working of his laws, brought about a thorough change of opinion both with regard to them and to him. When he resigned his office, which he was obliged to do in consequence of the not very generous conduct towards him of Lord John Russell, then Colonial Secretary, he left scarce one enemy in the island, and had the honour of having an obelisk erected to him, by vote of the Senate, bearing this inscription: “Howard Douglas, Cavalier, and General, High Commissioner, Benefactor of the Ionian Islands.”

Sir Howard sat in Parliament for Liverpool during Sir Robert Peel’s last administration, and spoke and voted on all occasions like a sound yet thoughtful Conservative. In 1847 he retired from the House of Commons, and thenceforth applied his energies to the service of the country as a writer on professional and scientific subjects. His treatise on ‘Naval Gunnery’ had already gone through several editions, as did his volume on ‘Fortification;’ and he now compiled and published his ‘Military Bridges,’ perhaps the most generally interesting, if not the most important, of all his works. But it was not thus alone that he continued to be useful. His opinions were sought and freely given to each successive Government on every question connected with the improvement of arms, the selection of points to be fortified, the management of the navy, and the steps to be taken for putting the country in a state of defence. It is extremely interesting to know that, like the great Duke of Wellington, Sir Howard laid aside all party feeling whenever the honour or interests of the country came to be considered; and that he possessed, as he deserved, the entire confidence of Whigs not less than of Tories. His opinions as to the relative value of iron and wooden ships are well known; he was entirely opposed to the former, though he did not object to the process of casing the latter with mail; while in his ‘Naval Warfare with Steam’ he advocated a system of tactics which should bring the management of fleets very much into the same category with the management of armies in the day of battle.

Thus, honoured and beloved, Sir Howard grew old, without losing one jot of the elasticity of spirit which had characterised him in earlier days. He was very happy also in his family till death began to cut it short, and blow after blow fell so heavily, that, brave as he was, he sometimes reeled. In 1854 a grandson, the bearer of his own name, died; then came tidings of the decease of his eldest son, Charles, far away; then his second son left him; then two of his daughters, Mrs Harcourt and Mrs Murray Gartshore. The loss of Mrs Gartshore affected him very deeply; and well it might, for she was one of those gifted and beautiful creatures who shed light around them wherever they go, seeming too pure and noble for earth. And scarcely were his tears dry when Lady Douglas, his companion for fifty-seven years, followed her daughters. Two daughters and one son alone remained to him, and one of these daughters was a widow; the other kept his house, and was, indeed, everything to him. But she likewise was taken from him, in a manner as trying as could be to his Christian patience and courage. She had been in apparent health and cheerful with him at dinner one day, and next morning was found dead in her bed. If the old man’s head had fallen into the dust, who could have wondered? But it did not. “No one can tell,” he observed to Mr Bateman, the medical gentleman who was called in, “what a loss she is to me: she has devoted herself to me; but I must do what is to be done. She will sleep beside her mother, where I will soon join them.”

In this manner the sun went gradually down till it sank beneath the horizon. Not that he suffered himself to be unmanned by sorrow; quite otherwise. But the physical frame felt the shock, and yielded to it perceptibly.

“Sir Howard enjoyed excellent health up to Miss Douglas’s death. All his teeth were sound; he walked three or four miles a-day, and obtained eight hours’ sleep at night. But that event gave his system a shock, and the controversy about armour-ships wore it more, showing his friends a marked change. His sleep was less regular and composed, and he frequently recited the lines of our great poet—

“But he hid his sorrows, appearing calm and cheerful, though his manner was subdued and his conversation less animated. His vivacity revived at times, particularly when he spoke of Scotland, the theme he liked best; or when he recalled his early life in America, and described the pathless forests, the villages of wigwams, or the falls of Niagara, reciting Thomson’s lines—

“He derived little benefit from the Folkstone breezes on his last visit, though enjoying his walks on the promenade, which he pronounced the noblest platform in Europe. Its attractions were just to his taste, for he could here see the coast of France, against which he had raised such bulwarks, watch the yachts and shipping in harbour and Channel, and glance around at the military strollers. Shorncliff Camp was within reach, as well as the Military School at Hythe, in which he took great interest, highly appreciating General Hay. He supported the Volunteer movement, and aided in its organisation, addressing a letter of advice to the National Rifle Association through his friend General Hay, and receiving an acknowledgment in his election as an honorary member. So well did he keep abreast with the age. He showed the same interest in the movements at the Camp, and attended any display, though not always to commend. He particularly censured a sham fight, representing an attack on an enemy who had landed in a bay near Hythe. The troops were marched down, and skirmishers thrown out on the beach, when the whole body fell back on the heights, holding them to cover their retreat. ‘What an absurd proceeding!’ remarked Sir Howard to Mr Bateman, who was by his side; ‘the movement ought to be exactly reversed. They should have brought down every man and gun as quickly as possible if the enemy had landed, and attacked him, and driven him into the sea. There would be some sense in that.’

“Sir Howard looked a soldier to the last, retaining his erect bearing, and walking with a firm step, though cautiously, and with looks bent on the ground. His sight had begun to fail, and cataracts were forming on both his eyes, but he did not submit them to medical treatment. ‘They will last my time,’ he remarked to the author. He contrived to write by never raising his pen, forming the letters by habit, and all were plain to one acquainted with his hand. A career of threescore years and ten left his character much what it first appeared, with all its elements of dash, vigour, enterprise, aptitude, and perception, its habits of industry, its generous instincts, and its warm sympathies. Neither heart nor mind showed the wear of life, and he is the same at eighty-five as at seventeen; inspiring the Volunteers at Hythe as he inspired them at Tynemouth, and exercising the inventive genius which scared the rats in improving the screw propeller. The hand that caught up the child in the shipwreck, obeyed the same impulse still; and Mr Bateman saw him walking up the street at Folkstone with a loaded basket which he had taken from a poor little girl. ‘My dear, give that to me,’ he said, as he saw her bending under the weight; ‘I am better able to carry it than you.’ The words were reported by a lady who heard them in passing, as the General of eighty-five and the poor child of five walked away together.”

We are not going to draw an elaborate character of one whose life may be said to have formed his epitaph. Sir Howard Douglas needs no panegyrist to tell the world what he was. Chivalrous, truthful, high-minded, brave, he secured the esteem, not less than he commanded the respect, of all who approached him. Had circumstances so ordered it that he had ever directed the movement of troops in the field, we take it upon us to say, that among English generals few would have attained to higher eminence than he. As it was, he did more for the British army, and navy too, in his books and by his teaching, than either army or navy, or the heads of both branches of the service, have ever had the grace to acknowledge. To these more shining qualities of head and temperament he added the faith and humility of a Christian man: a humility which was far too real to be obtruded on careless observers; a faith which had not one shade of hypocrisy or fanaticism about it. Rest to his noble spirit! it will be long before we look upon his like again.

Terrorism, in one shape or other, is the bane of Italy. By a system of organised terrorism the princes of Italy have governed their states, and by means of terror the peoples have replied to their rulers. From the wide diffusion of this sentiment throughout the nation, secret societies took their root in the land, and men became banded together for attack, protection, resistance, or revenge. There was none so high in character or so elevated by station that he might not be denounced; there was not one so degraded that he might not be associated with the secret acts of the Government. The only idea of rule was through the instrumentality of a secret police. All were suspected—all were watched. The report of the secretary was entertained as to the character and the acts of the minister, and the secretary was himself under the close inspection of some underling in his office. The work of the State went on under the assumption that no man was honest; and it was really curious to see how all the complicated questions of a Government could be dealt with by a system whose first principle was that there was no truth anywhere. It impaired nothing of a man’s position or influence that he was known to take bribes. Corruption was the rule, from the star-covered courtier beside the throne, down to the half-naked lazzarone on the Mole. “Take care of your pockets, gentlemen, there’s a minister coming,” was the decorous pleasantry of King Ferdinand at one of his last receptions, and the speech had a significance which all could appreciate. It was especially in Southern Italy that this corruption prevailed the most. Amongst a race long enervated and demoralised, the work of Government went easily on by means of such agency. The great efforts of the rulers were directed, not to repress crimes against property and offences against society, but to meet political disaffection and discontent. The noted thief would be leniently dealt with, while the Liberal journalist would be sentenced to the ergastolo. Assassination and robbery went on increasing, and none seemed to feel terrified; while the imprisonment of one man for some expression of Liberal opinions, or some half-implied censure of the Government, was sure to strike terror into many a heart.

The “Government” was, in fact, very little else than an organised conspiracy against the spread of all civilisation. Its efforts were directed to keeping the people in a degraded ignorance—the slaves of priestly superstition, thinking little of the present and utterly regardless about the future. The Neapolitan temperament was well suited for such a system. Caring wonderfully little how life was sustained, so that no labour was exacted for its maintenance,—light-hearted, even to recklessness—indifferent to almost all privations,—such a people were neither subject to the same fears nor stirred by the same hopes as the Northern Italian. They asked, in fact, for little beyond the permission to exist. Discontent, in its political significance, had no place among them; they had never heard of any better liberty than idleness, and if they had, they could not have prized it. With natural acuteness, however, they saw the corruption that surrounded them—how the minister took bribes from the contractor, and how the contractor cheated the State—how the customs officer was bribed by the smuggler, and how the first merchants of the capital filled their warehouses with contraband goods. They saw that no man’s integrity ever interfered to his disadvantage, but that self-interest was the mainspring of every action; and could a people so acute to learn be slow to profit by the lesson they acquired? Out of this system of terror, for it was and is a system, grew two institutions in Southern Italy—Brigandage and the Camorra. The former of these asserted its influence over the country at large; the latter, which was an “organised blackmail,” limited its operations to towns and cities. Brigandage is no new pestilence in Italy; it has existed for centuries. From the character of the country, so difficult to travel and so interlaced with cross paths only known to the inhabitants, all pursuit of these robbers has been rendered difficult; but besides this, another and far greater obstacle has presented itself in the sympathy of the peasantry, who, partly from affection and partly from fear, have always taken part with the brigands to protect or to conceal them. The same disposition of the country people to side with those who break the law that we see every day in Ireland, is recognisable here. Like the Irish, the lower Italians have never regarded the law but as a harsh and cruel tyranny. They only know it in its severity and in its penalties—they have never had recourse to it for protection or defence; it has never been to them a barrier against the exactions of the great man, or the unjust pressure of the powerful man; they have felt it in its moods of vengeance, and never in its moments of commiseration. Elevated above their fellows by a certain wild and savage chivalry, the brigands have long exercised a terror over the people of the South. Their lives were full of marvellous adventures, of terrible incidents and hairbreadth escapes, sure to excite interest in the minds of an uneducated and imaginative race, who grew to regard the relators in the light of heroes. Nor did the Church itself scruple to accept the ill-gotten gains of the highwayman: and the costly robe of the Virgin, and the rich gems that decked her shrine, have often and often displayed the spoils that have been torn from the luckless traveller.

In this mixture of religious superstition with a defiance of all human law, we see again a resemblance between the Italian and the Irishman, whose traits have indeed an almost unerring similarity in everything. That “wild justice” of which the great Irish rhetorician once spoke, is the rule of each. Assuming that society has formed a pact against them, they have taken up arms in their own defence; and whether it be the landlord or the traveller, it matters little who shall pay the penalty. It is next to impossible to deal with crime where the general sentiment favours the criminal. The boasted immunity of the policeman in England is but another name for the ascendancy of the law. How comes it otherwise that one man armed with a mere truncheon dares to arrest a thief in the midst of his accomplices and associates, while we see in Italy ninety thousand soldiers unable to repress Brigandage in two provinces of the South, where the number of the brigands is set down as four hundred? Such in substance is the report lately furnished to the Chamber of Deputies at Turin by the order of General Lamarmora. The forces for the repression of Brigandage amount to ninety thousand well-armed and well-disciplined soldiers, and the enemy are stated as four hundred half-naked and scarcely armed wretches, as destitute of courage as of food. Such is the picture given of them; and we are left in utter astonishment to guess why, with such a disparity of numbers, the curse of Brigandage should yet be known in the land.

Why cannot ninety thousand deal with four hundred, even were the cause at issue less one of equity and justice? If, as has often been asserted, the Brigandage has been fed from Rome—if the gold of Francis II. and the blessing of the Pope go with those who cross the frontier to maintain the disturbance in Southern Italy—what should be easier, with such a superiority of numbers, than to cut off the communication? With sixty thousand men a cordon could be drawn from the Mediterranean to the Adriatic in which each sentinel could hail his neighbour. Were the difficulty to lie here, could it not be met at once? It was declared a few weeks back by Mr Odo Russell, that a whole regiment, armed and clothed in some resemblance to French soldiers, passed over to the south; and we are lost in amazement why such resources should be available in the face of an army greater than Wellington ever led in Spain or conquered with at Waterloo. To understand a problem so difficult, it is first of all necessary to bear in mind that this same Brigandage is neither what the friends of the Bourbons nor what the advocates of united Italy have pronounced it. If the Basilicata and the Capitanata are very far from being La Vendée, they are also unlike what the friends of Piedmontism would declare—countries well affected to the House of Savoy under the temporary dominion of a lawless and bloody tyranny from which they are utterly powerless to free themselves. If Brigandage is not in its essence a movement of the reactionists, it has nevertheless been seized upon by them to prosecute their plans and favour their designs. To render the Neapolitan States ungovernable—to exhibit to the eyes of Europe a vast country in a state of disorganisation, where the most frightful cruelties are daily practised—where horrors that even war is free from are hourly perpetrated—was a stroke of policy of which the friends of the late dynasty were not slow to avail themselves. By this they could contrast the rule of the present Government with that of the former ones; and while the press of Europe still rang with the cruelties of the Bourbons, they could ask, Where is the happy change that you speak of? Is it in the proclamations of General Pinelli—the burning of villages, and the indiscriminate slaughter of their inhabitants? Do the edicts which forbid a peasant to carry more than one meal to his daily labour, tell of a more enlightened rule? Do the proclamations against being found a mile distant from home, savour of liberty? Are the paragraphs we daily read in the Government papers, where the band of this or that brigand chief has been captured or shot, the only evidences to be shown of a spirit which moves Italians to desire a united nation? You tell us of your superior enlightenment and cultivation, say the Bourbonists, and the world at large listens favourably to your claims. But why, if it be true, have the last two years counted more massacres than the forty which have preceded them? Why are thousands wandering homeless and shelterless through the mountains, while the ruins of their dwellings are yet smoking from the ruthless depredations of your soldiery? If Brigandage numbers but four hundred followers, why are such wholesale cruelties resorted to? The simple fact is this: the Brigandage of Southern Italy is not a question of four hundred, or four thousand, or four hundred thousand followers, but of a whole people utterly brutalised and demoralised, who, whatever peril they attach to crime, attach no shame or disgrace to it. The labourers on one of the Southern Italian lines almost to a man disappeared from work, and on their return to it, some days after, frankly confessed they had spent the interval with the brigands. They were not robbers by profession nor from habit; but they saw no ignominy in lending themselves to an incidental massacre and bloodshed. The National Guards of the different villages, and the Syndics themselves, are frequently charged with a want of energy and determination; but the truth is, these very people are the very support and mainspring of Brigandage. The brigands are the brothers, the sons, or the cousins of those who affect to move against them. So far from feeling the Piedmontese horror of the brigand, these men are rather irritated by the discipline that bands them against him. They have none of that military ardour which makes the Northern Italian proud of being a soldier. Their blood has not been stirred by seeing the foreigner the master of their capital cities; their pride has not been outraged by the presence of the hated Croat or the rude Bohemian at their gates. To them the call to arms has been anything but a matter of vain glory. Besides this, there seems in the unrelenting pursuit of the Brigandage a something that savours of the hate of the North for the South. Under the Bourbons the brigand met a very different measure, as he did under the French rule, and in the time of Murat. Men of the most atrocious lives, stained with many and cruel murders, were admitted to treat with the Government, and the negotiations were carried on as formally as between equals. When a Capo Briganti desired to abandon his lawless and perilous life, he had but to intimate his wish to some one in authority. His full conditions might not at first or all be acceded to, but he was sure to be met with every facility for his wish; and in more than one case was such a man employed in a situation of trust by the State; and there yet lives one, Geosaphat Talarico, who has for years enjoyed a Government pension as the reward of his submission and reformation.

Under the old Bourbon rule, all might be pardoned, except an offence against the throne. To the political criminal alone no grace could be extended. The people saw this, and were not slow to apply the lesson. Let it also be borne in mind, that the brigand himself often met a very different appreciation from those who knew him personally to that he received at the hands of the State. The assassin denounced in wordy proclamations, and for whose head a price was offered, was in his native village a “gran’ Galantuomo,” who had done scores of fine and generous actions.

To revolutionise feeling in such a matter is not an easy task. Let any one, for instance, fashion to his mind how he would proceed to turn the sympathies of the Irish peasant against the Rockite and in favour of the landlord, to hunt down the criminal and to favour his victim. It would be a similar task to endeavour to dispose the peasant of the Abruzzi to look unfavourably on Brigandage. Brigandage was, in fact, but another exercise of that terrorism which they saw universally around them. Was the Capo Briganti more cruel than the tax-gatherer? was he not often more merciful? and did he ever press upon the poor? Were not his exactions solely from the rich? Was he not generous, too, when he was full-handed? How many a benevolent action could be recorded to his credit! If this great Government, which talked so largely of its enlightenment, really wished to benefit the people, why did it not lighten the imposts, cheapen bread, and diminish the conscription? instead of which we had the taxes quadrupled, food at famine prices, and the levies for the services more oppressive than ever. They denounced Brigandage; but there were evils far worse than Brigandage, which, after all, only pressed a little heavily on the rich, and took from them what they could spare well and easily.

It is thus the Neapolitan reasons and speaks of that pestilence which is now eating like a cancer into the very heart of his country, and taxing the last energy of her wisest and best to meet with success. At this moment Southern Italy is no more under the control of the Italian Government than are the States of the Confederacy under the sway of President Lincoln, and all the powerful energies of the North are ineffectual to eradicate a disease which is not on the surface, but in the very heart of the people.

The Italian Brigand, like the Irish Rockite, is by no means of necessity the most depraved or most wicked of his native village. Perhaps his fearlessness is his strongest characteristic. He is in other respects pretty much like those around him. He has no great respect for laws, which he has often seen very corruptly administered. He has been familiar with perjury all his life. He has never seen the rites of the Church denied to the blackest criminals, and he has come to believe that, except in the accidents of station, men are almost alike, and the great difference is, that the filchings of the minister are less personally hazardous than the spoils of the highwayman.

That these men take pay and accept service from the Bourbonist is easy enough to conceive. To cry Viva Francesco Secondo, when they stop the diligence or pillage a farmhouse, is no difficult task; but that they are in any sense followers, or care for the King or his cause, is utterly and ridiculously untrue. The reactionists affect to believe so, for it gives them the pretext of a party. The French like to believe so, for it proclaims, what the press continues unceasingly to assert, that the North has no footing in the South, and that no sympathy ever has existed, or ever will exist, between peoples so totally and essentially dissimilar.

The Piedmontese, too, unwilling to own that the event they have so ineffectually struggled against has not all the force of a great political scheme, declare that the Brigandage is fed from Rome, and would not have a day’s existence, if the ex-King were compelled to leave that capital, and the favour of the Papal Court withdrawn from its support.

That the present rulers of Italy pursue the brigands with an energy, and punish them with a severity never practised before, is cause even to prefer the reign of the Bourbons to that of the Piedmontese. There is no need for them to enter upon the difficult questions of freedom and individual liberty, to contrast the rights enjoyed under one government with those available under another. It is quite sufficient that they see what was once tolerated will no longer be endured, and that the robber chief who once gave the law to the district he lived in is now hunted down with the remorseless severity that will only be satisfied with his extermination.

It may be asked, How could the people feel any sympathy for a system from which they were such heavy sufferers, or look unfavourably on those who came to rid them of the infliction? The answer is, that long use and habit, a sense of terror ingrained in their natures, and, not less than these, a reliance in the protective power of the brigand, disposed the peasant to prefer his rule to that of the more unswerving discipline of the State. The brigand was at least one of his class, if not of his own kindred. He knew and could feel for the peculiar hardships which pressed upon the poor man. If he took from the proud man, he spared the humble one; and, lastly, he possessed the charm which personal daring and indifference to danger never fail to exercise over the minds of the masses.

Let us again look to Ireland, to see how warmly the sympathies of the peasant follow those who assume to arraign the laws of the State, and establish a wild justice of their own—how naturally they favour them, with what devotion they will screen them, and at what personal peril they will protect them; and if we have to confess that centuries have seen us vainly struggling with the secret machinery which sustains crime amongst ourselves, let us be honest enough to spare our reproaches to those who have not yet suppressed brigandage in Southern Italy. It is not, in fact, with the armed and mounted robber that the State is at issue, but with a civilisation which has created him. He is not the disease, he is only one of its symptoms; and to effect a cure of the malady the remedies must go deeper.

Nor is the question an easy one to resolve; for though Garibaldi with a few followers sufficed to overthrow a dynasty, the whole force of a mighty army, backed by a powerful public opinion, has not succeeded in firmly establishing a successor.

Piedmont is not loved in the South. There is not a trait in the Piedmontese character which has not its antitype in the Neapolitan; and they whose object it was to exhibit the sub-Alpine Italian in the most unfavourable colours, could not lack opportunity to do so. The severities practised towards the brigands—which were not always, nor could they be, exercised with discrimination—furnished ample occasion for these attacks. Many of these assumed a Garibaldian, or even Mazzinian tone, and affected indignation at cruelties of which the people—the caro popolo—were always the victims. One of the chief brigands, Chiavone, pretended to imitate Joseph Garibaldi; and in dress, costume, and a certain bold, frank manner, assumed to represent the great popular leader. Amongst his followers he counted Frenchmen, Spaniards, Germans, Belgians, and, it is said, Irish. One of these foreigners was a man of high rank and ancient lineage, Count Alfred de Trazégnies—a near relative of M. de Merode’s: he was taken prisoner and shot. Another was the famous Borjès, from whom was taken the instructions given him by General Clary, and, more interesting still, a journal written in his own hand.

Though his “instructions” are full of grandiloquent descriptions of battalions and squadrons and batteries—horse, foot, and dragoons—with exact directions given as to the promotions, the staff appointments, the commissariat,—let us hear how he himself describes the first steps of his enterprise.

Having with great difficulty succeeded in obtaining about twenty muskets at Malta, he saw himself in some embarrassment as to getting away from the island, where intimations as to his project were already about. He succeeded, however, in getting on board of a small coasting vessel with his officers, and landed after a two days’ voyage at Brancaleone. “The shore,” he says, “was totally deserted, no trace of habitation to be seen; and, directed at last by the glimmer of a solitary light, we came upon the hut of a shepherd, who received us kindly and hospitably. The next day he guided us to the little town of Precacore, where we were met by the curate, and amidst cries of Viva Francesco Secondo conducted into the Piazza. I was cheered by this,” says he, “and deemed it a lucky augury. About twenty peasants enrolled themselves here under my command, and we moved on to Caraffa, where I was told a friendly welcome awaited me. On passing, however, near St Agata, a company of the mobilised National Guard, about sixty in number, opened a sharp fire on us, and my new recruits took to their heels, leaving me alone with my officers. Sustained, however, by a strong position, we held our own for an hour and a half, after which a deputation from Caraffa came to offer me the hospitality of that city—an offer I was fortunate enough to refuse, for another and far more serious ambuscade was prepared for me there.”

At Cirella he came up with a Bourbon partisan named Mittica, with one hundred and twenty men under him, but who refused to accept him as a leader, and in fact treated him and his officers as spies and prisoners.

After many dangers and much suffering, deserted by Mittica and his band, Borjès found himself in Tovre, “where an old soldier of the 3d Cacciatori offered to accompany me—the only follower I have met with up to this day.”

His narrative, simply and unaffectedly written, is one of the most extraordinary records of suffering, privation, and peril, and at the same time of devotion to his enterprise and zeal in the cause of the ex-King. He firmly believes that the mass of the people are “royalist,” that he only needs five hundred men, well armed and disposed to obey him, to “overthrow the revolution” and restore the sovereign.

He met his death like a brave man. He was surprised with some of his followers at a farmhouse in the very last village before crossing the Roman frontier, to which he was hastening. A young Piedmontese Major, Franchini, with a detachment of Bersaglieri and some mounted gendarmes, surrounded the house and at last set fire to it, on which Borjès surrendered and was immediately shot. “I was on my way to tell the King,” said he with his last words, “that he has nothing but cowards and scoundrels to defend him—that Crocco is a villain and Langlais a fool.” Then turning to the Major he added, “Thank fortune for it that I did not start one hour earlier this morning, for I should have gained the Roman frontier, and you would have heard more of me.”

The Piedmontese have been severely blamed for the execution of Borjès. Indeed he has found no less an advocate than Victor Hugo, who would not consent to have him ranked with Crocco, Ninco Nancho, and the rest, mere brigands and robbers on the highway. That the popular sentiment of Italy was not disposed in his favour may be assumed from the indignation felt by all the villages of the frontier when General Lamarmora consented that the body of Borjès should be exhumed and conveyed to Rome. There is little doubt, however, that his being a Spaniard influenced this feeling. In no country of Europe is the foreigner regarded with the same jealousy and distrust.

While the report of General Lamarmora shows that no disparity of force, not even ninety thousand to four hundred, is sufficient to deal with the Neapolitan Brigandage, it affects to explain why. In fact, the report is one insinuated accusation of the French, who by their occupation of Rome supply arms and money to the reactionists, and feed a movement which, if left to its own resources, must perish of inanition. The report shrinks from the avowal that the whole inhabitants of two great provinces are friends and sympathisers with the brigands; that however little political reasons enter into the issue, the priests have contrived to give a political colouring to the struggle, and by contrasting the immunities of the past with the severities of the present, have made the peasant believe that the rule of the Bourbon was more favourable to him than that of the House of Savoy. It is not merely in the conscription for the regular army that the pressure is felt, but in the very enrolment for the National Guard, which, liable as it is to being “mobilised,” exacts all the services and all the privations of soldiering. So much as 3000 francs have been paid for a substitute, rather than serve in a force which compels the shopkeeper to desert his business or the farmer his fields for eight or ten months of the year!

If we have heard much of the personal unpopularity of the Piedmontese in Southern Italy, it is a theme which cannot be exaggerated. There is not, perhaps, throughout Europe a people who have less in common than the sub-Alpine and the South Italian. If Garibaldi and his followers came as liberators, the Piedmontese entered Naples as conquerors. The Garibaldians won all the suffrages of a people who loved their free-and-easy manners, their indiscipline, that “disinvoltura” so dear to the Italian heart;—their very rags had a charm for them. The rigid, stiff, unbending Piedmontese, almost unintelligible in speech and repulsive in look, were the very reverse of all this. Naples was gay, animated, and happy under the sway of the same lawless band of red-shirted adventurers, but she felt crushed and trampled down by the regular legions of the King.

In the great offices of the State, and in the Prefectures, it was easy enough for the Piedmontese to appoint their own partisans; but how do this throughout the rural districts, the small towns, and the villages? In these the choice lay between a Royalist—that is, a Bourbonist—and a Mazzinian. If you would not accept a follower of the late King, you must take one who disowned sympathies with all royalty. The Syndics and “Maires” of the smaller cities have been almost to a man the enemies of the Northern Italian. It is through these all the difficulties of propagating “union” sentiments have been experienced. It is by their lukewarmness, if not something worse, that Brigandage is able still to hold its ground, not so much because they are well affected to the Bourbons, or that they cherish sentiments of Mazzinianism, but simply that they disliked Northern Italy, nor could any rule be so distasteful to them as that which came from that quarter. That the French occupation of Rome has tended to maintain and support Brigandage cannot for a moment be disputed. The policy of France, from the very hour of the treaty of Villafranca, has been to perpetuate the difficulties of Italian rule—to exhibit the country in a state of permanent disorder, and the people unquiet, dissatisfied, and unruly—to reduce the peninsula to that condition, in fact, in which not only would the occupation of Rome be treated as a measure of security to Europe at large, but the graver question urged whether a more extended occupation of territory might not be practicable and possible.

If Garibaldi’s expedition had not terminated so abruptly at Aspromonte, it is well known the French would have occupied Naples. When they would have left it again, it is not so easy to say. It is clear enough then to see, how little soever the French may like that Brigandage that now devastates the South, they are not averse to the distress and trouble it occasions to the Italian Government, all whose ambitions have been assumed as so many menaces against France. Had you been content with the territory we won for you—had you remained satisfied with a kingdom of six millions, who spoke your own language, inherited your own traditions, and enjoyed your own sympathies, you might have had peace and prosperity, say the oracles of the Tuileries; but you would be a great nation, and you are paying the penalty. “This comes of listening to England, who never aided you, instead of trusting to us who shed our blood in your cause.”

France never has consented to a united Italy; whether she may yet do so is, however improbable, still possible; one thing is, however, clear—until she does give this consent, not in mere diplomatic correspondence, but in heart and wish, the southern provinces of the peninsula will remain unconquered territories, requiring the presence of a large force, and even with that defying the power of the Government to reduce them to obedience.

Brigandage is but the open expression of a discontent which exists in every class and every condition in the districts it pervades. It is the assertion of the Catholic for the Pope, of the Royalist for the Bourbon, of the Revolutionist against a discipline, and last of all, of the Southern Italian against being ruled by that Northern race whose intelligence he despises, and for whose real qualities of manliness he has neither a measure nor a respect.

One word as to the Camorra before we conclude: and first of all what is this Camorra of which men talk darkly and in whispers, and whose very syllables are suppressed while the servants are in the room? The Camorra is an organised blackmail, which, extending its exactions to every trade and industry, carries the penalties of resistance to its edicts even to death.

The Camorra has its agents everywhere. On the Mole, where the boatman hands over the tenth of the fare the passenger has just paid him—at the door of the hotel, where the porter counts out his gains and gives over his tithe—at the great restaurant, at the theatre, at the gaming-table—some one is sure to present himself as the emissary of this dreaded society, and in the simple words, “for the Camorra,” indicate a demand that none have courage to resist.

The jails are, however, the great scenes for the exercise of this system. There the Camorra reigns supreme. In the old Bourbon days the whole discipline of the prisons was maintained by the Camorristi, who demanded from each prisoner as he entered the usual fees of the place. The oil for the lamp in honour of the Madonna had to be paid for, then came a sort of fee for initiation, after which came others in the shape of taxes on the income of the prisoner and his supposed means, with imposts upon leave to smoke, to drink, or to gamble. His incomings too were taxed, and a strict account demanded of all his gains, from which the tenth was rigidly subtracted. To resist the imposts was to provoke a quarrel, not unfrequently ending fatally; for the Camorristi ruled by terror, and well knew all the importance of maintaining their “prestige.”

The revenues of the Camorra, amounting to sums almost incredibly large, are each week handed over to the treasurer of the district, and distributed afterwards to the followers of the order by the Capo di Camorra, according to the rank and services of each, any concealment or malversation of funds being punished with death. The society itself not only professes to protect those who belong to it, but to extend its influence over all who obey its edicts; and thus the poor creature who sells his fruit at the corner of the street sees his wares under the safeguard of one of these mysterious figures, who glide about here and there, half in listlessness, and whose dress may vary from the patched rags of almost mendicancy to the fashionable attire of a man of rank and condition.

In the cafés where men sit at chess and dominoes, the Camorrist appears, and with his well-known whisper demands his toll. In vain to declare that the play is not for money; it is for the privilege to play at all that his demand is now made. The newly appointed clerk in a public office, the secretary to the minister, it is said, have been applied to, and have not dared to dispute a claim which would be settled otherwise by the knife.

Recognised by the old police of Naples, tolerated and even employed to track out the crimes of those who did not belong to the order, the Camorrists acquired all the force and consideration of an institution. Men felt no shame at yielding to a terror so widespread; nor would it have been always safe to speak disparagingly of a sect whose followers sometimes lounged in royal antechambers as well as sought shelter under the portico of a church.

It has been more than once asserted that Ferdinand II. was a sworn member of the order, and that he contributed largely to its funds. Certain it is the Camorra in his reign performed all the functions of a secret police, and was the terror of all whose Liberalism made them suspected by the Government. To the Camorra, too, were always intrusted those displays of popular enthusiasm by which the King was wont to reply to the angry remonstrances of French or English envoys. The Camorra could at a moment’s notice organise a demonstration in honour of royalty which would make the monarch appear as the loved and cherished father of his people.

It was, however, by the Liberals themselves the Camorra was first introduced into political life, and Liberio Romano intrusted the defence of the capital to these men as the surest safeguard against the depredations of the disbanded soldiers of the King; and, strange to say, the hazardous experiment was a perfect success, and for several weeks Naples had no other protectors than the members of a league who combined the atrocities of Thuggee with the shameless rapine of the highwayman. The stern discipline of Piedmont would not, however, condescend to deal with such agents; and Lamarmora has waged a war, open and avowed, against the whole system of the Camorra. Hundreds of arrests have been made, and the jails are crowded with Camorrists; but men declare that all these measures are in vain—that the magistracy itself is not free from the taint: and certain it is that the system prevails largely in the army and navy, and has its followers in what is called the world of fashion and society.

The Mezzo Galantuomo is the most terrible ingredient in the constitution of a people. The man who is too bad for society but a little too good for the gallows, is a large element in this land, and it will require something more than mere statecraft to deal with him.

A Parliamentary Commission is at present engaged in the investigation of the whole question of Brigandage, and their “Report” will probably be before the world in a few days. It is very doubtful, however, if that world will be made much the wiser by their labours. There is, in fact, no mystery as to the nature of this pestilence, its source, or its progress.

It may suit the views of a party to endeavour to connect it with Bourbonism, but it would be equally true to assert that the peasant-murderers in Ireland were adherents of the Stuarts! The men who take to the mountains in the Capitanata are not politicians. They have no other “cause” at heart than their own subsistence, for which they would rather provide at the risk of their heads than by the labour of their hands. All that they know of civilisation is taxation and the conscription. In these respects the old régime was less severe than the present; neither the imposts were so heavy, nor the levies so large; not to add that, under the Bourbons, soldiers led lives of lounging indolence, and “no one was ever cruel enough to lead them against the Austrians.”

The Bourbon Government of Naples had many faults, but the Piedmontese rule has had no successes. There is that of ungeniality in the Northern temperament that renders even favours at their hands little better than burdens, and their justice has a smack of severity in it that wonderfully resembles revenge.

What may be the future fate of Southern Italy it is not easy to say; but one thing at least is certain, the influence of Piedmont has not obtained that footing there which promises to make her cause their cause, or her civilisation their civilisation. If the Bourbons governed badly, their successors do not govern at all!

Incontestably, since the death of Goethe, Ludwig Uhland has been, at least in the hearts of the people, the Laureate of Germany. He is not a poet who took the world by storm with his earliest productions; but he has been gradually growing in favour and general acceptance, until his death is now deplored as a national affliction. He died quietly at Tübingen, the place of his birth, on the 13th of November 1862, in his seventy-sixth year, having been born on the 26th of April 1787. He was said never to have known a day’s illness until his last, which was occasioned by his attending the funeral of a friend and brother poet, Justin Kerner, in inclement weather.

The parents of the poet were Johann Friedrich Uhland, Secretary to the University of Tübingen, and Elizabeth (born) Hoser, daughter of one Hoser who held a similar office. He had a brother, Fritz, who died in his ninth year, and a sister, Luise, who married Meyer, the pastor of Pfullingen, near Reutlingen. His education conduced to bringing out the talent that was latent in him, as it was the custom of Kauffmann, the rector of the Tübingen school, to give free themes to be worked out in prose or verse, according to the inclinations of his scholars; and the young Uhland generally chose the latter, and was early distinguished in his choice. Even at school he was known as an enthusiastic student of German and Scandinavian antiquities. At the age of sixteen and seventeen he produced many compositions of merit, but only two, ‘Der Sterbender Held,’ and ‘Der Blinder König,’ found their way into that collection of his poems which was published in 1815. At this time he was hesitating between the professions of law and medicine. As a youth, though given to long walks alone in the beautiful neighbourhood of Tübingen, he was distinguished by his love of social manly exercises, particularly of skating. Two of his earliest poetical friends were Schröder, who was afterwards drowned in the Baltic, and Harpprecht, who fell in the Russian campaign of Napoleon. This is the friend who is alluded to in the exquisite poem of ‘Die Ueberfahrt’ as “brausend vor uns allen,” while the fatherly friend spoken of there is Uhland’s maternal uncle, Hoser, the pastor of Schmiden. He was also much influenced in his tastes by Haug of Stuttgard, and Gortz, Professor of Ancient Literature in Tübingen. Later he became acquainted with Justin Kerner, whose talent he placed above his own, Oehlenschläger the Danish poet, and Varnhagen von Ense the historian. Goethe he had seen once when a boy in 1797, and he records his impressions in the ‘Münstersage.’ In 1810 Uhland went to Paris, in order to work at the treasures of Romance literature contained in the Imperial Library. On his return he applied himself to practice as an advocate at Stuttgard, without remitting his poetic labours. His tragedy, ‘Herzog Ernst von Schwaben,’ which belongs to this period, elicited the warm admiration of Goethe. In 1819 he was elected a deputy of the Würtemberg States. In 1820 he married Emma Vischer, a daughter, by a former marriage, of a celebrated woman, Frau Emilie Pistorius, to whose memory Rückert dedicated a poem called ‘Rosen auf das Grab einer edlen Frau.’ In 1834 he was made Professor of German Literature at Tübingen. He distinguished himself as a political character in 1848, though without joining the extreme Liberal party, and on one occasion presented an address to the King of Würtemberg, praying for the restoration of the Constitution, the prayer of which was immediately granted, as most prayers of the kind were at that particular time, from prudential motives. He had already resigned, in 1833, his office of deputy, finding it incompatible with his professorship, and had returned to his residence at Tübingen. His marriage with Emma Vischer was in many respects a fortunate one. He appears to have lived with her in great harmony till his death, and the dowry she brought him, though not large, was sufficient to keep from his door the anxieties which usually beset a priest of the Muses. On the other hand, the marriage was not blest by children. There are old pictures extant of Uhland as a child, with a fair honest face and powdered hair. His later face is now familiar to the Germans. Its first impression is decidedly heavy. The upper-lip is long, the cheekbones high, the eyes not large, the forehead broad over the brows, and narrower above—altogether an ordinary honest man’s face, nothing more. A phrenologist in a steamboat, to whom the poet was unknown, once guessed him to be a watchmaker, adding, to console him, that every one could not be a poet. Uhland’s manners appear to have been plain and unpretending—rather those of a man who makes friends than acquaintances. Yet those who knew him, knew him as a hearty and even jovial companion. He was shy, and shunned publicity, and could not bear to be treated as a literary lion. On one occasion, when he was presented with a crown of laurel, he hung it and left it on an oak beside the road. His habits were early and healthy. In summer he lived in his open garden-house, and at ten o’clock every morning used to go out for a long walk, prefaced by a plunge in the Neckar when the weather was genial. At Tübingen, which is a very pretty quaint little university town, lying in that finely-broken country which intervenes between the Black Forest and the Alps, he owned a plain house on the country side of the Neckar bridge, only ornamented by Corinthian pilasters in front; behind it was his garden, arranged in terraces, and his “Weinberg,” from which he made his own ordinary supply of wine. He was of social habits, but, at the same time, fond of musing and solitude. The homely but intellectual society of Tübingen fully sufficed him. He was not a man to care for that of those above him in station, as his sterling independence shrank from patronage in the same way in which his diffidence shrank from general notoriety.

Politically, Uhland was a people’s man without being a Radical. His love of medieval literature imbued his mind with respect for hereditary rank, station, and honours, while his love of freedom and optimist views of the future of his country and mankind in general, made him a sturdy opponent of any attempt to infringe on what he called “the good old right.” In England he might have been a Tory or Conservative Whig. In Germany, it has pleased the powers that be to count him with the Democratic party; hence the admiration or policy which prompted Louis Napoleon to make a national affair of the funeral of Béranger, was wanting in the case of Uhland, who was buried, as he had lived, in privacy. Although this does not tell well for the temper of the Government of Würtemberg, and fully accounts for the hatred of Englishmen which is said to be dominant at Stuttgard, the deceased poet would probably not have wished it otherwise. No doubt he was, as far as the honours that proceed from the great are concerned, to the end of his life an unacknowledged and unappreciated man. But he had all he wanted—robust health, self-respect, and the respect of those he loved, sufficient worldly means, and that divine gift which Homer himself thought a full compensation even for blindness.

The uneventfulness of Uhland’s life, his unpretending presence, his very look and bearing, his intense love for nature, the simplicity of his habits, his steady domestic character, and unaffected religious feeling, all bring to mind our own Wordsworth; and in his poems, as in those of Wordsworth, the gems are to be sought among the shorter compositions. But Wordsworth made it his business to sit down at the Lakes and paint nature in words, as the pre-Raphaelite or naturalistic school of landscape painters sit down and paint her in colours. Wordsworth wooed the beauty of nature immediately and for itself. His human figures are merely put in roughly to help out the foreground. But Uhland rarely paints nature directly; he rather uses natural scenery as a background to his “genre” pictures, which interest chiefly by presenting the phases of human feeling, and the joys and sorrows of mankind. All his poems are alive with the breath of Spring—fresh, luminous, and joyous; but we are aware of his surroundings rather from the effects they produce upon him than from any actual descriptions. His poems have the ring of the true singer; an internal melody permeates his verse, capricious rather than monotonous, changing its airs and cadences like the voice of a bird, rather than flowing on with the mechanical jingling of a musical box. This is the quality which gives the bardic stamp to the compositions of a Burns, a Béranger, a Tennyson, and a want of which is felt in the glowing rhetoric of Byron, and in

which belongs to the poetry of Moore. In matter and choice of subject, and in some measure in respect of treatment, he has much in common with Walter Scott. His preparatory studies were much of the same nature, consisting in the history, scenery, and legends of his own country. He has done for Germany what even Schiller and Goethe with all their greatness omitted to do in the same degree. He has immortalised her local recollections. Second only to the man who leads an army to rescue his country from the stranger, such a man is a patriot of the true kind, whatever the colour of his politics may be. Some poems he has written are like those exquisite ancient miniature pictures on a gold ground, best to be understood and appreciated by the educated connoisseur, while others are so plain in language and sentiment that they have sunk into the hearts of the people, and will flow for ever from the lips of the people in the shape of national songs. Uhland differs most from the twin stars of Germany—Schiller and Goethe—in that his poetry is more exclusively objective than theirs. Goethe was all wrapt in his glorious self, and his all-absorbing devotion to art. Like Horace’s hero, a world might have fallen in ruins about him and he would not have quailed; and, indeed, all the crash of empires and clash of armies in which he lived left his brow as serene as that of one of the gods of Epicurus. But Uhland could not sing through the humiliation of his country, and his voice sank within him through the French occupation; but when Germany arose at length, and with incredible hardihood pushed back the flood of invasion, Uhland, like Körner and others, did manful service, not by fighting and falling among the foremost, as Körner did, but with even better judgment, as husbanding his gifts, becoming the Tyrtæus of the Liberation War. His songs of that time have a deep and manly note peculiarly their own, and they are such as no lesser circumstances could have called forth. Uhland, again, as distinguished from Schiller and Goethe, was the prominent poet of the Romantic school. But he was to them what Socrates was to the Sophists—counted with them, but not of them. From whatever source he derived his inspirations, he always remained fast rooted in truth and nature. The unreal and morbid sentimentality of Tieck and Novalis was unknown to him; nor did he share the Romeward tendencies of Friedrich Schlegel, while fully appreciating the beauty of the Roman Catholic ritual and associations, and freely interweaving them with the golden tissue of his compositions. On the whole, he is the most German of German poets, as he owes none of his inspiration to “the gods of Greece,” and little to any foreign source, except those old Romance writers whom he studied at Paris; but then it must be borne in mind that the early threads of history in France and Germany are closely interwoven, and the empire of the Franks in particular belonged as much to one as to the other.

In attempting to present to the English reader some of the best of the poems of Uhland, we must premise that to translate a perfect poem from one language into another is simply an impossibility, and difficult exactly in proportion to the degree in which any poem approaches perfection. The special difficulty of translating German poetry into English, and vice versâ, consists in this, that though the two languages are not in their basis much more than dialects of the same original stock, yet German is as generally dissyllabic as English is monosyllabic, owing in part to English having discarded inflection where German retains it. We are aware that many of Uhland’s poems are already known through very good translations, one of those most highly spoken of being that of Mr Platt. Longfellow has also done freely into English verse the ‘Castle by the Sea,’ ‘The Black Knight,’ the ‘Luck of Edenhall,’ and others, and has succeeded admirably in catching the spirit of the original. Not having Mr Platt’s translations before us, as we write in Germany, we must apologise, in our zeal for Uhland’s memory, for attempts of our own in the same direction, in which we have tried to reproduce as nearly as we can the ideas of the original in the metres in which they appeared. It is impossible to find a song in the whole collection more perfect than ‘Der Wirthin Töchterlein.’ There is not a word or thought one would wish changed. The pathos is expressed, without a single pathetic epithet, solely by the situation. This poem has been interpreted politically, as alluding to the different feelings with which three classes of patriots regard the corpse of German liberty. But to our mind this spoils the simplicity of the picture. It is more likely to be true that the poem was occasioned by an incident of Uhland’s youth, since it is said that he once stopped some students who were singing it under his window, telling them not to end it, as the end had too close a personal interest for him. If this be true, the poem is more complimentary to the memory of the fair maid of the inn than to the lady who became Frau Uhland. But poets will be poets, as boys will be boys.

THE LANDLADY’S DAUGHTER.

The last line, “Und werde dich lieben in ewigkeit,” would be more correctly rendered, “And I will love thee in eternity.” And we are equally aware that our “landlady’s sign” is objectionable, as the original is simply, “They turned in there to a landlady’s.” But it would be hard to render it otherwise without losing the quadruple rhyme, which has a certain mournful elegance. ‘The Landlady’s Daughter’ naturally leads us to ‘The Goldsmith’s Daughter.’ In this poem we must not suppose that the hero and heroine meet for the first time. The maiden has fallen in love with the knight, her superior in station, but scarcely dares even confess it to herself, till the knight agreeably surprises her by adorning her as his bride, taking her acceptance for granted. We would not spoil the romance by hinting that it may not have been an uncommon case in the middle ages for young noblemen of small fortune to seek their brides from the rich bourgeoisie of the Free Towns.

THE GOLDSMITH’S DAUGHTER.

There is a great dramatic beauty in the accident of the girl having put on her best apparel to make ready to go to church, so that the knight has only to furnish her with the bridal accessaries to prepare her at a moment’s notice to go to church with him.

A ferry-boat is a favourite subject for painters; and the navigation of his native Neckar has been to Uhland the occasion of some of his sweetest verse-pictures. In the poem called ‘The Boat’ he shows how a freight of people, before unacquainted with each other, and therefore silent, struck up an intimacy, and parted with regret, when some improvised music had once furnished an introduction.

THE BOAT.

The companion to this little cabinet picture of the boat going with the stream is the crossing of the ferry. The poet offers the ferryman three times his fare, because the spirits of two friends, now dead, who crossed the same ferry with him in past years, are supposed to have gone with him.

THE FERRY.

Longfellow, in his ‘Hyperion,’ has beautifully rendered the spirit of this poem, if he has somewhat missed its cadence.

The fine elegy on the death of Tell belongs to Uhland’s ‘Songs of Freedom,’ Tell’s death is undemonstrative, and he characteristically comes by it, by rescuing a child from a torrent. ‘The Sunken Crown’ stands before it in the collection, probably by way of introduction:—

THE SUNKEN CROWN.

In his neighbouring Switzerland the poet seems to see the image of his ideal freedom, modest and self-respecting; founded on the laws of decency and order; possessing its ancient charters and title-deeds; no ephemeral offspring of democratic chaos; a gentle and serene goddess of justice holding the exact balance between despotism and universal suffrage. Such freedom as this, in many grand patriotic strains, he desires for Würtemberg—a country whose praises he enumerates in soil, products, climate, scenery, and manners, only lamenting one want, without which it would be a paradise, the want of “Good Right.” He is certainly justified in his praise of his country, which, with the Grand-Duchy of Baden, forms a corner in the map of Europe which is a garden of fertility, a museum of antiquities, and a labyrinth of natural grandeur; but we question whether Uhland is not over-sensitive as to its political misery.

When we pass from his ‘Songs of Freedom’ to his ‘Songs of the Affections,’ we find the same moderation and purity of sentiment. Uhland always seems afraid of saying too much. His exquisite taste is a constant check upon him. He leaves the lines of his sketches to speak for themselves, and shrinks from too much elaboration. The imaginative reader may, if he pleases, supply for himself much of the inessential detail. What a picture of a bashful old-world lover he gives us in his poem called ‘Resolution!’

RESOLUTION.

For pathetic simplicity, perhaps none of his love-poems stands higher than Die Mähderin—the ‘Female Mower.’ There is a pathos in the very fact of the delicate girl—delicate at least in feeling—being engaged in rude masculine toil, a case but too common in many countries; then, again, in her hopeless attachment to the son of the rich farmer; then in her overtasking her strength in mowing the whole field without refreshment or repose, because the avaricious and selfish old man has promised her his son’s hand as the price; and again, in the killing deception at the close. She dies a martyr to the combined effects of the labour and the disappointment, and the old man has virtually murdered her to prevent her marrying his son and for selfish gain. Another example of a deep and simple pathos, produced by two pictures of the same place, is ‘The Castle on the Sea;’ it is a dioramic change of effect produced by a dialogue. First the castle stands superb in rising or setting sunlight, towering to heaven and bowing to the deep; the king and queen walk on the terrace in their royal insignia, and a beautiful princess walks with them: the scene changes to a weird moonlight effect, where the castle stands in ghostly grandeur; the king and queen are there on the terrace, but without their robes or crowns; they are in mourning, and the princess is no longer with them. This ballad has been effectively translated by Longfellow. Though verging on the impossible in subject, ‘The Mournful Tournament’ is a grand tragic sketch. Seven knights came to joust for the favour of the king’s daughter, but as they came in through the castle gate they heard the knell of her funeral. They persist in the tournament; for the one who loves her most truly, holds that still, though dead, she is worthy to be fought for, the victor gaining her wreath and ring. All fall in the fight but he, and he is mortally wounded, but, as the prize of victory, is buried with his lady-love.

Similar in actual improbability of subject, but demonstrating its bare possibility by its tragic truth, is the ballad of ‘Three Young Ladies.’ The father brings to mind the Greek bandit, the hero of About’s ‘Roi des Montagnes,’ who keeps his daughter at school at Athens, and when she wants a new piano, harries a village. As he returns from his rides, or raids, the three maidens ask this feudal tyrant what he has brought for them. The first, he knows, loves gold and finery; he has killed a knight for her, and brought her the spoil. But the dead knight was her lover; she strangles herself with the stolen chain, and dies beside his body. Two maidens only welcomed the father on his next return. The second, he knows, loves the chase; so he brings her a hunting-lance with a gold band, having killed a wild huntsman to obtain it. The wild huntsman was her lover, and she falls on the lance and dies beside him. One maiden only greets him the next time. Flowers are her passion; so he brings her flowers, having slain the bold gardener to obtain them. She takes the flowers and seeks the body of the dead gardener, who was also her lover; but flowers can inflict no wounds, so she stays beside him till the flowers wither, and she withers with them. ‘The Black Knight’ has been done full justice to by Longfellow. The practice of wearing visors in the ages of chivalry made such tales a poetic possibility. Death comes to joust in a king’s court, like a knight in black armour on black steed; he kills all the champions, dances with the king’s daughter, pours out a draught for the prince and princess, from which they quickly grow pale and sink. The old king begs him to take him also, but he says that “he only breaks flowers in spring,” and stalks away. In the ‘Luck of Edenhall’ Uhland gets upon English ground. His own preserves are so well stocked that he had no need to poach on those of the minstrels of the Scottish Border. But the offence is a single one, and may be forgiven for its admirable success and the world-wide interest of the beautiful Cumbrian legend.

The trumpet-like bray and strange metre of this poem render it one of the most difficult for a translator to grapple with; Longfellow, however, has done it almost without fault, the only exception we might take being to the repetition of the “crystal tall,” and the expression “the cup to praise” instead of “the cup to honour.” But in sonorous cadence his rendering equals the original. There is a thrilling solemnity in the remark at the end, that the world will one day be dashed to pieces like the shattered Luck of Edenhall. In a note below Longfellow’s translation it is said, “The tradition on which this ballad is founded, and the ‘shards of the Luck of Edenhall,’ still exist in England. The goblet is in the possession of Sir Christopher Musgrave, Bart. of Edenhall, Cumberland, and is not so entirely shattered as the ballad leaves it.”

If not the very best of all the ballads, at least the most characteristic of the poet’s ethical bent, is ‘The Singer’s Curse.’ With this we may fitly conclude our specimens, as it is a declaration of the greatness and holiness of the poet’s mission, and a prophecy of the annihilation of all earthly pomp that is founded on injustice and wrong, which it is the poet’s highest duty to raise his voice against. It might also be entitled ‘The Martyr-Minstrel.’

THE SINGER’S CURSE.

Shortly before his death Uhland wrote a little epigram on the death of a young child, which it would be inexcusable to attempt to give in any other language than the original, especially as it has not yet appeared in any collected edition of his works.

AUF DEN TOD EINES KINDES.

In these lines the childlike spirit of the old poet may have conceived a fitting epitaph for himself, so calm and simple was his life and death. But the “mit leiser Spur,” “with faint footfall,” could not have been applied to his own case except by his own modesty; for, unmistakably, if ever man did so, to use the language of his admirer, Longfellow, Ludwig Uhland has left some very enduring “footsteps on the sands of Time.”

“A golden opportunity, sir; Fortune knocking at your door, as she knocks but once in a man’s lifetime; and if you refuse to let her in, excuse me, sir, but you will repent it—you will.”

Such were the persuasive words of Colonel Coriolanus Sling, as he cracked his filberts and sipped his sherry in the snug dining-room of my villa at Stamford Hill. The Colonel, as his name indicates pretty clearly, was an eminent citizen of the model republic, not long arrived on British ground, and the bearer of an introductory letter from my esteemed friend Cassius Corkey, a late Secretary of Legation. I had given a little dinner in honour of my new acquaintance; the repast had gone off pleasantly enough, and the ladies had left us four gentlemen to our wine and politics, when the Colonel uttered the above remarks.

It was early autumn, and, if the flower-beds of the garden were somewhat faded, the shrubberies of Magnolia Villa had still a cheerful aspect; and the lawn, as seen through the French windows, was smooth and trim as a gigantic piece of Genoa velvet. Not a weed, not a withered leaf, marred the neatness of the bright gravel of the walks: the fountain was in full play, liberally sprinkling the goldfish in the little marble basin; and the transparent walls of the conservatory showed a wealth of many-tinted flowers within. There may be larger and more stately residences than Magnolia Villa, but I flatter myself that few proprietors could make more of four and a half acres of ground, imperial measurement, than your humble servant, George Bulkeley. We were, as I have said, four in company—the Colonel; young Tom Harris of the Stock Exchange; a friend and countryman of the Colonel’s, by name Dr Titus A. C. Bett; and myself.

“Why, Colonel Sling,” answered I, doubtfully, “I don’t quite know about that. The distance, you see, is great, and the risk may be——”

“Nothing at all!” interrupted my guest, warmly; “I pledge you the honour, sir, of a free-born citizen of the U-nited States, nothing at all! The plum, sir, is ripe, and ready to drop into your mouth spontaneous; and I may safely assure you, sir, that nothing but my gratitude for your hospitality would have induced me to promulgate a scheme so out-and-out auriferous as the Great Nauvoo and Nebraska Railway will eventuate.”

I did not always find it in my power to follow the Colonel through all the windings of an argument. His exuberant diction was occasionally too much for me; but the drift of what he said was pretty clear, and I was greatly struck with it.

Tom Harris, who had been staring at the Colonel with his round eyes very wide open, here ventured to say that he supposed there would be considerable expenditure before any returns could be expected.

“Guess you’d better shut up,” said, or rather snuffled, Dr Titus A. C. Bett. “I have documents in my pocket to substantiate the number of miles metalled, and the bridges, and the viaducts, and general plant. A mere flea-bite of outlay, sir, would suffice to establish another of those mighty arteries of communication in respect to which America, it’s pretty much admitted, whips the world; and none but a soft-horn, sir, would have the least dubiosity about it.”

The Doctor and the Colonel were compatriots, one being a Boston man and the other a New-Yorker, but they were very unlike each other in aspect and manner. For whereas the Colonel was six feet two inches high, at the very least computation, and had an eagle beak, keen dark eyes, and a forest of lank black hair streaming around his sallow face; the Doctor was a little man of five feet three, or thereabouts, with weak eyes, spectacles, a head almost bald, and a little wizened countenance. Furthermore, the Colonel was a soft-spoken man, with conciliatory manners and a peculiarly honeyed tone; and though he smoked prodigiously, he consumed tobacco in no other way. The Doctor, on the other hand, was quarrelsome and warlike to a degree, capped every anecdote, contradicted everybody, hummed and buzzed in society like an angry wasp, and kept a silver box full of quids in his coat-pocket. These two were partners. Ill-natured people were malicious enough to say that the Colonel’s department was cajolery, and the Doctor’s bullying, in the joint interest of the firm. I gave no ear to these unkind rumours, and indeed I justly considered the Colonel to be a man of superior abilities and remarkable eloquence. He did not omit, on this occasion, to spread a little soothing salve on the wounds which his countryman’s rudeness had inflicted.

“Excuse the worthy Doctor,” he murmured, in bland accents, to Tom Harris, whose face was very red with awkward indignation, “he is accustomed to the free discussions of our colossal country, where the restrictive etiquette of older and more despotic lands is spurned beneath the boot-heels of enlightenment. Do not be riled, I beseech you, at the freedom of his remarks; truth inspires them. You do not know, gentlemen” (here the orator’s voice swelled into a sonorous fulness)—“you cannot know—the resources of our glorious country: none but American citizens can fully appreciate the mines of profitable pro-duce always awaiting the civilising pick-axe of the hardy western pioneer. But never, never since first our Pilgrim Fathers began to improve the Indians off the face of nature—never since Manhattan changed its name to New Amsterdam, afterwards to be New York—has such a speculation as this, of which I am the felicitous herald, been going a-begging. Hail, Columbia, happy land! as our inspired bard, who whips your Swan of—ahem!” And here the Colonel ended in some confusion, and hid his fluent lips for a moment in his wine-glass.

Tom Harris was quite appeased. He was not a bright personage, Tom, but he did very well on the Stock Exchange, to which he may be said to have been born and bred. He was the only son of the well-known old Peter Harris, the man who made so much, as a bear, at the time of the Nore mutiny. He, Tom—not old Peter—had inherited a great deal of money; and though he set up for a sporting man, and generally hedged so artfully, and made up such ingenious books on the races that his alternative was between great losses and small ones, he was richer than when he came into his father’s fortune. For money accrues to money, as a snowball gathers in rolling; and it no more requires a genius to thrive in the Stock Market than it does to rule in a Cabinet, if Chancellor Oxenstiern tells the truth. And Tom had married a young lady of property, Miss Mungle, daughter of Chuttnee and Mungle, or rather of the junior partner in that great firm. Tom Harris, therefore, was wild for lucrative investments, and so, in a qualified way, was I; and money was plentiful in the City, as the ‘Times’ correspondent daily informed the reading public. We therefore already began to nibble at the tempting bait which the Colonel placed before us so dexterously.

“But,” said I, “is the traffic certain to be remunerative? The line runs through rather a thinly-peopled tract of country, doesn’t it?”

Colonel Coriolanus Sling slapped his leathery palm upon the polished mahogany with an emphasis that made the glasses ring. “Sir,” said he, “you are the most sensible man I have met in this benighted—I mean this beautiful kingdom. You have hit the exact point, my dear Mr Bulkeley, on which the eligibility of the whole affair pivots, only you must look at it from that sublimely piercing elevation from which the American intellect surveys it. Sir, we must create a population: sir, we must found cities: sir, it must be ours to people the western solitudes and to implant the germs of a nascent commerce, a new learning, a fresh community, where now the coon and the prairie dog dwell unmolested and alone: and, sir, future ages will decree to us colossal statues of imperishable brass; while in this we shall realise the applause of our consciences and of our bankers.” Here the Colonel stopped, overpowered by his feelings, and blew his nose with a martial dissonance.

“By Jove!” said Tom Harris, “I’ll speak to old Muggins about it: if he says ‘all right,’ I’ll take a thousand shares in the concern.”

“Muggins, sir! who is Muggins?” demanded the Doctor, waspishly: “is Muggins, sir, a fit judge when such an enterprise is in question—an enterprise to reflect eternal honour, sir, on its spirited and high-feluting projectors, with the finger of ignominy to point at the craven that draws back. Muggins! some stony-hearted London capitalist—some toad-eater at the beck of a bloated aristocracy—some miserable haunter of the gilded saloons of a Chancellor of the Exchequer” (the doctor was not very particular as to the authenticity of the accusations he flung broadcast). “Muggins, indeed!”

Tom Harris was an ingenuous youth. He looked excessively ashamed of his allusion to Muggins, and was quite borne down by the volubility of his transatlantic opponent. Thus it came about that a meeting was arranged for the next day at Colonel Sling’s chambers, at which we were to discuss the propriety of forming a company to work out the concession of the Nauvoo and Nebraska Railway, of which our American friends were the fortunate owners. I was an older man than Tom Harris, and had necessarily seen more of the world. And I had been “bit,” as the phrase goes, once or twice, by Mexican Debentures, Spanish Deferred, and unsaleable Scrip. I therefore asked, as delicately as I could, why my new acquaintances had not raised among the enlightened capitalists of their own country a sufficient amount to pay all preliminary expenses, thus keeping the golden fruit entirely among Americans. But the Colonel had an answer ready for me. He frowned, pursed up his month, bit his lips, and assumed very much the air of a conspirator.

“Hush!” he uttered, in tragic tones; then rushing to the door, whisked it open, putting to rout Adolphus the page, who always is listening at keyholes, in spite of repeated corporal punishment. Adolphus scuttled away across the hall in great dismay, and the Colonel returned to his seat with an expression that Iago might have envied. “Hush!” said he, “walls have auriculars, and spies are always on the watch to re-port the words of Columbia’s children. It is well known that your arbitrary Government has long adopted the wicked maxim due to the crafty forethought of your Pitt, Earl of Holland, that ‘America’s danger is England’s opportunity.’”

I could not help laughing as I answered, “I am afraid, Colonel, your memory has not rendered the passage in exactly its original form.”

“Excuse me,” croaked the Doctor, “but nothing is more wonderful than the ignorance which prevails in Britain, with regard to the sayings and doings of your grandees and public persons.”

“Allow me, Doctor,” said the Colonel, oracularly, “to finish my explanation. You see, gentlemen, we might have offered this concession in Wall Street in the Empire City, and Wall Street would have snapped it up; yes, sir, as an alligator would chaw pork.”

This was a forcible simile, but it did not quite content us. “Why didn’t you?” was trembling on the lips of both Tom Harris and myself, but politeness restrained us from uttering what our looks must have plainly said.

The Colonel answered our looks thus: “Because, squires, there was this difficulty in the way,—Buck, you know, is our old man.”

“I beg your pardon,” said Tom, reddening again; “but I don’t quite catch your meaning. Buck, did you call the gentleman?”

“Buck! the old man! White House—deputations—soirees—soft sawder,” explained the Doctor; and then we discovered that President Buchanan was the object of discourse.

“Well,” pursued the Colonel, “Buck’s very far gone—notice to quit—time nearly up. His successor is sure to be Abe Lincoln, if the little giant don’t beat him at the election. Nobody else has got a chance. Caucuses all at work! dark as moles. Now, sir, we have plugged the platform.”

“You’ve done what?” exclaimed Tom Harris.

“We’ve made it all safe, and Lincoln stands to win,” exclaimed the Colonel, condescendingly. “Now we suspect those Southerners mean to ride rusty if they get an anti-slavery man, like old Abe, to be President over them; and though our folks air screamers, and that’s a fact, the South’s an ugly customer, and our line of railway is too close to Missouri State to be safe, if owned by Northerners. But in the smartest row the South can make, you Britishers are sure to be handled as tenderly as a hoosier handles a squirrel’s skin; and so it’s best the property should be in the name of British subjects, not free citizens. Don’t you see?”

We did see, and we resolved that on the morrow we would sift the matter thoroughly.

“Try the claret, Colonel,” said I; “you have been drinking nothing but sherry, and this is Chateau Margaux that I got at Bilkingham’s sale. Those are pretty good peaches, Doctor, of my own growing.”

“Don’t talk of peaches,” said the Doctor, who, I will own, was anything but an agreeable guest; “you must cross the broad Atlantic before you talk of peaches, I reckon. I’ve fed pigs with better than your dukes and earls could show. I’ve bought in the market twenty-nine big peaches for thirty cents, I have. We do crow over you in peaches, as in most, only your national vanity won’t permit you to see it.”

The Colonel jumped from his chair. “You be quiet!” said he; “the Doctor is a glowing patriot, Mr Bulkeley; but I know he admires your delightful snuggery, embellished by art and high-flying taste, as much as I do myself. Some day, as a director of the Nauvoo and Nebraska, you may, if you please, build a palace on the site of Magnolia Villa that will take the shine out of the sumptuous halls of your nobility. But enough of business. Gentlemen, if you have liquored sufficiently, we will join the ladies.”

We did join the ladies. We found them strolling over the lawn in the cool of a September evening, and presently we all went in to coffee. I noticed that the Colonel was very polite and attentive, not only to my wife, but to young Mrs Harris, who was exceedingly stupid and plain of feature. As for Mrs and Miss Jarman, they were entertained by the Doctor with an amusing dissertation on the difference between America and England, and especially between London and New York. If Mrs Jarman had hitherto cherished a belief in the pre-eminence of London, as she apparently had, she must have received a considerable shock as the Doctor informed her that Belgravia was but a poor place to Fourth and Fifth Avenue, and that we were benighted creatures in all matters of elegance and taste.

“Not a mahogany door, I guess, have I seen in this smoky beggarly town of yours,” said Dr Bett, with both thumbs in the pockets of his black satin vest; “and as for silver knockers and bell-pulls, I might as well look for liberty in your institutions, or for sincerity in your press. The helps are enough to disgust all free-born men; to see them in plush and powder, with gold-sticks and nosegays, standing behind the gilt vehicles of an effete aristocracy, is alone a spectacle that beats earthquakes; and your Life Guards would sing small, I guess, by the side of the Brooklyn Volunteers.”

The Colonel, however, could be complimentary and gentle, if his brother republican could not; and so well did he play his cards, that when the company drove off, and the last grinding of their carriage-wheels upon the gravel had died away, my wife and daughters turned to me with beaming faces, and began to sing the praises of their departed guest.

“A most superior, well-informed, gentlemanly man, is Colonel Sling,” said the partner of my joys, emphatically.

“A delightful man!” lisped Georgina, my eldest.

“Quite an Admirable Crichton,” said Selina, my second, who is a bit of a blue.

“Delightful! he has so much conversation, and makes one laugh so!” cried artless Lucy, the third and youngest of my daughters.

So he had pleased them all, and, I admit, he had pleased me too; but he mostly showed his tact in winning the suffrages of the feminine members of my household. For Mrs Bulkeley is not a cipher by any means, even in my business transactions, and she has an amiable habit of warning me against entering into commercial relations with any one she mistrusts or dislikes. The next day beheld assembled in the showy Pall Mall chambers of Colonel Sling the same quartette that had closed around the mahogany in Magnolia Villa on the preceding day. Tom Harris and I drove down there together from the City, and we found the two Americans awaiting us with a hearty welcome. There were maps on a great table, and plans, and minerals, and parchments, and heaps of papers, carefully stacked and docqueted, and files of letters with great red seals to them that would have carried conviction home to the most incredulous. And the Colonel, after the first salutations were over, and after tenderly inquiring about the health of my womankind, commenced a lucid explanation of the exact position of the Nauvoo and Nebraska Railway—its position, I mean, in a pecuniary point of view, not its geographical position. The latter, we ascertained by a glance at the map, to be in the free State of Iowa, skirting Missouri, and with one terminus in Illinois State and the other in Nebraska Territory. But information now came showering upon us, and the Colonel was extremely careful to prove every fresh axiom which he laid down by an appeal to documents of the most incontrovertible character. There was the original concession of the line, approved by the State Legislature, signed by the governor, registered by the State’s law officers and by the Federal attorney of the district. There were similar documents, to which the autographs of the governors of Nebraska and Illinois were attached. There were the reports of surveyors, the accounts of contractors, subcontractors, architects, machinists, and ironmasters. Moreover, there were specimens of minerals found in the immediate neighbourhood of the line, and within the liberal grant of land which the State had made—which specimens the Colonel showed us, in rather a careless way, as mere incidental advantages. But the eyes of Tom Harris and myself sparkled at the sight; for although we were not adepts in geology, we knew iron ore, and copper ore, and limestone, and hornblende, and fine marble, when we saw them; and visions of mines and quarries to be worked at vast profit, or leased for high rentals, flitted brilliantly before us. What wonder that, on hearing the generous terms on which the two American gentlemen were willing to admit us to a full participation of their advantages, Tom and I shook hands most heartily with Doctor and Colonel, and devoted ourselves from that moment to the establishment of the projected Company? And then Colonel Coriolanus rang the bell for lunch, and we all drank, over and over again, in creaming bumpers of Clicquot, prosperity and success to the Nauvoo and Nebraska Railway. Two day after, out came our prospectus to dazzle the City. A more flowery manifesto, or one more fertile in temptations, I have seldom seen. It proved, moreover, as plainly as that two and two make four, that the investment was as secure as the bank, if not more so, and a hundred-fold more remunerative. Never was there such a railway; never were there directors so opulent, so respectable, so conscientious, so experienced; never was there a line on which the expenses were so trifling, the traffic so enormous, or the dividend so princely, as that of the Nauvoo and Nebraska. Iowa was a State of boundless fertility, of inexhaustible resources—cereal, mineral, commercial. The line would be part of a main highway to the Far West, and the Old World and the New World pour tribute into the cornucopia of its matchless wealth. Cities were to spring up, fair and flourishing provinces were to blossom, where the virgin soil now awaited the spade and the ploughshare: we were to carry tobacco, madder, corn, cattle, immigrants, and ore. The gigantic fortunes we were to make were thrown into the shade by the benefits we were to confer on posterity and our contemporaries. Unborn millions were to canonise the projectors of the Grand Nauvoo and Nebraska; and we were not only to insure for ourselves the smiles and blessings of ages yet to come, but were to feather our nests pretty handsomely in a few short months. Not only were we to take rank as philanthropists of the first water, but to rig the market as well. Nor were the advantages of the new railroad confined to the eminent and clear-sighted capitalists who had first embarked in it. No; in that good cause the widow’s mite was welcome. Never, it was pointed out, was so admirable an opportunity offered to ladies of limited income, to struggling professional men, to decayed gentry or others, to double or treble their little store by means of the splendid dividends, the bonuses, premiums, and other good things, to be expected from the Company. Who has not read many such glowing proclamations as this, promising to realise the dreams of an El Dorado for the lucky speculator, bolstering up each statement by an imposing array of figures, and always concluding by the recommendation that (to prevent disappointment) immediate application be made at the office for shares? We had a secretary and cashier, and Dr Titus A. C. Bett was so kind as to undertake the latter responsible position; while the celebrated Wyldrake Flam, Esq., a gentleman who had been concerned with a good many companies in his time, was happily secured for the former situation. Sir George Gullings, M.P., a rich banker who had earned his baronetcy by his long course of voting for a Whig Ministry, was our chairman; and, of course, Tom Harris, Colonel Sling, and I, were among the managing directors. We took a great many shares amongst us; but, of course, by far the greater number were submitted to public competition, and the frequenters of the money market bit with tolerable freedom. But there were some wary old fish who refused so much as to nibble at the glittering bait, and foremost amongst them was old Muggins, that veteran stockbroker of whom Tom Harris had made mention at my table. Muggins was a character, and disagreeably outspoken. One day I met him at the Royal Exchange, and taking him playfully by the button, I asked him why he gave our Company the cold shoulder.

“Mr Bulkeley, sir, I’ll tell you,” said Muggins, with a frown: “I shirk your Company, sir, because I can’t afford to lose my property in duck-and-drake fashion among those swindling Yankees. I hate bubbles, sir, and this is worse, for it is a cruel robbery.”

“Sir, sir! Mr Muggins!” said I, choking with anger. What did this remarkable man proceed to say? Just this:

“George Bulkeley, I have known you from a boy, and you are an honest man, though not very bright (I was speechless at his effrontery). When I call this affair a swindle, I don’t impute blame to you, for I am aware that you are a dupe, not a duper. But I don’t pity you for losing some pen-feathers out of your wings, as you will do; I keep my pity for the poor wretches who will be plucked bare, and who can least spare the little savings or capital your fine prospectus has wheedled them into investing,—I mean the widows and old maids, the half-pay officers, the needy clergymen, that your Company is to ruin. I wish I could see your American friends in the pillory, I know! Good-day.”

And off he went, leaving me very angry, but a little dismayed as well. After all, old Muggins passed for an oracle in the city; and seriously, had I examined sufficiently into the foundation of all the alluring statements we had published with the sanction of our names? What Muggins had said about the widows and poor helpless folks gave me an unpleasant twinge in my heart, and conscience came and whispered, “George Bulkeley, the accomplice of rogues, is not very far from being a rogue himself, is he?” I made a bold resolution. I determined to go out myself to America, and, on the spot, thoroughly to investigate the condition and prospects of the line of railway. When I broached this proposal at the next meeting of the Board, Colonel Sling and the Doctor were found to be violently opposed to it, and to be inclined to resent such interference on my part as an insult. And the influence of the two Americans was very considerable with the committee, partly because all our information was derived from the authority of Colonel Sling, and partly because the transatlantic gentlemen had a custom of putting down and pooh-poohing whatever any one but themselves happened to say. But I was firm this time; and besides, as I offered to go out without putting the Company to any expense whatever, the opposition to my departure could not decently be continued. Then, to my surprise, Colonel Coriolanus Sling very kindly offered to accompany me, and to save me all trouble and inconvenience by lending me the aid of his perfect knowledge of the localities. The Doctor, as cashier, must of course remain at his post; but the Colonel could be spared, he felt assured he could be spared, and indeed he proposed that we should go as a deputation, and at the cost of the Company. Why not? Our shares were at a premium. Money was flowing in. All went prosperously with us. Why not? The Colonel’s proposition was carried nem. con., and it was agreed that George Bulkeley, Esq., and Colonel Coriolanus Sling, should proceed at once to Iowa, there to survey, report, and inspect. Mrs Bulkeley’s consent was procured; and indeed, but for the terrors of sea-sickness, she would have insisted on accompanying me. The Cunard packet, Mersey, was to sail from Liverpool on the 17th of the month; our berths were engaged on board her; and it was duly agreed that the Colonel and I were to go down together on the day preceding that of embarkation. I never thoroughly understood why the gallant American officer did not keep his appointment. He wrote me a hurried note, saying that important business detained him in town, and that he would join me in Liverpool; but I believe a dinner at the Star and Garter, at Richmond, was the engagement in question. At any rate I travelled alone; alone I embarked; and though I looked out for the Colonel till the last moment, till the bell rang, and the plank was withdrawn, and the huge paddlewheels began to revolve, no Colonel came. And we went to sea with his name in the roll of passengers, but without his corporeal presence on deck or in cabin. I cannot say that I was altogether sorry. I felt instinctively that I was by far more likely to form an unbiassed judgment when alone. I felt that in company with a man so plausible, so fluent of speech, and so experienced in all the ways of the singular country for which I was bound, I should be in danger of seeing all objects through the rose-coloured haze in which it was the Colonel’s policy to mask them. But, at the same time, I was a little nervous at the prospect of exploring the Far West without a Mentor; and the weight of the responsibility attaching to my report was not exactly reassuring. The packet was crowded, for many were desirous of making use of the last week or two of fine still weather, before the November gales should begin to expend their fury upon the vast breadth of the Atlantic. There were but few Britons on board; but there were Dons in abundance; and great numbers of pallid ladies, with Parisian toilettes and faulty teeth, and of sallow lean-visaged men in tail-coats and varnished boots, returning from a tour of European baths and cities. Also, there were plenty of keen-looking persons, who eyed all mankind with suspicious scrutiny, who had memorandum-books sticking out of the pockets of their black satin vests, and who were probably not unconnected with commercial pursuits and the cotton trade. Aware that I was on my way to a new world in more senses of the word than one, a world whose standard of morality was wholly novel, I took every opportunity of acquiring information which might afterwards prove invaluable. I therefore associated exclusively with natives of the Western Continent, studied their sentiments, and stored up every scrap of information bearing on traffic and transit. I will own that my pride met with frequent abrasions; that my deepest-rooted convictions were rudely assaulted; and that I was unable to avoid observing that my neighbours would have been all the better for a little more attention to the precepts of Lord Chesterfield. We are not always very fastidious in the city: I am constantly obliged to bargain, dine, and converse, with uncommonly rough diamonds; but I do not think that any Cockney alive can contrive to render vulgarity so glaringly offensive as his Yankee congener. I was most unlucky in my fellow-passengers, some of whose habits were distressing to a degree, and did not show any remarkable improvement since the days when Mrs Trollope and Captain Hamilton crossed the Atlantic. I began to owe Sir Walter a grudge for his discovery of tobacco, since tobacco, chewed to pulp, and lubricating the deck and cabin-stairs with its nicotian extract, became the bugbear of my existence. Besides, I prefer to see gentlemen sit with their feet in a more normal position than an undue elevation of the boot soles can afford. I wish our transatlantic brothers would smoke a little less and wash a little more; and I never could entirely pardon young Mr Tips for whittling my portmanteau. Mr Tips—young Mr Tips, that is—Minos Blackstone Story Tips—was the sharer of what was facetiously called my state-room. The latter was a wedge of a cabin, with two little berths in it, not quite so spacious as the box-beds in an old-fashioned Highland cottage, and was naturally meant to accommodate two passengers. Under ordinary circumstances, Colonel Sling would have held divided empire over this den with myself; and I believe that, in strict justice, the whole should have been mine, seeing that I had signed the cheque in payment for both passages. But berths were at a premium: several passengers had come on board at the last, and had to shift for their quarters as they might, and among them the Tips family. Now, although the “state-room” was rightfully mine, yet I was easily induced to permit the installation of young Mr Tips in the undermost berth, though I admit that my temper was sorely tested when I found him in bed, one rather blusterous afternoon, very sick, and beguiling the tedious hours, by operating with a sharp penknife on the glossy leather of my new portmanteau—Allen’s best, fitted for India and the colonies. Also this delightful youth—a lawyer from the cradle, as his names imply—was fond of using my pet razor, and borrowing my scissors and brushes; was not over partial to soap and water; and sang queer nasal songs at untimely hours, besides smoking in bed. I might have had a pleasanter companion, but I had let him in, and there was no help for it, while, after all, the voyage was but for ten days. Why had I let him in? For two reasons: firstly, because exclusiveness is most unpopular among Republicans; and the old sentiment which dictated the New York proverb, that “A man must be a hog to want a bed all to himself,” still exists in a modified form. Another reason was, that I wanted to make friends, and get letters of introduction to some Western citizens who would be able to tell me all about the Nauvoo and Nebraska Railway, and perhaps a little about Colonel Sling. I knew that Americans, amongst each other at least, were most generous in this respect. I was aware that few retired storekeepers or land-jobbers brought over their charming families without being provided with introductions from ex-ministers and secretaries to half the peers and princes of Europe; that American diplomacy was subservient to any one who could influence an election; and that very queer folks indeed had the honour of figuring at royal levees and state balls under the wing of Franklin’s eagle. I determined, therefore, to be as conciliatory as possible in all my dealings with the citizens and citizenesses of the model commonwealth.

I had the pleasure of making acquaintance with old Mr Tips,—Judge Tips, of Salem, Mass.—his Christian name was Magnentius,—in rather a curious manner. He sat next to me at the general dinner in the best cabin or saloon. The table was crowded, but there were three below me, on the same side of the long board. The dinner was a capital one: the Cunard directors are famous for good feeding; and Judge Tips, father to my young companion, played an excellent knife and fork. A dish of peas came round, the last of the marrow-fats, the latest peas of summer; and indeed I cannot conceive from what remote market the steamboat purveyors had imported them, seeing that Covent Garden had been barren, in respect to this vegetable, for some weeks. I am very fond of peas, and was rejoiced to see my favourites once again; and I anxiously awaited their arrival. Miss Tips, Miss Julia Tips, and Tips mère, as the French would say, had each taken a decorous spoonful from the flying dish, and now the black waiter was offering the delicacy to Tips himself, enough being left for five persons at least. What was my horror to behold the Judge deliberately monopolise the whole—sweep, as I live, every pea into his own plate—and then turning to me, with a greasy smile, remark, “I guess, stranger, I’m a whale at peas.”^[4] Yes, Mr Bright tells sterling truth. There are some matters in which the most acquisitive of us all are distanced by an American. Judge Tips was obliging enough to favour me with a good deal of his improving conversation, and by meekness and affability I won his heart. He not only invited me to visit him at Salem, but when I hinted that I was on my way to the West, and should be glad to make the acquaintance of any notable citizens of Illinois or Iowa, he gave me the coveted letters of introduction to more than one magistrate, sheriff, and popular preacher. Nor did any accident mar the even tenor of our agreeable passage to New York. We had almost uniform good weather; and before the evening of the eleventh day, we were standing on the wooden landing-places of the Empire City, surrounded by German porters, Irish car-drivers, and Yankee touts. The latter race, wise in their generation, prefer head-work to the toil of actual muscle, and permit old Europe to furnish them with soldiers and foremast-men, stevedores, navvies, and dock labourers; while they supply officers, foremen, mates, and overlookers, to regulate and profit by the exertions of their hirelings.

The Astor House is not what it was. It has been distanced by more gigantic competitors; and as for the Tremont, it is left high and dry, like a stranded whale, by the tide of fashion. Nevertheless, I bestowed my patronage on the latter, perhaps for Sam Slick’s sake, and spent a couple of days under its hospitable roof while recovering from the sensation of cramp, tedium, and nausea quite inseparable from a sea voyage. Then I set out for the West. The journey, as far as Fort Madison, on the western boundary of the State of Illinois, I performed by railway, expeditiously perhaps, and not very uncomfortably, in spite of the amount of rocking and swinging due to a carelessly-metalled “permanent way,” if I may employ the phraseology of engineering. But I could not, with a clear conscience, agree with the enthusiastic comments of my fellow-travellers, as to the immense superiority, in speed and accommodation, of American railroads over those of Britain. After being jolted and swung till one’s bones ached, all the time, perhaps, being at a net speed of thirty miles an hour, it was rather provoking to listen to such remarks as the following:—

“Wall, mister, I expect our flying locomotives do rayther astonish you. They kinder take the conceit out of Old England, I some think.” Or, more gravely, “I believe, sir, it’s pretty universally admitted that America whips the world for speed. We have beaten your yachts, we have licked your racers, and our trains must make you think small beer of your expresses. We go ahead, we do!”

I take great praise to myself that I was always able to keep my temper, and to abstain from polemics. But argument would have been useless. I had to do with a people who saw the outer world through the spectacles of their journalists, and who would no more admit the imperfections of America than a lover will see a blemish in his mistress. To them America was all in all; and the mightiest countries in Europe were esteemed by them as rotten and worthless, only existing by the sufferance of the Giant Republic. As for my praise of the British Constitution, they simply laughed at it, assuring me that I knew nothing about the matter, and that there could be no liberty where a plain man was not allowed to go to court in his working dress if he chose. But I had not crossed the ocean to argue: I had come to pluck out the heart of the mystery concerning the Nauvoo and Nebraska Railway. And I was very careful at dinner-tables, bars, cafés, and railway cars, to elicit all available information with respect to the resources of the West. What I heard was, of course, vague; but on the whole it contained some comfort. It appeared certain that a great trade was carried on by land and water; that towns started up with incredible quickness in the midst of desolate prairies, or, like Chicago, on piles in a swamp; and that hardy men were taming the wilderness. So far so good. But it did not appear to me that security to life and property went in exactly the same ratio as the increase of wealth. I heard odd stories about regulators, vigilance committees, and Judge Lynch. Mob-law seemed paramount to written statutes; and the fiat of a legal court required to be backed by the good pleasure of a majority before its execution could be guaranteed. Besides, the moral standard of the community did not rank as high as perhaps a very delicate sense of honour required. Commercial tricks were spoken of as “clever,” or “ingenious,” which in other lands would have engaged the serious attention of the law-officers of the Crown; and the most unprincipled ruse was mentioned with laughter and indulgence, if not with approbation. All this augured badly, methought, for the prospects of the Nauvoo and Nebraska Railway. And yet I did not despair, and still less did I drop a hint of my suspicions to any casual acquaintance. It was not for me, a managing director, to denounce the project with which my name was, alas! inextricably linked, until it should be proved a bubble on the very clearest evidence. I reached Fort Madison, the most remote point to which the steam-horse could convey me, and had, at any rate, the satisfaction of knowing that I was within a few miles of Nauvoo. I hired a mule-waggon for the journey, and sitting down to dinner at the public table of the hotel, I inquired what sort of a place Nauvoo might be?

“Nauvoo, mister,” said a tall gaunt man whom his friends addressed as “Major,” “Nauvoo is a pretty considerable sprig of a city. It is a tall place, sir. There air good points and great developments about Nauvoo. Do you settle down there, stranger? I could sell you a lot of land awful cheap.”

“Thank you,” said I, “I have no intention of becoming a resident at Nauvoo; I merely wish to visit it.”

“I see,” observed another guest; “you want to have a peep at the great temple the Mormons built before Joe Smith was shot at Springfield. ’Tain’t much you’ll see, though, stranger, for the place is all to ruin. The bhoys were not soft enough to let so much cedar-pine and dressed limestone stand, when houses were costing hat-fulls of dollars. But Nauvoo has some fine bluffs, con-sidered aiqual to any scenery the old Rhine can show.”

“Air you in the hardware line? If so, we might trade, I guess;” said a little man at my elbow.

“No, no;” I returned, “my journey is not of a commercial character, exactly.”

“Political, eh?” asked the Major: “picking up news, perhaps, for your Downing Street wiseacres, and feeling Uncle Sam’s pulse to know when the old gentleman is at fever heat, eh, mister?”

“Not at all,” said I; “I have no mission of the sort; nor, indeed, do I believe the British Government to entertain any peculiar anxiety on the subject you mention.”

A cough and shrug of disapprobation pervaded the assembly.

“It is well known, sir,” said the tall Major, “that the Government of your benighted land is ever on the watch for the expression of American opinion. American opinion, sir, has great weight in your House of Commons.”

“I was not aware of it, I give you my word;” I answered with a smile.

“Perhaps not, sir, perhaps not,” replied the Major, pityingly. “Do you never read the ‘Evening Planet,’ sir, when you are at home?”

I winced. The truth was, that I did take in the ‘Evening Planet,’ and heedfully perused therein the valuable dicta of its eloquent proprietor, a celebrated parliamentary and platform orator. And I had been accustomed to give credence to the confident assurance of this gentleman, that we were miles behind the Northern States of the American Union in all that was useful and good, and that we could not do better than copy so shining a model in all things. I had read and heard the bold statement, made in defiance of statistics, that America was floating peacefully on the tide of prosperity into the haven of universal empire—an empire won by bloodless means, of course; for what nation, unsaddled with an aristocracy, would dream of war, while Britain was sinking into decrepitude and decay! All this, and much more, had I heard and read, and I had believed that Britannia ought to sit at the feet of her flighty offspring for instruction, and to remodel her old institutions after a republican pattern. But, as not seldom happens, a nearer view of the United States did not precisely confirm the loud assertions of the Americanising party in the British press and senate, and I was gradually losing my ideal admiration for transatlantic liberty and customs. After the rapid dinner, and the more leisurely supplement of juleps and brandy-cobblers imbibed in the bar-room of the hotel, I asked a coloured waiter if my waggon and mules were forthcoming, as I was desirous of reaching Nauvoo before dark.

“Iss, massa!” answered the negro, and whisked off with his napkin to inquire after the lingering equipage.

The Major said he was going to Nauvoo too, and begged the favour of a lift, which I willingly conceded.

The mules and waggon, with their whipcracking teamster, soon rattled up to the door; my bill was promptly paid, my baggage transferred to the vehicle; the Major and I climbed into our places, and we started.

“How comes it, Major,” said I, “that there is no line open to Nauvoo?”

The Major knocked the ashes off his cigar as he replied, “Wall, I suppose it wouldn’t pay. Rail to Fort Madison is all right and spry, because Uncle Sam has property there; but I guess not a dime could be drawed from Washington treasury to make a line on to Nauvoo.”

“And from Nauvoo, westward through Iowa, say to Nebraska,” observed I, with affected carelessness; “what should you say to the prospects of a railroad in that direction?”

My heart throbbed audibly as I spoke, for all my feigned indifference, and I listened with anxiety for the Major’s reply. I had not long to wait.

“That depends,” said my fellow-traveller, with sagacious deliberation, “on the sort of rail you talk about. Is it a line to go no farther than Wall Street, and perhaps your London Capel Court, that you are speaking of, mister?”

“Wall Street and Capel Court! Upon my life, I hardly comprehend you,” returned I.

“Moonshine, flummery, make-believe, sleepers, rails, stations, all of paper, that’s what I mean, stranger;” rejoined the Major, somewhat impatiently.

“But I spoke of a bona fide concern—of a real railway, honestly made and fairly worked,” answered I; “what would you say to that?”

“Say!” replied the Major, with infinite contempt, “say! Let me see the gonies. Trot ’em up to me, sir. Just let me have a look at the simple ones that are at the head of the business, and I’ll tell them what I think, fast enough. No, Nauvoo is a rising place, a neat location, but it can wait for a rail one while, unless every sage plant on the prairie turns to silver dollars.”

After this I asked the Major no more questions. We reached Nauvoo, and through the dusk I espied the shingled roofs of its houses, the bold bluffs of limestone, the rushing coffee-coloured river, and the unfinished building-lots with their heaps of wreck and rubbish. We put up at the General Jackson Hotel. I had a letter of introduction to Squire Park of Nauvoo, a gentleman in the flatboat interest, who owed his title of Squire to his being in the commission of the peace. But on repairing to his house I was doomed to disappointment—the more vexatious because Mr Park had been eulogised by Judge Tips as a man who knew the West thoroughly. Squire Park was gone to Cairo on business, and was not expected back before the end of the month. On consulting the map I carried, I found that a place called Keosauque was the nearest of the few towns in Iowa to the line of railway, real or imaginary, in connection with which my name, and those of other men of respectability and substance, were flaming, in advertisements and on the broadsheets of a prospectus, throughout the British metropolis. I set off to Keosauque, mounted on an Indian pony, and accompanied by a guide in the shape of a wiry backwoodsman, in an enduring costume of leather, and who gave accommodation to my portmanteau behind his saddle. For some miles we rode in silence over the apparently boundless sea of grass, mottled with weeds and flowers, and occasionally studded with lone farmhouses and maize fields, or by herds of grazing cattle. Those half-reclaimed mustangs are not the most pleasant mount for a timid rider, nor am I, George Bulkeley of Stamford Hill, a very adventurous horseman; and before we had got far, I began to wish the brute I rode would desist from what seemed an alternation of starts and stumbles. My guide, a good-humoured wild man, observed my embarrassment, and undertook its removal.

“See here, Colonel,” said he—strangers in the West are usually decorated with visionary epaulettes—“you mustn’t keep the rein so slack as that, nor yet hold your hand up level with your cravat, or, scalp me, but you’ll be spilt! Mustangs want a tight grip on the bit. So—steady now. Stick in your knees, Colonel, and scorn to ketch hold of the pummel—so. Do as you see me do; give him a touch of the spur, but mind his kicking—for mustangs can kick, they can. You’ll do nicely, now.”

Ichabod was a skilful riding-master, by instinct, I suppose; and, thanks to his forcible instructions, I was soon on better terms with my refractory quadruped. On we rode, over the waving grass, through the rank weeds, through the belts of cottonwood timber and maples that skirted every streamlet, and past the swampy bottoms where sluggish waters wound like wounded snakes. We dined on dried venison, jerked beef, parched corn, and hominy, at a farm which did duty for an inn, and slept at another house of the same character. Next day we resumed our route; and as we rode towards Keosauque, I ventured to ask Ichabod if he had ever heard of the Great Nauvoo and Nebraska Railway. I had been hitherto averse to propounding this query; for how could I tell whether the interests of my informant might conflict with mine?—but with this rough frontiersman I felt I was safe. He, at least, was no rival speculator—no shareholder in a competing line—no steamboat proprietor, or lord of many stage-waggons. But his first answer was not satisfactory. It was comprised in the one word, “Anan!”

“The Railway”—asked I again—“from Nauvoo to Nebraska: not a finished thing, of course; but you surely must have seen or heard of the works—the bridges, the embankments, and the rest of the preparations?”

Ichabod shook his head. “You’re talking Greek to me, Colonel, and that air a fact.”

“How is it possible,” cried I, in an agony, “that there can have been a railway begun in this country, and the settlers unaware of it? Surely you must be a stranger to this part of the State yourself!”

“You’re wrong there, Colonel,” answered Ichabod; “I’m Illinois born, but I’m Iowa bred. In this State I was raised; and I don’t believe there’s a thing happened over the border sin’ I could mount a horse, be it buffler or deer, loping Indian, runaway nigger, or Yankee pedlar, without my hearing on’t. Stop” (and he smote his knee with a palm as hard as iron)—“I’ve got it. You’re talking of Harvey’s Folly.”

And I thought the young backwoodsman would have tumbled off his horse in the extravagant burst of mirth which this discovery produced. “Who-whoop!” cried he; “I’ve seen queer sights, but never did I think to see a stranger come out in a bee-line from the old country—no offence, Colonel!—to ax about Harvey’s Folly. I’d nigh forgot that the thing existed at all. Wah! but it beats coon-catching!”

With some trouble I got an explanation. It appeared from the borderer’s statement that, years ago, a speculative individual of the name of Harvey had undertaken to construct a railway from Nebraska to Nauvoo, with a branch linking it to the Central Illinois line. He had obtained the usual charter and grant of land from the State, and had actually commenced operations between Keosauque and New Buda, two little towns not far from the Missouri boundary. But he had soon desisted from the Sisyphean task, ruined, disheartened, or disappointed of the aid on which he had somewhat sanguinely reckoned; and thenceforth no more had been said of the scheme or the schemer. “But the property,” groaned I, “the works, surely they must remain?”

“Why,” said Ichabod, meditatively, “I kinder think there’s rails laid down a bit—yes, for some miles I guess, and they’ll be there still. The cussed Indians can’t have stampedoed them, like they do the cattle. There’s a tidy bridge over a creek or two Harvey built, and some sheds and scantling; and that’s about all.”

“All,” said I, “think again, Ichabod. Surely there must be more plant than that, and then the rolling stock?”

The frontiersman laughed. “We know more about gunstocks than rolling stocks, out here on the pararas,” said he; “and I never heard of plants, onless ’twas hickory or sumach. But I’ve kinder catalogued the hull fixings for you, Colonel, without ’tis a pile of rusty iron, or a few waggon-loads of logs—neat bits of oak timber they were, trimmed and dressed, and shaped mighty like a saddle-tree, that Harvey left on the ground.”

“The sleepers, I suppose,” returned I; “are they there still?”

“Well, Colonel, mebbe some of ’em are taking a nap there still,” replied Ichabod, “but parara men often camp thereabouts, hunting, cattle-tending, or prospecting, and firewood being mortal scarce on the plains, ’twasn’t to be expected the bhoys wouldn’t make free with some chips to cook with. I may have had a chop at those logs with my tomahawk, when I wanted a broil, onst or twice, myself.”

I groaned again. The Great Nauvoo and Nebraska Railway was evidently as brittle a speculation as Alnaschar’s basket of glass. I finished the ride to Keosauque in moody reverie. There was no other guest to share such rugged plenty as the wooden tavern, called by courtesy the Eagle Hotel, could afford; and as the landlord was absent, and the landlady busy in the management of her children and Irish helps, no one talked to me, and I sat sullen and dejected the whole evening. Next day, tired as I was, I set out again, under Ichabod’s guidance, to visit what he persisted in naming Harvey’s Folly. We reached the spot at last. A swampy level, intersected by runlets of water, and with a good deal of thorny brake, and here and there a clump of cottonwood poplars diversifying the scene, had been selected by Mr Harvey for the site of his preliminary operations. Why he had chosen that wet ground at all, when so much dry prairie lay beyond, of very tolerable smoothness, it is difficult to conjecture; but perhaps the more accurate level had tempted him. There were rails, certainly there were rails, half-hidden by the growth of hemlocks and rank grass; but on dismounting I discovered that, for lack of proper metal trams, the rails had been constructed of wood, covered with a thin slip of iron—not an unusual device in out-of-the-way parts of America, as I was afterwards told. The fastenings were very defective, the sleepers loose, and the whole concern had a crazy haphazard look. Such as they were, these precious rails were continued for about 5 miles—5 miles out of 350!—and then they terminated in a mass of ruin and confusion. There were roofless sheds, scantlings and screens blown down by hurricane gusts, heaps of rusty iron, broken tools, damaged wheelbarrows, and a shattered truck with only one wheel left. Also there were a quantity of sleepers of dressed oak, and the fragments of many more, split by the axe and charred to coal, as they lay around the blackened spots of burnt turf, where many a camp-fire had been lit by the frontiersmen. That was all the valuable property left at the disposal of the directors. The sight sickened me. “Harvey’s Folly,” muttered I between my teeth, “say rather Bulkeley’s Folly—Bulkeley’s credulity, idiocy, weakness! And not only mine, but Tom Harris’s, and that of all of us. What a long-eared pack were we to be lured by the crafty piping of such a dissembling knave as that glib Colonel!” I rode away, sad and careworn. Ichabod’s quaint talk was unnoticed. I had another companion that claimed my undivided attention, and that was Care, Black Care, which sat crouching behind my saddle. I was haunted by a ghastly phantom of impending bankruptcy. The London Gazette spread its ill-omened sheet before me, and in its fatal columns I read, in flaming characters, “George Bulkeley, of Cannon Street in the City of London, and Stamford Hill, Middlesex, to surrender at Portugal Street on Monday the 14th inst. Official Assignee, Mr Wilks!” That it should have come to this! Ruin, ruin, ruin. Ruin and disgrace to us all, the duped directors of this wretched swindle. Were we not responsible for the debts of the undertaking? Was not the paid-up capital in the treacherous hands of our Yankee cashier, Dr Titus A. C. Bett, and could there be a doubt that it was lost for ever? Plainly the whole business was a fraudulent trick from the first—a net to catch gold-fish! Ah! already with my mind’s eye I saw the broker’s men in possession of Magnolia Villa; I saw my costly furniture, the cellar of wines I had been so proud of, carriages, pictures, everything, submitted to public competition by a smirking auctioneer. I heard the hammer fall, knocking down my Lares and Penates to the highest bidder. Going, going, gone! the accursed formula rang in my ears with baleful clearness. Magnolia Cottage to let! My family hiding in poor lodgings in Boulogne! George Bulkeley, a moody bankrupt, slinking about the pier of that refuge for insolvency, and afraid to face the Stock Exchange! Even though the Court might declare me blameless, even though the commissioner might whitewash me into commercial purity, my conscience was less complaisant, and sternly refused me even a third-class certificate.

I might have had the right to ruin myself and family, but what right had I to make desolate the hearths of many helpless and confiding people? How about those shareholders ignorant of business, those pinched vicars, needy widows, poor old half-pay officers, and the rest, who had been dazzled by our prospectus, and had invested their savings in the pocket of Dr Titus A. C. Bett? It was my respectable name, in common with those of my fellows in the Direction, which had baited the hook for such poor prey as these. My heart—even City men have hearts sometimes—was heavy and mournful with a grief not wholly selfish. Plump! fluff! down went the mustang on his knees, his feet having plunged into the holes that led to the dwellings of some “prairie-dogs”—interesting little brutes that burrow all over the plains—and over the animal’s head I flew with the force of a sky-rocket. Lighting with a great thump on the hard turf, I ran no trifling risk of a broken neck; but my hat saved me, at the expense of its own demolition, and I was only stunned. But when Ichabod hurried to the rescue he found me bruised and faint, and with a sprained thumb that caused me exquisite pain for the time. So stupified was I by the shock, that I did not hear the beat of hoofs upon the green carpet of the prairie, nor the sound of friendly voices, and was surprised, on looking up, to see that I was surrounded by a large party of equestrians, who were surveying me from the saddle with every appearance of interest. Riding-habits and side-saddles here in prairie-land! hats and feathers, too, of most ladylike elegance, and a pair of pretty, rather pale faces under the shadow of those plumed felts. Besides the two girls, there were a grey-haired elderly man, two younger gentlemen, and three or four mounted blacks in suits of striped cotton, one of whom led a couple of hounds in a long leash, while another had a buck strapped behind him on the horse.

“Is the poor gentleman much hurt?” asked one of the young ladies in a sweet kind voice. Ichabod, as bold as a lion in general, was awkward and bashful when addressed by a lady, and seemed to be weighing the words of his answer, when I felt it necessary to reply for myself. On discovering that I was a stranger in the land, General Warfield insisted that I should accompany the party to his house, just across the Missouri border, where my injured thumb should receive every attention, and where he and his family would gladly welcome me. Yielding willingly to this hospitable persuasion, I permitted Ichabod and one of the negroes to help me to remount my mustang, and we rode towards the Missouri boundary. The family whose acquaintance I had just made in so singular a way, bore no similarity to the travelling Americans whom it had previously fallen to my lot to encounter. General Warfield, his son, daughters, and nephew, had the well-bred air and unobtrusive demeanour which I had hitherto deemed exclusively insular. They asked me no abrupt questions as to my station or errand: they indulged in no diatribes against my country, nor in any extravagant laudations of their own; and I might have fancied myself the guest of some long-descended family at home, but for the wild scenes and unusual objects that met my eye as we rode along. It turned out that General Warfield, a retired military officer, not a militiaman, was of an old Virginian family, and had migrated to the newer soil of Missouri six years ago. There his children had grown to be men and women, in the hardy habits of that wild country, a mere outpost of civilisation; and indeed they were returning from a hunting expedition into Iowa when they stumbled upon me in my prostrate condition. Three hours’ ride brought us to the General’s house, a large building of mingled wood and stone, with a pretty garden on one hand, and on the other the farm-buildings, the corrals for horses and cattle, and the negro huts. Within I found furniture of old-fashioned dark mahogany, partridge-wood, and bird’s-eye maple, old family pictures, pretty knickknacks picked up during a three years’ residence in Europe, and the massive silver plate which had been handed down from father to son ever since the ancestral Warfield settled in Virginia in the reign of Charles I. I never knew anything so un-American, in respect to the usual standard of comparison, as the mode of life, the bearing, and tastes, of General Warfield and his high-spirited and amiable children. Here was no exaggeration of sentiment, no outrageous national vanity, no rude indifference to the feelings of others, no prying, no pretension. I felt, as I conversed with them, how wide was the gulf that severed the North from the South. It was not diversity of interest alone, but diversity of habits, principles, and aspirations. Wide apart in heart and mind as the poles from each other, the citizens of the opposite ends of the Union had but the feeble Federal bond to delay that violent disruption and severance of which, even then, the signs of the times gave fearful warning. But it is not my purpose to linger on the happy days I spent beneath the roof of my kind hosts. Let me rather relate the information I received from General Warfield, when his friendly hospitality had caused me to confide to his ear my errand to America, and the ruin I had too much reason to anticipate.

“My dear sir,” said the General, “I am glad you have told me of this—very glad. I can help you in this matter.”

The General then proceeded to tell me that, in the first year of his residence in Missouri, Harvey, a notorious speculator, had begun the railway whose miserable wreck I had visited. He had given it up for want of funds, had become insolvent, and was reputed to have died in Texas. That he had received a real concession of land and authentic charters from the State legislatures, was undoubted. But the concession had been clogged by the express stipulation, that in two years Harvey should have a hundred and fifty miles in working order, and that the whole should be completed in four years. The condition not having been complied with, the concession was null and void. The Great Nauvoo and Nebraska Railway Company, had no right to a corporate existence.

“But,” said I, “I of course perused the papers. I saw no mention of such a conditional clause.”

The General smiled.

“Depend upon it, Mr Bulkeley,” said he, “that erasure and forgery have been practised to make the old deeds sufficiently tempting to effect the only purpose their present holders have in view—that of raising cash in the London market. Colonel Sling—who, by the way, is no more a colonel, even of militia, than black Cæsar there—is no novice at fraud. He was convicted at Jefferson city of a like offence, and I was present at his trial, and heard some of his antecedents; indeed, I was a witness in the case. But if you will take my advice, you will hasten back to England, and, if possible, save the funds in the hands of this confederate of his, this Bett, before the pair can abscond with their gains. Do not parley, but apply to the police at once, if, indeed, it be not too late.”

Finally, General Warfield was so good as to accompany me to the chief town of Iowa State, where he introduced me to the legal authorities, by whom his statements were fully confirmed, and the Nauvoo and Nebraska declared a transparent swindle. In this town we suddenly came on “Colonel” Sling, who had come out by the next packet, and was tracking me, no doubt in the hope of hoodwinking or silencing me in some mode or other. But when he saw the General, his swaggering air collapsed, a guilty crimson suffused his yellow cheeks, and he slunk away and entered a tavern without accosting us. And yet when, after giving hearty thanks to my kindly Virginian friend, I hurried to embark at New York, I had the honour of finding Colonel Coriolanus Sling, my fellow-passenger. He now ventured to address me, but by this time I was on my guard against his specious eloquence, and he retired with an air of mingled effrontery and shame. At Liverpool, as I took my seat in the train, which I did without the loss of a moment, I saw Colonel Sling dart into the telegraph office. So busy was my brain with what was before me, that I did not, during the principal part of the journey, attach any particular meaning to this proceeding of my treacherous ally. When I did think of its probable object, I struck my forehead, and could have cursed my blind stupidity, my dulness of conception. After all my haste, scampering as quickly as possible to the station at Liverpool, was I to be too late, after all? Was this Yankee rascal to be permitted to warn his brother knave in London through my inattention, and was the paid-up capital to fatten the two harpies whose tools we had been? Heavy misgivings filled my heart as I arrived in London, hurried to Scotland Yard, and requested that a detective policeman might at once be ordered to accompany me to the residence of Dr Titus A. C. Bett, cashier to the Nauvoo and Nebraska Company. Luckily I was a man of credit and character in the city; my request was granted instantly, and off whirled the hansom cab, as fast as hansom cab could be impelled by the most lavish bribe, on its way to Piccadilly, bearing me and a quiet man with a resolute, thoughtful face, in plain clothes. Ha! there is a cab waiting at the door as we jump out—I hot and breathless, the policeman cool and steady. The gaping servant-girl belonging to the lodgings comes quickly at our knock. It is morning yet, early morning, from a London point of view—not much after nine.

“Is Dr Bett in?”

“Yes, sir,” replies the girl, “but he’s just a-going. He sent me out for the cab five minutes ago, and he’s called away so sudden he won’t take breakfast.”

“Ah, indeed!” says the detective; “telegram, I suppose, eh?”

“Yes, sir,” replied the maid, “and he swore hawful because I hadn’t woke him up directly it came, two hour ago, along with the milk, but I didn’t dare, ’cause he always stops out late, and always swears and scolds if I bring up his hot water before nine o’clock.”

I could have hugged that maid, Mary Ann, Eliza, or Susan, no matter what, for she was my preserver—a most valuable but unwitting ally. I did give her a sovereign as I bade her show us up. We found the Doctor, unshaved, half dressed, tugging at his boots, and with a leather dressing-case weighty with gold and notes lying on the table at his elbow. We rushed in with scant ceremony. The detective tapped him on the shoulder and took him into custody with the magic formula of uttering her Majesty’s name. The bubble burst, but the funds were saved; and after some expense, ridicule, and trouble, we were able to return their money to the shareholders, and I washed my hands most gladly of my American investment.

We are so much accustomed to depend on the four great literary languages for the whole body of our information and amusement, that it occurs to few to consider that ignorance of other European dialects involves any inconvenience at all, except to those who have occasion to visit the countries in which they are spoken. Yet there is much of really valuable matter which sees the light only in the minor tongues, especially those of the industrious North, and with which the world has never been made familiar through translation. Joachim Frederic Schouw, the Danish botanist, is one of the writers of our day who has suffered most prejudicially both to his own fame and to the public from having employed only his native language. For his writings are not only valuable in a scientific point of view, but belong to the most popular order of scientific writing, and would assuredly have been general favourites, had not the bulk of them remained untranslated. His ‘Tableau du Climat de l’Italie’ has, however, appeared in French, and is a standard work. A little collection of very brief and popular essays, entitled ‘The Earth, Plants, and Man,’ has been translated both into German and English. One of these, styled ‘The Plants of Pompeii,’ is founded on a rather novel idea. The paintings on the walls of the disinterred houses of that city contain (among other things) many landscape compositions. Sometimes these are accessory to historical representations. But they often merely portray the scenery of ordinary out-door life. The old decorators of the Pompeian chambers had indeed an evident taste for those trivial tricks of theatrical deception, which are still very popular in Italy. Their verdure, sky, and so forth, seem often as if meant to impose on the spectator for a moment as realities; and are, therefore, executed in a “realistic” though sketchy style. “Consequently,” says Schouw, “the observation of the plants which are represented in these paintings will give, as far as they go, the measure of those which were familiar to the ancient eye, and will help to show the identities and the differences between the vegetation of the Campanian plains a hundred years after Christ, and that which adorns them now.”

We propose to follow the Professor through this confined but elegant little chapter of his investigations. But by restraining ourselves to this alone, we should be dealing with only part of a subject. In most regions, two thousand years have made considerable changes in the appearance of the vegetable covering of the earth; but in that land of volcanic influences in which Pompeii stood, great revolutions have taken place, during that time, in the structure of the ground itself. Sea and land have changed places; mountains have risen and sunk; the very outlines and main landmarks of the scene are other than what they were. Let us for a moment imagine ourselves gazing with Emperor Tiberius from his “specular height” on precipitous Capri, at that unequalled panorama of sea and land formed by the Gulf of Naples, as thence descried, and note in what respects the visible face of things has changed since he beheld it.

The central object in his view, as in that of the modern observer, was Vesuvius, standing out a huge insulated mountain mass, unconformable with the other outlines of the landscape, and covered then, as now, with its broad mantle of dusky green. Then, as now, its volcanic soil was devoted to the cultivation of the vine. But in other respects its appearance was widely different. No slender, menacing column of smoke rose perpetually from its summit. Nor was it lurid, at night, with that red gleam of the slow river of fire,

It was an extinct volcano, and had been so for unknown ages. Nor did it exhibit its present characteristic cone, nor probably its double top; Vesuvius and Somma were most likely one; and the deep half-moon-shaped ravine of the Atrio del Cavallo, which now divides them, is thought to be a relic of the ancient crater. That crater was a huge amphitheatrical depression, several miles in circuit, filled with pasture-lands and tangled woods. Spartacus and his servile army had used it not long before as a natural fortress. But this feature was scarcely visible to the spectator at Capri, opposite the mountain, to whom the summit must have appeared as a broad flat-topped ridge, in shape and height very similar to the Table Mountain at the Cape of Good Hope.

At the time in question, scarcely a few vague traditions remained to record the fact that the mountain had once “burnt.” The fiery legends of Magna Græcia related to the country west of Naples, where volcanic action had been more recent: the Phlegræan fields, the Market-place of Vulcan (Solfatara), the cone of Gnarime (Ischia), through which the imprisoned Typhœus breathed flame, from whence he has been since transferred to Vesuvius, as a Genoese monk informed us when we and he first looked on that volcano together. Vesuvius awoke from his sleep of unknown length, as every one knows, in A.D. 79, when he celebrated his resumption of authority by that grand “extra night” of the 24th August, which has had no rival since, in the way of pyrotechnical entertainment, except on the distant shores of Iceland, the West Indies, and the Moluccas. His period of activity lasted nearly a thousand years. Then he relapsed into lethargy for six hundred. In 1631, he had resumed (as old prints show), something nearly resembling the form which we have attributed to him in classical times. His top, of great height, swollen up by the slow accumulation of burning matter, without a vent, was a level plateau, with a pit-like crater, filled with a forest of secular oaks and ilexes: only a few “fumaroles,” or smoke-holes, remained here and there to attest his real character. Even the legends of his conflagrations had become out of date. The old “Orearch” or mountain-spirit, Vesevus, is portrayed by the local poet Pontanus in the fifteenth century, as a rustic figure, with a bald head, hump back, and cincture of brushwood—all fiery attributes omitted. Even his terrible name was only known to the learned: the people called him the “Monte di Somma.” The suburban features of a great luxurious city, convents, gardens, vineyards, hunting-grounds, and parks of the nobility, had crept again up the sides of the mountain, until they almost mingled with the trees on the summit. The approaching hour was not without its premonitory signs, many and strange. The phenomena which Bulwer makes his witch of Vesuvius recount, by way of warning, to Arbaces, are very closely borrowed from contemporary narratives of the eruption of 1631. Nor were the omens of superstition wanting, accommodated to the altered feelings of the times. At the Plinian eruption, the people imagined that the old giants buried in the Phlegræan fields had risen again, and renewed their battle with the gods: “for many phantoms of them,” says Dio Cassius, “were seen in the smoke, and a blast, as of trumpets, was heard.” In 1631, carriages full of devils were seen to drive, and battalions of diabolical soldiers to gather in marching array along the precipitous flanks of the mountain. The footsteps of unearthly animals were tracked on the roads. “A peasant of the name of Giovanni Camillo” (so we are informed by the Jesuit Giulio Cesare Recupito, a contemporary), “had passed Easter Eve at a farm-house of his own on the mountain. There, without having taken a mouthful of anything, he was overtaken by a profound slumber, from which awakening suddenly, he saw no longer before his eyes the likeness of the place where he had fallen asleep, but a new heaven, a new soil, a new landscape: instead of a hill-side covered with wood, there appeared a wall crossing the road, and extending on each side for a great distance, with a very lofty gate. Astonished at this new scene, he went to the gate to inquire where he was. There he found a porter of the order of St Francis, a young man in appearance. Many conjecture that this was St Antony of Padua. The porter at first seemed to repulse him, but afterwards admitted him into the courtyard, and guided him about. After a long circuit they arrived at a great range of buildings breathing fire from every window.” In short, the poor peasant was conducted, after the fashion of such visions, through the mansions of hell and purgatory, where he saw, of course, many of his acquaintance variously tormented. “At last, on the following day, he was restored to himself, and to Vesuvius: and was ordered to inform his countrymen that a great ruin was impending over them from that mountain: wherefore they should address their vows and prayers to God. On Easter Day, at noon, he came home, and was observed of many with his dress sprinkled with ashes, his face burnt black, as if escaped from a fire.” This was two years before the eruption, and during the interval Camillo always told the same story; wherefore, after passing a long time for either mad or drunk, he was finally raised to the dignity of a prophet. At last, on the night of the 15th December, the ancient volcano signalised his awakening by a feat of unrivalled grandeur. In forty-eight hours of terrific struggles, he blew away the whole cap of the mountain; so that, on the morning of the 18th, when the smoke at last subsided, the Neapolitans beheld their familiar summit a thousand feet lower than it had been before; while its southern face was seamed by seven distinct rivers of fire, slowly rolling at several points into the sea.

Since 1631, the frequency, if not the violence, of the eruptions seems to have gradually increased, and Vesuvius is probably more “active” now, in local language, than at any former time in his annals, having made the fortunes of an infinity of guides and miscellaneous waiters on Providence within the last twelve years, besides burning a forest or two, and expelling the peasantry of some villages. But his performances on a grand scale seem for the present suspended. Frequent eruptions prevent that accumulation of matter which produces great ones. Indeed, the late Mr Laing, whose ‘Notes of a Traveller’ show him to have been that identical “sturdy Scotch Presbyterian whig” who visited Oxford in company with Lockhart’s Reginald Dalton, “reviling all things, despising all things, and puffing himself up with all things,” deliberately pronounced the volcano a humbug, and believed the depth of its subterranean magazines to be extremely trifling. Still, the curious traveller, like that fabulous Englishman who visited the lion-tamer every night for the chance of seeing him devoured, cannot help looking with a certain eagerness for the occurrence of those two interesting catastrophes, of which the day and hour are written down in the book of the Fates—that combination of high tide, west wind, and land-flood, which is to drown St Petersburg; that combination of south-east wind and first-class eruption which is to bury Naples in ashes. This finale seemed nearer in that recent eruption of December 1860, which spent its fury on Torre del Greco, than perhaps on any former occasion; but once more the danger passed away.

To return, however, from this digression, which has nothing to excuse it except the interest which clings even to often-repeated stories respecting the popular old volcano. Other features in that wonderful panorama, seen from Capri, have undergone scarcely inferior changes since the time of Tiberius. Yonder rich tract of level land at the mouth of the Sarno, between Torre dell’ Annunziata and Castellamare, did not exist. The sea has retreated from it. Tiberius saw, instead of it, a deep bay washing the walls of the compact little provincial city of Pompeii. But the neighbouring port of Stabiæ is gone: not a vestige of its site remains. Above it to the right, Monte Sant’Angelo, and the limestone sierra of which it forms a part, remain, no doubt, unchanged by time. Only that marvellous range of Roman villas and gardens which lined its foot for leagues, almost rivalling the structures of the opposite Bay of Baiæ for magnificence, has disappeared, no one knows how or when. The diver off the coast of Sorento can touch with his hand the long ranges of foundation-work, brick and marble, which now lie many feet beneath the deep clear water. It was a strange fit of short-lived magnificence, that which induced the grandest of millionnaires, the chiefs of the Augustan age, to raise their palaces, all round the Gulf of Naples, on vaulted ranges of piles laid within the sea, so that its luxurious ripple should be heard under the rooms in which they lived. Niebuhr, who, with all his curious insight into the ways of antiquity, was not superior to the temptation of finding a new reason for everything, asserts that they did so in order to escape the malaria. But that mysterious evil influence extended some way beyond the shore. The country craft will, to this day, keep as far as they can, in the summer nights, off the coast of the Campagna, while the quiet land-breeze is wafting death from the interior. The real causes were, doubtless, what the writers of the time disclose. The land close to the shore was dear and scanty, and ill-accommodated for building, from its steepness. The first new-comer who set the fashion of turning sea into land, was imitated by others in the mere wantonness of wealth, until the whole shore became lined with palatial edifices, like the Grand Canal of Venice; but not so durably. These classical structures, frequently delineated with more or less detail in the Pompeian frescoes, were as beautiful and as transitory as those of our dreams; or like the vision which Claude Lorraine transferred to canvass in the most poetical of landscapes, his ‘Enchanted Palace.’ Judging from the singular phenomena exhibited by the ‘Temple of Serapis,’ and by other topographical records, geologists have concluded that land and sea, in this volcanic region, wax and wane in long successions of ages. Thus the sea rose (or rather the land sank) on the coast of the Bay of Naples for about eleven centuries previous to A.D. 1000; then the reverse movement took place until about A.D. 1500: and the land is now sinking again. If so, these marine palaces must have gradually subsided into the sea, and their owners may have been driven out by the invasion of cuttle-fish and sea-hedgehogs, and other monsters of the Mediterranean shallows, in their best bedrooms, even before Norman or Saracen incursions had reduced them to desolation. But whatever the cause of their disappearance, they had vanished before modern history began: nor has modern luxury, in its most profuse mood, ever sought to reproduce them. Their submarine ruins remain as memorials of ages when men were at all events more daring and earnest in their extravagance, and the “lust of the eye and the pride of life” were deified on a grander scale, than at any other epoch of the world’s history.

Naples herself, the “idle” and the “learned” (for the ancients called her somewhat inconsistently by both epithets, nor had she as yet acquired her more recent soubriquet of the “beautiful”), formed a far less conspicuous object in the view than now; it was a place of some twenty or thirty thousand souls, according to Niebuhr’s conjectural estimate; confined between the modern Mole on the one hand, and the Gate del Carmine on the other; and nestling close in the neighbourhood of the sister city Herculaneum. The lofty line of the houses on the Chiaia—of which you may now almost count the windows in the top storeys from the sea-level at Capri, through that pellucid atmosphere, while the lower storeys are hidden by the earth’s curvature—did not then exist. But instead of it there extended the endless terraces and colonnades, the cypress avenues and plane groves, of that range of fortress-palaces erected by Pollio and Lucullus, enlacing island, and beach, and ridge, even to the point of Posilippo, with tracery of dazzling marble. Here, however, the mere natural changes have been small, except that an island or two (like that of the Castel dell’ Uovo) has since been joined to the continent. But farther west, round the Bay of Baiæ, fire and water have dealt most fantastically with the scenery. Scarcely a prominent feature on which the Roman eye rested remains unchanged. Quiet little Nisida was a smoking semi-volcano. Yonder level dun-coloured shore, from Pozzuoli to the Lucrine, was under water, and the waves dashed against a line of cliff now some miles inland. That crater-shaped Lake of Agnano, now the common resort of Neapolitan holiday-makers, did not exist; it must have been formed by some unrecorded convulsion of the dark ages. Yonder neatly truncated cone, rising five hundred feet above the plain, seems as permanent a feature in the landscape as any other of the “everlasting hills;” but it was the creation of a few days of violent eruption, only three centuries ago—as its name of Monte Nuovo still indicates—whether by “upheaval” or by “ejection,” philosophers dispute. But the beautiful Lucrine Lake, the station of Roman fleets and the very central point of Roman luxury, disappeared in the same elemental commotion; leaving a narrow stagnant pool behind. Only yon slight dyke or barrier of beach, between this shrunken mere and the sea, deserves respect; for that has remained, strange to say, almost unaltered throughout. It is one of the very oldest legendary spots of earth; doubtless the very road along which Hercules dragged the oxen of Geryon; the very “narrow shore” on which Ulysses landed, in order to call up the melancholy shades of the dead. Farther inland, again, Avernus remains unchanged, in shape at least; but many and strange are the revolutions which it has undergone in other respects. We first hear of it as a dark pool, surrounded by forests; the bed, doubtless, of an ancient crater filled with water, and retaining much of volcanic action; but not (as commonly supposed) fatal to the birds that flew over it. That notion is not classical; or rather, it is founded on a misconception of classical authorities. The pool is not called by the best writers “lacus Avernus” but “lacus Averni,” the lake of the Avernus. What is an Avernus? Lucretius tells us that it is a spot where noxious gases escape from the earth, so that the birds which fly over it fall dead on the earth or into the lake if there happens to be a lake below them.

And Virgil’s description, accurately construed, gives exactly the same meaning.

It was the exhalations from the mysterious cavern that were deadly, not those from the lake. Such an “Avernus” is the “Gueva Upas” or Valley of Death, in Java, to which condemned criminals were formerly sent to perish; whence the romance about the Upas Tree. And such an Avernus, on a small scale, still exists on the shore of the peaceful little Lake of Laach in Germany, also an extinct crater: there are spots on its beach where bird-corpses are to be found in numbers, killed by mephitic exhalations. But—to return to our lake—it must at that time have lain at or (like some other extinct craters) below the level of the sea; for Augustus’s great engineering operation consisted in letting the sea into the lake.

Fifteen hundred years afterwards, and just before the Monte Nuovo eruption, the place was visited by that painful old topographer, Leandro Alberti, the Leland of Italy. The channel made by Augustus was then gone; but the lake was still on a level with the sea, for he asserts that in storms the sea broke into it: and the water, as he expressly affirms, was salt. Now, its level is several feet above that of the sea, and the water is fresh. The upheaval must have been gradual and peaceful, for the outline of the lonely mere is as perfectly rounded now as the poet Lycophron described it;—but a portion only of that bewildering succession of changes of which this coast has been the theatre: the latest vibration of that vast commotion figured in the legendary war of the Giants. Nor is it quite so wild a conjecture as some have deemed it, that the tradition which peopled this bright coast with Cimmerians—then dwellers in the everlasting mist, on the border-land between the dead and the living—had its origin in the tales of primeval navigators, who had visited the neighbourhood during some mighty and prolonged eruption, covering sea and shore with a permanent darkness which “might be felt:” like the coast of Iceland in 1783, when for a whole summer continual eruptions arose from the sea as well as the land: when “the noxious vapours that for many months infected the air, enveloped the whole island in a dense fog which obscured the sun, and was perceptible even in England and Holland.”

Still farther westward in our panoramic view, the confusion between past and present becomes even more undecipherable. Baiæ has disappeared; a stately city of pleasure, which, to judge by its remaining foundations, rose on a hillside in terraces, something like its British counterpart Bath, but with its foot washed by the Mediterranean instead of the Avon: so has Misenum, with its naval station: and not only are these towns gone, but the land on which they stood seems so to have changed its shape, through earthquakes, marine encroachments, and the labour of men, that its very outlines are altered, until the eye rests at last on the peak of Ischia, which ends the semicircle.

Thus much by way of introduction to the more immediate point of our inquiry: the changes in the general aspect and character of the earth’s vegetable covering which have taken place in the same period of two thousand years, and in the same locality.

One of the greatest features of interest to the scientific botanist, and even to the less instructed lover of nature, which Italy presents, consists in the circumstance that the northern and southern types of vegetation—to speak more closely, the northern-temperate and the sub-tropical—meet together, especially in its warmer regions, in stronger contrast than probably anywhere else. The same remark is true, no doubt, of the Mediterranean shores in general: but those of France and of Turkey approach more to the general northern aspect; those of Barbary to the tropical: in favoured Italy the two types seem sometimes to blend and sometimes to contrast in ever-changing and ever-striking variety. The same was doubtless, to some extent, the case in ancient times. But the northern character was probably far more prevalent than now. The early Greek settlers landed on a forest region, where the common deciduous trees of the north, now driven back to the scantily clothed gorges of the central Apennines, flourished in great abundance. Such a nature as this may still be observed in the few forest patches left in the higher Abruzzi, the Sila of Calabria, and so forth. “The beech-forest,” says Schouw, “is called the symbol of the Danish character. But I have wandered in Calabria through large and beautiful beech-woods, on the higher plateaux of the Apennines, where the vegetation as well as the bracing air constantly reminded me of my home.” Probably the wild shores of Corsica, or those of Dalmatia, with their shaggy growth of northern forest and their undergrowth of mixed northern and Mediterranean shrubs, present an aspect more resembling what the followers of Ulysses and Æneas beheld when they landed, than may elsewhere be found. We may notice historical traces of the continued existence of this ruder and fresher nature, not only in the agricultural writers of the Romans, who speak far more of deciduous trees than of the evergreen, now deemed so characteristic of Italy, but in the well-known pages of Virgil. There is not in general much of “local colour” in the ‘Eclogues’ and ‘Georgics:’ that is a poetical artifice of later day. But what there is, represents the physiognomy, not of the Lombard plains where he was born, but of the neighbourhood of Naples in which he lived. His sea-sand is “black,” not brown or yellow, like that of all other bards,—the volcanic sand of the bays of Baiæ and Naples—very coal-dust in appearance. When he recommends the farmer to place his hives near a tree, for the bees to swarm on, it is a “palm-tree, or huge oleaster”—advice which he might as well have tendered to a Scythian as to a colonus of his native Mantua. Now, the general idea which the verses of Virgil convey of the region with which he is concerned, is that of a sylvan country—not, emphatically, the “land of the cypress and myrtle,” but of the oak, ash, linden, wych-elm, beech, citizens of the great Transalpine forests. Some of the trees of which he celebrates the grandeur are now not only become scarce in his country, but it is difficult to ascertain with accuracy their real character. The mighty æsculus, for example, the noblest denizen of Latian forests, which formed of itself great woods, “lata æsculeta,” is a mere puzzle for antiquarian botanists: no one knows what it was, and there may be some question whether it has not disappeared from the face of earth, or whether it survives only in some nearly extinct variety of oak.^[5]

Man has doubtless done much towards the effecting of this change, the more valuable plants of the south having been gradually introduced, and the indigenous woods cleared for their reception; but Nature has done much of herself. In the remaining woodland districts of maritime Italy—such as the Maremme of Tuscany and the Latian Campagna—the evergreen species seem to be gradually supplanting the deciduous, the foreign the indigenous. We talk familiarly of the hardy vegetation of the North; but, where the two meet on conditions of climate endurable by both, the children of the tropical sun seem to show the greater hardihood, and to come out survivors in the great battle for existence. Their every aspect, their rough bark and leathery leaves, seem indicative of a stronger vitality than that which animates the more majestic but more delicate structure of the leafy giants of the northern temperate zone. A similar law—if the analogy does not appear too fanciful—seems to govern the migrations of trees and shrubs, and of the human family itself. The North produces the races of more commanding aspect: it sends them forth conquering and to conquer; they establish empires, they subjugate the so-called feebler races of the South; but, in the midst of their conquests, they sicken and perish, and become extinct. The children of the South gradually penetrate northwards, and by their own more prolific multiplication, as well as by crossing or intermixture, in which their more essentially vigorous nature attains predominance, they efface the type of the Northern race, and cause it ultimately to disappear. What has become of the descendants of those hordes which swarmed from the populous North, in the decline of the Roman Empire, over all the regions adjacent to the Mediterranean? They have vanished, or are scarcely recognised by antiquaries in a few problematical instances, where small insulated communities, thought to be of Teutonic or Gothic origin, maintain a precarious existence among the descendants of their former subjects. Where are the historical Gauls, with their tall figures, their fleshy frames, their golden hair, and eyes of truculent blue? A few of them, possibly, to be found in Flanders; but anything less like the Gaul of antiquity than the sinewy, nervous, agile, undersized, brown-skinned, and black-haired biped, who now inhabits some eighty out of the eighty-five departments of France, can hardly be imagined. What is become even of the purer Northern breed of Germany itself? Scarcely to be found, except on the shores of the Baltic: elsewhere the ordinary European type prevails, olive skin and cheveux châtains. “I sought for the fair population of classical Germany in vain,” says Niebuhr, “until I found it in Scandinavia.” On the other hand, the Greek in Provence, the Moor in Spain, Southrons, transplanted into those countries in no very great numbers, have impressed their type on the general population, and, as it were, changed the very breed. When dark and fair intermix, the odds seem to be greatly in favour of the dark complexion prevailing in the offspring. We heard lately of a society formed in France for the conservation of the “Xanthous,” or yellow-haired variety of the human race, which they regard as the true aristocracy of nature, and rightly conceive to be threatened with extinction: their object to be attained by portioning from time to time blonde maidens who might take to themselves husbands of the same complexion. Even so—to return to our trees—the meridional vegetation gradually drives back that of the North in the battlefield of species. If we figure to ourselves the appearance of the plains of England two thousand years ago, with their indigenous vegetable covering only—without the common elm, the linden, plane, sycamore, poplar, acacia, chestnut, fruit-trees of every kind, and cultivated plants in general—without, probably, a single species of pine or fir, or indeed any evergreen but box, yew, and holly—and remember that every foreign plant has displaced a native, we may gather some idea of the conquests which the South has effected even here, not indeed without the aid of human industry, but in part by sheer physical superiority. But on the Mediterranean coast these conquests have been much more marked. Take the following description of the change which two thousand years have made in the common flora of Greece, from the work of a German botanist (Fraas, Klima und Pflanzenwelt):—

“The following species from the flora known to Theophrastus have either entirely disappeared from Greece, or have emigrated from the habitations which he assigns to them, and withdrawn into the moister climate of more northerly regions; the varieties commonly known to the ancients of the Linden; the Yew, that child of damp and shady hillsides, of which rare and dwarfed specimens only are now to be found on the highest mountains; the Hornbeam, the Beech, and Alder of Homer; and, with scanty exceptions, the ‘spear-furnishing’ Cornel and the tall Ash. Instead of these, another class of plants has conquered for itself greater space in the vegetable realm—thick-leaved, hard-leaved, down-covered, thorny and prickly bushes, evergreen for the most part, and adding, by their rich flowers, great beauty to the spring. This vegetation, analogous to that of the American savannas and Asiatic steppes, has now replaced the ancient flowery meadows, resembling those of middle Europe, with wastes of heath and pines, carob-trees and grey oleasters. Together with these we have the various kinds of arbutus, myrtle, oleander, philyreæ, pistachios, kermes-oaks, rosemary, thyme, and the flora of dry mountain regions in general.”

Let us now see how far the historical indications furnished by the Pompeian relics corroborate what has been already said respecting this “intrusion of the climate of the South,” as Fraas terms it, into the regions north of the Mediterranean.

In order to ascertain the plants known to the citizens of Pompeii, says Schouw, two records remain to us—namely, the pictures discovered in its ruins, and the remnants of plants themselves. But, he adds, the use of the first requires some care:—“Many representations of plants are naturally so little precise that their particular species cannot be ascertained, as would be the case in modern pictures of the same kind. And, if the plant be recognisable, it does not follow as certain that it was known at Pompeii, for the plants of foreign countries are also occasionally represented. Thus the Nile-nature is often delineated—marshy landscapes, with the lotus and the nelumbium, the hippopotamus, ichneumon, flocks of geese, and date-palms at the water’s edge; as, for instance, in the lower rim of the famous mosaic supposed to represent Alexander and Darius. Frequently, also, the representations are fanciful—for instance, a laurel growing out of a date-palm, and even appearing to rise out of it as a shoot from the same root—a physiological impossibility, unless, perhaps, it has reference to that strange practice of the ancients—the planting of different kinds so close to each other that they might appear to the eye connected.”

After making these allowances, we may safely arrive at the following conclusions. Among the trees which gave the Neapolitan landscape its character were then (as now) the stone-pine and the cypress. The former is frequently represented, with its peculiar branchless stems and cloud-like head—the product not only of close planting but of actual pruning in nurseries, as may now be noticed in the neighbourhood of Naples. This tree was cultivated for its edible nuts; and pine cones have been found among the charred objects in the shops of Pompeii. The beautiful cypress often occurs in the Pompeian frescoes, not unfrequently mingled with the pine, and gracefully combining with the outlines of the fanciful villas and temples represented. It is Gilpin, we think, who points out the peculiar adaptation, by contrast, of the spiral cypress and poplar to the long horizontal lines of southern buildings; while the square masses of the lime and elm combine well with the pointed Gothic. The “Pinus halepensis,” adds Schouw (the common maritime pine of Italy), is also found in these pictures. The vine, of course, occurs constantly—so does the olive. They were, no doubt, as universal then as now; and preferred respectively, as they do now, the volcanic and the calcareous hills in the vicinity of Naples. Preserved olives were found in Pompeii, which even retained something of their taste. The myrtle, and the beautiful oleander, or laurel-rose, as the French call it—common shrubs of to-day—also appear in the frescoes. Add to these the laurel and bay tribe, the ilex, fig, pomegranate, the “arundo donax” or gigantic reed—cultivated then as now for its various uses, and covering the marshy grounds with its dense brake, strange to the northern eye, are most of them recognisable also in these pictures. And we are enabled to say that the common vegetable forms on which the eye of the Pompeian citizen rested were, to this extent, similar to those on which his descendant gazes now.

But there were many species, now common, then rare or unknown, some of which are mentioned by Schouw in the little essay before us; others, we are able to add, from different sources. The aloe or agave, and the Indian fig (figue de Barbarie, as the French call it), are now among the familiar plants of maritime Italy. The former vigorously protrudes itself in every stony, solitary spot, from the old ramparts of Genoa to the lava-fields of Aeta; the latter is half-cultivated in a careless sort of way for its luscious bulb; and the two seem, in many places, to have almost extirpated the older vegetation. Both of these lusty children of the South are of quite modern origin in Italy, having come over from America. Some have fancied that the pineapple is represented in one Pompeian fresco. “But this,” says our Professor, “is undoubtedly the edible crown of a young dwarf palm, or chamærops humilis.”

A still more important want of classical ages was that of the whole tribe of Agrumi, as the Italians call them—the orange, lemon, citron, and so forth. “Italy was not then,” says our Professor, “the land

and was consequently without one of the favourite features with which æsthetic Northerns adorn their notions of Italy. They are of course absent from the frescoes. They were known to Pliny as foreign plants only. The “Median Apple” (citron) was cultivated in Italy no earlier than the third century after Christ; lemons came from the Saracens; oranges, last of all, were brought by the Portuguese from the East.

The white, or silk-worm mulberry, now the commonest of all trees in the richer parts of Italy, was also unknown to the Pompeians. Its cultivation on the peninsula began, according to Schouw, in the sixth century. Silken fabrics were scarce and expensive, and imported by the Romans from the East. Voltaire somewhere makes the great superiority of a femme de chambre of Madame de Pompadour over the Empress Livia consist in the unlimited enjoyment of silk stockings. It may, however, be questioned whether the Empress would have appreciated such a luxury, or whether, as the audacious French traveller, Monsieur Nodier, asserted respecting the Glasgow ladies not many years ago, she would not have got rid of such incumbrances whenever free from the restraints of company. The picturesque Carouba tree (Ceratonia siliqua), which now forms groves along many parts of the Italian coast, is also probably of modern introduction. We may add another more important plant which the Professor has omitted—the chestnut. Not, of course, that this magnificent native of Thessaly was unknown to Roman antiquity. It was, on the contrary, extensively cultivated in ancient Italy for its fruit. Naples was particularly famous for the excellence of its chestnuts—

such as Martial appetisingly describes, and such as that flâneur of a poet had doubtless often purchased, scalding hot, from the tripod of some hag-granddaughter of Canidia or Sagana, in the alleys of the learned city. But it was probably as yet a fruit-tree only. Introduced but two centuries before Christ,^[6] it had not had time to form forests; to become, as it now is, the characteristic tree of the lower Apennines, supplanting its ancient but thriftless relative the beech, and driving the latter back to the narrow domain which it still occupies on the top of Monte Sant’ Angelo. The gnarled and twisted chestnut trunks, with their pointed foliage, under which Salvator Rosa studied his art when sojourning among the brigands at the back of Amalfi, have no counterpart in the drawings of Pompeii any more than in the poetry of Virgil.

Of cultivated crops, wheat and barley are represented in the Pompeian frescoes, and grains of them have been discovered in the houses. In one pretty sketch a quail is picking at an ear of barley; in another at a kind of millet. Other less known cereals seem to have been familiar to the ancients. But two of the most important, both in an economic and picturesque point of view, are missing from these sketches,—maize and rice. Both are of modern introduction. The “polenta” of the classical peasant was of barley. Cotton, it need scarcely be added, is of very modern introduction; it now covers extensive fields at the southern foot of Vesuvius.

After this long list of acquisitions, we must turn to some few instances of vegetable forms familiar to the ancient eye, and which the modern misses. The absolute extinction of a species is indeed a rare thing. Decandolle, in his ‘Geographie Botanique,’ likens the changes in vegetation to those which take place in a language: the appearance of a new word, or a new species, attracts observation at once; the disappearance of an old one is very gradual, and seldom total. We have already spoken of the comparative scarcity at present of deciduous trees, and of one—the æsculus—which modern botanists have been unable to define. But one or two ornamental foreigners, introduced in old times, have also disappeared, or nearly so. The most remarkable of these is the oriental Plane. Every Latin scholar is well aware of the modish passion for these trees which prevailed among the wealthy Romans, a preference not wholly æsthetic; it was partly a fashion, borrowed like other fashions from the despotic East, in days when republican millionaires at Rome, like those of Washington, had begun to discover that everything really meritorious came from lands possessing a “strong government.” The Platanus had been from hoary antiquity the object of veneration of Persian monarchs and Grecian heroes. No tree had anything like the same amount of historic and fabulous tradition attached to it. Marsyas was hanged on one, when duly skinned, by Apollo: Agamemnon and Menelaus planted a couple, each of which, a monstrous relic, was shown to Pausanias in his travels. Xerxes had caused his whole host to halt before a noble specimen in Lycia. “He was so enamoured of it,” says old Evelyn, “that for some days neither the concernment of his expedition, nor interest of honour, nor the necessary motion of his portentous army, could persuade him from it. He styled it his mistress, his minion, his goddess: and when he was forced to part from it, he caused a picture of it to be stamped on a model of gold, which he continually wore about him.” As it is now the glory of Ispahan and Shiraz, so it was of the Greek cities of yore. The groves of the Academe and Lyceum were composed of it. “By the Plane Tree” was the favourite oath of Socrates: the more shame to him, said his accuser Melitus, that he should blaspheme so fine a tree. The famous Plane of Buyukdéré on the Bosphorus is popularly said to serve even now as a tent for the Seraskier when he encamps there. The Romans took to it, as we have said, with that extravagant enthusiasm which characterised their follies; “the only tree,” says Pliny, in his sententious stoical way, “which ever was transplanted for the sake of its shade alone.” Julius Cæsar himself planted the first specimen in Spain, at Corduba; it was a noble tree in Martial’s time, and flourished, as he says, by being irrigated with wine.

It became so common in the Roman pleasances, that groves of planes, as well as laurels, are spoken of by the same poet as the ornaments of every citizen’s place of ordinary pretensions.

Undoubtedly, in fashionable Campania, it must have been so common as to form a familiar feature in the landscape. But it perished with the remainder of that luxurious civilisation. In a convent garden at Naples—so a traveller tells us—there remains one enormous specimen, of an antiquity which can only be conjectured: the grandchild, it may be, of some forlorn ornament of a ruined villa, which had seen the Goths march into Italy. We have heard of no others of the genuine race. Of late years, indeed, the plane has begun to resume its popularity as an ornamental tree, and for the same reasons—its delightful shade, namely, and its adaptation to the atmosphere of great cities; being able to throw off the noxious residuum of coal smoke by the peeling of its bark. Planes are now the common trees of the market place in Southern Europe, as they are in our London squares. But, unhappily, the variety almost always seen is of new importation, not of the old stock; not the princely oriental, but its plebeian cousin the occidental, or button-wood of the United States; faster in growth, taller,—stronger perhaps—but incomparably uglier: a melancholy instance of the encroachments of modern democracy.

To the Oriental plane we must add the date-palm: not indeed as strange now to the Italian eye, nor as very abundant in classical times; but as certainly more abundant then than now; an exception to the general law which we have indicated of the increasing prevalence of Southern forms of vegetation. The date-palm in Italy is, after all, but an occasional exotic. Mayer, the painstaking German author of a book on ‘Naples and the Neapolitans,’ says there are scarcely a dozen or two of them in the gardens of that city and its suburbs. There are eight or ten only in Rome, says M. Ampère. It does not ripen its fruit. It dwells uncomfortably, in the uncongenial neighbourhood of the pine; for in America and other unsophisticated regions, the natural limit of the palm ends where that of the pine begins. Picturesque as its solitary form often is, in the villa garden, or behind the convent wall, we cannot look at it without thinking of some poor captive Saracen maiden, shivering at the door of a Northern crusading baron. Even on the coast of the Riviera, where it appears to thrive the most, it affords a melancholy sight when writhing under the icy Mistral, which ever and anon turns the flank of the precarious barrier of the Maritime Alps, and whirls its blasts of snow-dust against the broad leaves. It appears in many of the Pompeian frescoes. Schouw suggests that this does not prove it a native, as the scenes represented may be foreign or symbolical. But the caution is unnecessary. The date-palm was certainly common of yore in maritime Italy, though no doubt in single specimens.^[7] “Vulgo in Italiâ, sed steriles,” says Pliny: who accurately distinguishes it from the dwarf-palm or chamærops, then, as now, more characteristic of Sicily. We have already noticed the use for which Virgil recommends it in the ‘Georgics.’ Varro, ‘De Re Rusticâ,’ is still more to the point, when he classes the fibres of the palm along with flax, hemp, and reeds, among materials grown on the farm, which may be turned to account for making cordage.

“Thus we perceive,” concludes our naturalist, “that the vegetable world, and in particular the list of cultivated vegetables, has undergone many changes since the age when Pompeii flourished; and that, while the ancient Pompeians enjoyed a great superiority over the moderns in respect of many enjoyments of life, particularly those arising from the arts, they lacked nevertheless some very valuable plants which increased geographical knowledge and extended commerce have procured for their descendants.”

But however this may be, no one can well contemplate in earnest these relics of a most curious and refined civilisation—in some respects perhaps the most curious and refined which the world has ever seen—and return with satisfaction to the coarse generalisation of the disciples of universal progress in the affairs of humanity, with whose speculations we have been lately surfeited. The feelings which such inquiries excite are assuredly more akin to those with which they inspired the proud and melancholy Leopardi, when he turned from them and from the wealth of conception and nobleness of sentiment with which the ancient world abounded, to that long degradation of subsequent ages, out of which humanity is in truth only now emerging. Very grand, though profoundly sorrowful, are those lines of his, entitled ‘Bruto minore,’ in which he portrays the expiring patriot, not as bewailing his present catastrophe, nor calling on the gods for present revenge, but as brooding, in utter hopelessness of spirit, over “the dark forward and abysm of time”—the Erebus-like blackness of that prospect of coming degeneracy and decay: the trance of ages, into which the human soul was about to fall.

For the duration of that era of decline was indeed such as we are sufficiently accustomed to measure backwards, in historical reflection; but such as, when contemplated as a future, the conception shrinks from with a painful sense of incapacity. Thirteen centuries were to elapse ere the first Italian could stretch his hand across the chasm to the last Roman. As the paradise of cultivation, in which those Campanian cities nestled, was separated from the fertile aspect of the same region in modern times by a formidable blank of centuries of duration, so was the ancient civilisation from the modern by a similar space of intellectual desert; and in each instance alike, the succeeding age can scarcely appreciate its predecessor as a reality.

And yet there are those who persist in cramming us with that dry formula of Positivism, that each generation enjoys the “accumulated knowledge” of preceding ones! Ask those countless millions of Chinese who vegetate, generation after generation, in the vast interior of their empire apart from all foreign influence, how much of “accumulated knowledge” their community has gathered since the days of Confucius; ask the black nations of the interior of Africa what amount of “progress” distinguishes them from their ancestors known to Herodotus or to Leo Africanus; ask the wretched remnants of tribes which wander over the American wilderness, whether their progenitors, the sons of those who came thither over the ocean, were fewer and feebler and more ignorant than they? For those who seek truth and not phrases, “progress,” as the term is used in social science, is an attribute not of mankind, but of the European family alone; and of that family only since the discovery of printing. What that incomparably greatest of all merely human events may have done towards fixing the elements of social improvement, and converting into a permanent advance that which was before only a precarious, oscillatory movement, we need not now consider. It may be that the so-called triumphal march of humanity is now secured from repulse, and that, as some of our latest speculators seem to hold, the powers of nature which we employ will begin of themselves to decay before our capability of employing them abates. But all this, if so, does not annul the melancholy record of previous periods of loss and retreat. It is extremely difficult, no doubt, for us to realise those periods. In our healthy exuberance of life we can hardly conceive a state of chronic political ebb or decline—a state, that is, in which each generation, instead of profiting by the “accumulated knowledge” of its predecessors, lets something of the results of that knowledge drop from its enfeebled grasp; is reduced in numbers, less provided with the external comforts of life, weaker against aggression, poorer in substance, feebler in spirit, inferior in mental acquirements; nevertheless, such periods have been beyond all doubt. The history of the Byzantine empire furnishes one well known to all: and many such have rolled drearily away in the dimmer ages of early time, since the subjects of Nimrod were dispersed on the plain of Shinar. But let us take the most familiar, and at the same time the truest, instance of what we mean, and which happens also to be most germane to the matter in hand. Could a modern really do what many a visitor to Pompeii has striven to do in intense eagerness of fancy; could he restore those truncated columns and repeople those desolate streets, and actually converse with some cultivated contemporary of Pliny and Juvenal, or Cicero and Horace; one can fancy that the feeling on both sides, after the first strangeness of the meeting had been got over, would be one of surprise, that two specimens of humanity of such distant origin could have so much in common. In moral and social philosophy; in political speculation; in appreciation of eloquence, literature, art, they would really find themselves—some exceptions apart which would give zest to the conversation—almost on the same ground. In respect of matters of still more intimate interest—the inner clothing, as it were, of civilised existence—in their estimate of physical and mental pursuits, tendencies, weaknesses, pleasures, and pains, and their relation to each other—each would feel that he understood his companion; each would be conscious, as it were, of possessing a key to many of the other’s inmost feelings. This would be partly owing, no doubt, to the circumstance that the ancients have been our tutors, and that much of our mental furniture is derived directly from them. But also, in great measure, to mere similarity of circumstances, which engenders similarity of ideas. Civilisations so nearly resembling each other, even in many points of minuteness, as those of modern Europe and of the Rome of Cicero or the Athens of Demosthenes, must, from the necessity of the case, have strongly corresponding spiritual and mental emotions, and corresponding language wherein to express them.

Now let us alter the picture: let the man of the nineteenth century wake up under the shadow of Winchester or Canterbury Cathedral, such as the Saxons had reared them, and, to give him the best company of the day, let him consort with a baron or an abbot of the time of the Norman conquest. Except the subject of religion, of which we would not now speak, what single topic could they have in common? Would they not be separated from each other by a barrier as high and strong as any which divides contemporary civilised from savage man? What object (except possibly horses and dogs), could they appreciate together? What points of morals or science or politics, small talk, sentiment, or humour, would suit them both? How could they argue on premises which one would assume as certain and the other would treat with contempt? The medieval wight would certainly rate the modern at a very different value from his own estimate of himself; and if the modern escaped with a whole skin from the interview, which is greatly to be doubted of, he would find his romantic respect for the baron, or veneration for the ecclesiastic, very little increased. They would be denizens of alien spheres, and would converse in utterly dissonant tongues.

And yet the Norman was our countryman; was nearer to us by many an age than the Roman; and possessed the “accumulated knowledge” (had such a thing really existed before the invention of printing), of many an intervening generation. But these were in truth generations of decline, not of advance; a decline often hardly sensible, or arrested for a time, but on the whole prodigious. And if the enthusiastic disciple of progress chooses to count these ebbs as insignificant exceptions to his general theory of flow, let us remember that a space of a thousand years, however unimportant to a geologist, is a considerable fraction of the historical existence of man.

And this, as many have said, though not many truly feel it, is one of the most real advantages of classical study, and one of the charms which make us turn back to it with recurring affection, after resultless wanderings in company with the “Positivists.” He who has imbibed its lessons deeply can hardly find his judgment much affected by those metaphors turned into arguments which pass commonly current, likening the youth, manhood, and old age of the world to those of an individual; nor will he readily adopt the formulas of a recent clever writer of the Positive school, that “we may expect to find, in the history of man, each successive age incorporating into itself the substance of the preceding,” and that “this power, whereby the present ever gathers into itself the results of the past, transforms the human race into a colossal man, whose life reaches from the creation to the day of judgment.” Classical study made men pedants, after a fashion, two centuries ago; at present its effect is to preserve them from an equally tasteless and less innocent pedantry. By bringing clearly before our view that magnificent phantasma of great communities entombed, and great conceptions buried with them, it weakens the ordinary temptation to overvalue ourselves and our age. It displays to us the vast ocean of moral and intellectual being such as it really is, subject to æons of rise and fall, and not a steady onward current continually gaining ground; and, by so doing, administers a reasonable check to that “Excelsior” tendency which elevates but often misleads us—an indiscriminating confidence in the destiny and powers of our species.

It is not probable that many of our readers will meet with the volumes, lately published in Washington, containing the correspondence of American diplomatists during the period of the civil war; but, after perusing some of the specimens we shall offer, they will no doubt agree with us in thinking it a pity that these productions should not be generally known. Under any circumstances, most people would find something comical in a set of elderly gentlemen, engaged in important business, exchanging by letter moral sentiments suited to a schoolboy’s theme. But when the compositions thus embellished are of the kind known to the world as State Papers, and when the writers, who thus aim, like the interlocutors in a religious novel, at the instruction of the universe through the medium of dialogue, are American politicians, the effect produced is such as few professed humorists could hope to rival. For most people are aware nowadays that the atmosphere through which those politicians must pass before they can attain to that eminence, one condition of which is the writing of state papers, is much more likely to develop in them the wisdom of the serpent than the guilelessness of the dove. Remembering the pushing and scrambling, the elbowing of vile competitors, the truckling and corruption, the wire-pulling and log-rolling, the acquaintance with all the small and dirty ramifications of tickets and platforms, which success in politics demands in the States, the very last vein of composition we should expect to find these gentlemen especially cultivating would be that in which the sage Imlac addresses Rasselas, or in which the good godmother improves every occasion in a children’s story. A difficulty to believe in the existence of craft or guile or self-interest as motives of political conduct, yielding at last to a surprised and mournful conviction of the sad truth, and a touching and simple style of moralising over human delinquency, are the characteristics, on paper, of the diplomatists who have particularly distinguished themselves in the pleasing and pastoral pursuits we have attempted to enumerate. Everybody who has read American speeches must have noticed in them a tendency to flowery sentiment and to ancient and fish-like metaphors, such as the audiences of the Old World would reject. Why the not very immaculate or poetical classes who constitute a New York mob should especially relish this style of oratory, we cannot explain; but it is the fact that it seems to succeed in America whether the audience be a constituency, or a house of assembly, or the population of a Boston lecture-room, or the entertainers of an American celebrity, or a jury in a criminal case—and all the scribes of their newspapers indulge in the same vein. That it does succeed may appear to be a sufficiently good reason why the parliamentary and stump orators of America should habitually launch at their audiences such sentences as are, on this side of the water, never addressed to any but the galleries at a Surrey melodrama. But directly the speakers are placed in relation to foreign Governments, they think it necessary to engraft on the florid Rosa-Matilda style which deals with “star-spangled banners,” “great, glorious, and free people,” and “the best Government the world ever saw,” the virtuous didactic style we have attempted to describe, and which we suppose they imagine to be particularly likely to influence the counsels of such guileless and simple-minded statesmen as Gortchakoff, Rechberg, Russell, Palmerston, and the Emperor Napoleon.

The principal agent in the pious attempt to inoculate mankind, through their Governments, with virtuous principles, is Mr William Henry Seward. The circumstances under which the benevolent sage perseveres in his philanthropic efforts are not such as are favourable to placid meditation or composition. His lucubrations must have been disturbed not unfrequently by the booming of Confederate cannon. The sudden irruption on his privacy of a distracted Finance Minister, a desperate War Secretary, or a bewildered President, must have been extremely unfavourable to the prosecution of the task. Yet that he struggled successfully with those hostile influences is proved by the enormous volume of his essays, which must, we estimate, be equal in bulk, for one year, to about four volumes of the original edition of ‘The Rambler’—under which title, indeed, they might not inappropriately have been published. Seated at his desk, with the copybooks of his boyhood at hand for quotation, in a glow of philanthropy that cannot fail to warm what he would himself call the “moral atmosphere” of barbaric Europe, he can shut his eyes to passing events, and find sermons in civil wars, and good in everything. Immediately on his accession to office, he begins a circular to all the Ministers at foreign courts in the following style: “Sir,—The advocates of benevolence, and the believers in human progress, encouraged by the slow though marked meliorations of the barbarities of war which have obtained in modern times, have been, as you are well aware, recently engaged,” &c.

Since that was written, the advocates of benevolence and the believers in human progress have been further encouraged by the “meliorations” of stone fleets, of corps of licensed plunderers, of the submersion of great tracts of cultivated land, of the devastation of half a State, of the incitement to servile insurrection, and of the rule of Benjamin F. Butler at New Orleans—illustrations of his remark, which the eminent essayist probably did not at that time expect.

In the early part of his correspondence, Mr Seward’s opinions of the policy to be pursued towards the South are much more indulgent than at a later period. “The Union,” he says, on March 22, 1861, “was formed upon popular consent, and must always practically stand on the same basis.” He says, on April 10, that Secession is “a bad enterprise,” and that the Secessionists are “a misguided portion of our fellow-citizens.” But he goes on to say that the President “would not be disposed to reject a cardinal dogma of theirs (the citizens of the Southern States), namely, that the Federal Government could not reduce the seceding States to obedience by conquest, even although he were disposed to question that proposition. But, in fact, the President willingly accepts it as true. Only an imperial or despotic government could subjugate thoroughly disaffected and insurrectionary members of the State. This Federal republican system of ours is, of all forms of government, the very one which is most unfitted for such a labour.” And he goes on to suggest the following paternal method of bringing back the prodigal South, and providing a fatted calf for it:—

“The system has within itself adequate peaceful, conservative, and recuperative forces. Firmness on the part of the Government in maintaining and preserving the public institutions and property, and in executing the laws where authority can be exercised without waging war, combined with such measures of justice, moderation, and forbearance as will disarm reasoning opposition, will be sufficient to secure the public safety until returning reflection, concurring with the fearful experience of social evils, the inevitable fruits of faction, shall bring the recusant members cheerfully back into the family, which, after all, must prove their best and happiest, as it undeniably is their most natural, home. The constitution of the United States provides for that return by authorising Congress, on application to be made by a certain majority of the States, to assemble a national convention, in which the organic law can, if it be needful, be revised so as to remove all real obstacles to a reunion, so suitable to the habits of the people, and so eminently conducive to the common safety and welfare.”

These be brave words and high sentiments; but their value as an expression of conciliatory policy is a little diminished by the fact that, as the seceding States were then seven out of thirty-four, the concession spoken of, being dependent on the “application to be made by a certain majority of the States” (two-thirds), was an impossibility. And in fact one of the best arguments in favour of Secession is, that the constitution provides no means whereby a minority, or indeed anything but a large majority, of States can obtain a remedy for their grievances, should the interests of the remainder render them adverse.

On the 19th of June, however, a change has come over the spirit of the Secretary’s dream, leading him to retract even this visionary compromise.

“What is now seen in this country,” he tells Mr Adams, “is the occurrence, by no means peculiar, but frequent in all countries, more frequent even in Great Britain than here, of an armed insurrection engaged in attempting to overthrow the regularly constituted and established Government. There is, of course, the employment of force by the Government to suppress the insurrection, as every other Government necessarily employs force in such cases. But these incidents by no means constitute a state of war impairing the sovereignty of the Government, creating belligerent sections, and entitling foreign States to intervene or to act as neutrals between them, or in any other way to cast off their lawful obligations to the nation thus for the moment disturbed. Any other principle than this would be to resolve government everywhere into a thing of accident and caprice, and ultimately all human society into a state of perpetual war.”

Here the facts of the Union, founded on consent, and of the President’s acceptance of the dogma, together with the unfitness of the Federal system for the task of subjugation—a task proper to imperial or despotic governments—are suddenly lost sight of along with the benevolent scheme for calling on the misguided citizens to abandon their “bad enterprise,” and return within the fold of the Union; and this great, glorious, and free Government is driven to confess that its only alternative is the rude and barbarous one hitherto repudiated, of force, such as the most abject monarchy might adopt. To such complexion must even the most beneficent institutions come under the pressure of necessity. And this change of Mr Seward’s tone is contemporaneous with his observation of the sudden appearance of inflexible and enthusiastic resolve on the part of the people of the North to put down the Secession by military power.

At this time two objects are diligently prosecuted by the high-minded Seward, always on the highest grounds. The one is the task of convincing the British Government that it has fallen into a grave error in acknowledging the South as a belligerent, and warning it against receiving the “missionaries of the insurgents,” as he terms the commissioners of the Southern Confederacy. “The cause of the North,” he says, “involves the independence of nations and the right of human nature.” “We feel free to assume that it is the general conviction of men, not only here, but in all other countries, that this Federal Union affords a better system than any other that could be contrived to assure the safety, the peace, the prosperity, the welfare, and the happiness of all the States of which it is composed.” “It is a war,” he says elsewhere, “against human nature;” and again, “The wit of man fails to suggest, not merely a better political system, having the same objects as the present Union, but even any possible substitute for it.” And on the 21st July, “I cannot leave the subject without endeavouring once more, as I have so often done before, to induce the British Government to realise the conviction which I have more than once expressed in this correspondence, that the policy of the Government is one that is based on interests of the greatest importance and sentiments of the highest virtue, and therefore is in no case likely to be changed, whatever may be the varying fortunes of the war at home, or the action of foreign nations on this subject, while the policy of foreign States rests on ephemeral interests of commerce or ambition.” “Sure we are that the transaction now going on in our country involves the progress of civilisation and humanity, and equally sure that our attitude in it is right, and no less sure that our press and our statesmen are equal in ability and influence to any in Europe.”

Manifestly, to countenance any power hostile to so beneficent a system would be almost as bad as to acknowledge Satan and the rebel angels as belligerents. But lest “the cupidity and caprice of Great Britain,” to which, he says, the disunionists will appeal, should render her blind to such high considerations, he takes a lower ground with her, and delivers, May 21, 1861, the following ominous and prophetic warning:—

“Great Britain has but to wait a few months, and all her present inconveniences will cease with our own troubles. If she take a different course, she will calculate for herself the ultimate as well as the immediate consequences, and will consider what position she will hold when she shall have for ever lost the sympathies and affections of the only nation on whose sympathies and affections she has a natural claim.”

It is a sad picture thus presented to us of the British Pythias abandoned by the American Damon, and left alone and friendless in the world. Yet with that direful consequence we are threatened unless we accept the idea of neutrality entertained in common by Mr Seward and Mr Bright, who regard it not as a “cold and unfriendly,” but as a highly enthusiastic, condition.

But, as we said, this was not the only point to which the high-minded Secretary at this period directed his efforts. At the Congress of Paris in 1856 the maritime Powers of Europe had come to an agreement in order to mitigate the severities of war, by which, among other stipulations, privateering was abolished so far as the parties to the compact were concerned. In this agreement America had refused to join, unless an article, specially favourable to herself, should be introduced. But the flame of philanthropy which glowed so ardently in Mr Seward’s breast, now lit up the question which had been buried in obscurity since 1857, and he proposed, of course from the most elevated motives, that America should now join the convention. As provision had originally been made for the admission of parties wishing subsequently to accede to it, no difficulty appeared, and everything seemed to work smoothly—Ministers arranging and conceding, conventions made ready for signature, and all going merry as a marriage-bell.

But it had occurred to the suspicious mind of Lord Russell, whose political morals had been debauched by long diplomatic intercourse with the barbaric Cabinets of Europe, and who was incredulous of public virtue even in the immaculate statesmen of America, that a great advantage would accrue to the Northern Government by joining in the Declaration at this juncture, because the abolition of privateering would exclude the South from all the ports of Europe, which would of course still be open to the regular navy of the North. Not that the proposals of Mr Seward were likely to inspire the suspicion; for, taking the lofty grounds of benefit to the human race, his papers on the subject contained but two slight incidental allusions to the minor point. The Provisional Government of the Confederates had, he said, “taken the bad resolution to invite privateers to prey upon the peaceful commerce of the United States.” And on the 21st May he says to Mr Adams, “You already have our authority to propose to her our accession to that Declaration. If she refuse it, it can only be because she is willing to become the patron of privateering when aimed at our devastation.” These are the only hints on the subject given to the American Ministers. Towards foreign Governments the elevated tone of public virtue was never for a moment jarred by the discordant note of immediate advantage.

But the crafty Russell, led by the low cunning of the European diplomatic mind, had, while appearing to accede with perfect frankness to the American proposal, made this seemingly casual remark, “I need scarcely add that, on the part of Great Britain, the engagement will be prospective, and will not invalidate anything already done”—meaning, of course, We shall be happy to receive your adhesion to the compact, but the prohibition of privateering must not apply to the Confederates, whom we have already acknowledged as belligerents.

The manner in which the virtuous statesmen of the Republic viewed this passage or “implied reservation” was highly characteristic. Incapable of guile themselves, they could not suspect that they could be the objects of suspicion. It was impossible to say what might be hidden behind the mysterious words. Mr Seward professed himself totally in the dark, and demanded explanation. Whereupon Lord John declares “that her Majesty does not intend thereby to undertake any engagement which shall have any bearing, direct or indirect, on the internal differences now prevailing in the United States.”

If the high-minded Secretary was startled by the original passage, he was deeply wounded by the explanation. To suppose that the American Government were aiming at any petty advantage over the Confederates in the matter was a point beneath notice. The Minister appointed to conclude the convention says, indeed—

“The natural effect of such an accompaniment would seem to be to imply that the Government of the United States might be desirous at this time to take a part in the Declaration, not from any high purpose or durable policy, but with the view of securing some small temporary object in the unhappy struggle which is going on at home. Such an inference would spoil all the value that might be attached to the act itself.”

It might be supposed that the best way to restore the full value to the act would have been to reject the petty despised advantage by accepting the convention with the reservation. But so deeply have the virtuous statesmen been wounded by the unworthy suspicion, that they have no heart to proceed in the business. They have done their best for humanity, and failed. The reservation was so unusual, so informal, and it so complicated the matter, that the negotiation must be suspended, said the American Secretary—hoping, however, with habitual pathos, that it might be resumed “in some happier time.”

Britannia having thus, by the refusal of the American Government to proceed with the negotiation, clearly constituted herself the patron of privateering, and having also declined to accept Mr Seward’s interpretation of neutrality, must henceforth expect him to regard her as a Puritan conscious of being in a state of grace would regard some wretched backslider still in the bonds of iniquity. But in the midst of his homilies an event had occurred which had forced from him a very natural expression of alarm, the effect of which in the state papers is very much as if Mr Spurgeon, in the delivery of an eloquent sermon, should howl with anguish on feeling a sharp twinge of the gout. Mr Seward’s howl being a short one, we give it entire:—

“[Confidential.]

“Sir,—My despatch, No. 42, dated July 21, was delayed beyond the proper mail-day by circumstances entirely beyond my control. I trust, however, that it will still be in time.

“Our army of the Potomac on Sunday last met a reverse equally severe and unexpected. For a day or two the panic which had produced the result was followed by a panic that seemed to threaten to demoralise the country. But that evil has ceased already. The result is already seen in a vigorous reconstruction upon a scale of greater magnitude and increased enthusiasm.

“It is not likely that anything will now be done here hastily or inconsiderately affecting our foreign relations.

“I am, sir, respectfully, your obedient servant,

An interval of three days sufficed, however, in a considerable degree, to restore the elastic spirits of the buoyant Secretary, for on 29th July he says:—

“You will hear of a reverse of our arms in Virginia. The exaggerations of the result have been as great as the public impatience, perhaps, which brought it about. But the affair will not produce any serious injury. The strength of the insurrection is not broken, but it is not formidable. The vigour of the Government will be increased, and the ultimate result will be a triumph of the Constitution. Do not be misled by panic reports of danger apprehended for the capital.”

And on the 12th August Seward’s himself again,—

“The shock produced by the reverse of our arms at Bull Run has passed away. The army is reorganised; the elections show that reaction against disunion has begun in the revolutionary States, and we may confidently look for a restoration of the national authority throughout the Union. If our foreign relations were once promptly reestablished on their former basis, the disunion sentiment would languish and perish within a year.”

In this way, after each defeat, or “reverse of our arms,” he presently consoles himself by extracting a precious jewel, in the shape of a moral, from the front of adversity, and transmitting it for the comfort of the American envoys. We all remember the achievement which first made Jackson famous, of turning suddenly on Banks at Winchester and driving him headlong over the Potomac, previous to joining in the general movement against M‘Clellan on the Chickahominy. Upon that event Mr Seward remarks to Mr Adams:—

“The defeat of General Banks at Winchester yesterday, and his withdrawal across the Potomac, are just now the prominent incidents of the war. A careful consideration of the affair results in the satisfactory conclusion that the movement of the enemy was one of merely energetic strategy.”

What this can possibly mean, or why it should be satisfactory to Mr Seward, or what satisfaction it could convey to Mr Adams, we are utterly at a loss to divine. Again, on July 7th, when M‘Clellan had been driven from the York to the James River, he tells Mr Adams that—

“The efficiency of the army of the Union is improved.... If the representative parties had now to choose whether they would have the national army where it is and as it is, or back again where it was and as it was, it is not to be doubted that the insurgents would prefer to it the position and condition on the Pamunkey, and the friends of the Union the one now attained on the banks of the James.... The insurgents and the world abroad will see that the virtue of the people is adequate to the responsibilities which Providence has cast upon them.”

July 12th, he states the cheering fact that a force is “under the command of Major-General Pope, who has achieved great successes in the Western States, and is esteemed an officer of great ability.”

July 28th, he says: “Our assault upon Richmond is for the moment suspended. No great and striking movements or achievements are occurring, and the Government is rather preparing its energies for renewed operations than continuing to surprise the world with new and brilliant victories.” Thus much in the way of particular information, but the moral presently follows:—

“It is not upon isolated events, much less upon transitory popular impulses, that Governments are expected to build their policies in regard to foreign countries. What I think is important, not less for foreign nations than for ourselves, is always to hold our civil war under contemplation, not merely as streams of unequal widths and intermitting currents, but as one continuous river, and so not to forget its source, its direction, and not only its immediate and local, but also its ultimate and universal, effects.”

And before the reader can recover from this tremendous passage, it is followed up by another:—

“It is only the reflecting observer who habitually considers the course of events occurring in any one country as being determined, or at least materially influenced, by natural causes lying wholly or in part outside of that country, and which create a force commonly recognised under various names as the opinion of mankind, or the spirit or the genius of the age or of the times.”

After uttering this extraordinary sentence, one might expect the oracle to become exhausted; but not at all: it continues to pour forth pages of reasoning equally close and clear on this same 28th July. And what do our readers think of this splendid passage, written April 14th?—

“It is believed that this survey of the military position of the Government may serve to satisfy Great Britain that those statesmen here and abroad who, a year ago, mistook a political syncope for national death and dissolution, altogether misunderstood the resources, the character, and the energies of the American Union. The blood that at first retreated to the heart, is now coursing healthily through all the veins and arteries of the whole system; and what seemed at first to be a hopeless paralysis, was in fact but the beginning of an organic change to more robust and vigorous health than the nation has ever before enjoyed.”

And when M‘Clellan finally abandoned the peninsula with the wreck of his army, it is announced to Mr Adams, and to Mr Dayton, the Minister to France, in this way:—

“General Halleck, upon taking command of the army, made a careful survey of the entire military position, and concluded thereupon to withdraw the army of the Potomac from the peninsula, and to combine all our forces in front of Richmond. It is believed to have been substantially accomplished without any casualty. Our new levies are coming in in great numbers and in fine spirits. The gloom has passed away from the public mind. Although our arrangements for resuming offensive operations are yet incomplete, we have much confidence in being able to do so speedily and with decisive effect.... It is represented to us that the popular determination to maintain the Union has at no time been as unanimous and as earnest as it is now.”

And so on of all events, whether promising success or ending in disaster; the object being to persuade foreign Governments what a mistake they made in countenancing such a failing business as Secession. And when the prospect is especially cheerful—when patriots under arms are counted by hundreds of thousands, and when any successes call for a fresh enumeration of the triumphs of the Republic—a judicious menace is insinuated in the despatch, by hinting that as soon as the rebellion is crushed (which it is always just going to be) the shortcomings of those whose duty it was to assist the Union in its “hour of distress,” will not be forgotten by the victorious and thrice-potent Northern people. For instance, on January 31 he says:—

“I have observed that the British people were satisfied with the vigour and the energy of the preparations which their Government made for the war which they expected to occur between them and ourselves. It may be profitable for us all to reflect that the military and naval preparations which have been made by this Government to put down the insurrection have, every day since the 1st of May last, equalled, if not surpassed, the daily proportion of those war-preparations which were regarded as so demonstrative in Great Britain.”

And again, 2d June 1862:—

“The President thinks it desirable that the Government of Great Britain should consider, before the war closes, what are likely to be the sentiments of the two nations in regard to each other after that event shall have occurred.”

We wonder whether it ever occurred to Mr Seward that if the imaginary injuries of one nation upon another are to be visited with such remote vindictiveness, it may be probable that very real and deep sufferings may leave still more indelible rancour behind them; and that there is a people at this moment not only undergoing treatment at the hands of the Union which excites the horror of civilised nations, but proving itself perfectly capable of executing future vengeance.

But in providing for the probability that Great Britain will be indifferent to the high moral ground which he indicates for giving her sympathies to the Union, Mr Seward does not trust entirely to threats. A lower argument, better suited to her defective moral sense, consists in pointing out that it is the interest of European countries to see the war terminate as quickly as possible; that it is also the interest of the Union to terminate the war as quickly as possible: ergo, the way to attain the common object is to unite in procuring it. But he omits to show why the same argument might not apply with equal force to an alliance with the South.

All this eloquence and logic has a double object—first, to avert the recognition of the South, followed by subsequent intervention; and, secondly, and chiefly, to induce the European Powers to retrace the step they had taken of acknowledging the South as a belligerent. The original protest against this step had been on the particular ground that the Government had taken it more hastily than was needful, and ought to have awaited the arrival of Mr Adams, charged with the reasons which the Federal Government might urge in protesting against it. As the measure was one of neutrality, it was manifestly proper that it should be adopted without hearing the arguments of one side only. However, the North considered itself injured, and expressed its sense of injury; but until we read these papers we had thought that the precipitation of the measure was the chief ground on which it was complained of. But so far from that being the case, the measure itself constitutes, down to the present time, the chief point of dispute. It is not going too far to say that, had the Federal Government accepted the position of neutrality of foreign Governments, and conducted its relations with them on that basis, the greater part of these despatches need never have been written. Nine-tenths of them are the result of looking at the same facts from two points of view—of looking at the war, on the one side, as a conflict between great sections, each possessed of power sufficient to maintain itself against the other, and to produce consequences highly important to neutrals; on the other side, as a domestic difficulty caused by a weak and failing faction, and which should not be noticed by foreign Powers any more than any other insignificant outbreak. Our Government saw in it the division of the Republic into portions, strongly defined by a territorial line, arming themselves for a conflict in which the balance of right was a subtle question open to opposite interpretations, but in which, it was evident, the Federal Government could never be victorious consistently with its own principles. The magnitude of the quarrel was such as powerfully to affect our own interests, and to render the probability imminent that the Queen’s subjects would be involved in the struggle, on the one side or the other, in such a manner as to compromise themselves, perhaps the Government. That the nature of the war was rightly estimated, events have more than sufficiently proved; that it was the first duty of the Government to protect its own subjects will probably be admitted by most moralists. But there is one moralist, Mr Seward, who thinks that the British Government, however bound to protect the interests of its own subjects, as it might be, he admits, in an inferior degree, is still more bound to consider the interests of the human race as involved in the maintenance of the Federal Union,—of the system, be it remembered, whose inevitable results have been to make a Lincoln the chief magistrate, and a Seward the chief minister—a system which has for years been the most corrupt ever known, and the inability of which to produce any kind of political merit is one of the wonders of the world.

Mr Seward’s view, which he insists that foreign Governments should adopt, is that they must not admit the existence of any war at all; that Bull’s Run and Fredericksburg, and all the disasters of M‘Clellan and Pope, are the work of a small insurrectionary faction; that the inability of the Federalists to recover authority in the South does not at all affect the integrity of the Republic; and that the millions of men whom he so complacently describes as determined to restore the Union have been called to arms to quell a few “misguided fellow-citizens” who have taken the “bad resolution” of seceding from its authority. But neither great defeats, nor vast armaments, nor huge debt, nor impending dissolution, can divert Mr. Seward from his singular efforts to persuade foreign Governments, chiefly ours, to adopt his extraordinary fiction as their rule of action. If mere acquiescence in his view were all that he demanded, it might be no great matter; but he requires that we shall not merely admit the fictitious view, but proceed to found thereon the extraordinary measures which we shall presently find indicated in his correspondence. What the view itself is may be gathered from a few extracts.

19th June 1861:—

“The United States are still solely and exclusively sovereign within the territories they have lawfully acquired and long possessed, as they have always been.... Great Britain, by virtue of these relations, is a stranger to parties and sections in this country, whether they are loyal to the United States or not; and Great Britain can neither rightfully qualify the sovereignty of the United States, nor concede nor recognise any rights or interests or power of any party, State, or section, in contravention to the unbroken sovereignty of the Federal Union.”

6th March 1862:—

“If Great Britain should revoke her decree conceding belligerent rights to the insurgents to-day, this civil strife, which is the cause of all the derangement of those relations, and the only cause of all apprehended dangers of that kind, would end to-morrow. The United States have continually insisted that the disturbers of their peace are mere insurgents, not lawful belligerents. This Government neither can nor is likely to have occasion to change this position; but her Majesty can, and it would seem that she must, sooner or later desire to relinquish her position. It was a position taken in haste, and in anticipation of the probable success of the revolution. The failure of that revolution is sufficiently apparent. Why should not the position be relinquished, and the peace of our country thus be allowed to be restored?”

10th March 1862:—

“Let the Governments of Great Britain and France rescind the decrees which concede belligerent rights to a dwindling faction in this country, and all their troubles will come to a speedy end.”

15th March 1862:—

... “We are brought to lament anew the precipitancy with which foreign Powers so unnecessarily conceded to the insurrection belligerent rights. The President trusts that you are sparing no efforts to convince Earl Russell that the time has come when that concession can be revoked with safety to Great Britain and advantage to the great material interests of that country.”

To which Mr Adams responds, 27th March:—

“I am bound to notice in several of your late despatches a strong disposition to press upon the British Government an argument for a retraction of its original error in granting to the rebels the rights of a belligerent. There may come a moment when such a proceeding might seem to me likely to be of use. But I must frankly confess that I do not see it yet.”

We will now show by a few other extracts what consequences Mr Seward expected to follow the adoption of his view.

6th March 1862—Mr Seward to Mr Adams:—

“Is it not worth your pains to suggest to him the inquiry whether it would not be wiser and better to remove the necessity for our blockade than to keep the two nations, and even the whole world, in debate about the rightfulness or the expediency of attempting to break it, with all the consequences of so hostile a measure?”

2d April:—

“It is a matter of deep regret to us that our troubles at home render it hazardous to withdraw a part of our great land and naval forces from operating here, and send them to China to co-operate with the forces of the Allies there. As you are well aware, the continuance of the insurrection in the United States is due to the attitudes of Great Britain and France towards our country. It would seem to be desirable for those two States to have our co-operation in China in preserving a commerce of vast importance to them as well as to ourselves. That co-operation we could give if we were relieved from the necessity for maintaining a blockade and siege of our southern ports.”

Whether Mr Seward desired that Great Britain should herself undertake the blockade of the Southern ports, or should pass a law, and persuade other States to pass similar laws, prohibiting all commercial intercourse with the South, and should enforce the prohibition, does not appear. But that he desired one of these measures to be adopted is clear, and the one would not be more extraordinary than the other.

Another operation of the adoption of Mr Seward’s fiction is seen in the case of the British Consul at Charleston. The British and French Governments agreed that it was expedient to communicate to the persons exercising authority in the Confederate States the desire of those Governments that certain articles of the Declaration of Paris should be observed by them in the prosecution of hostilities. Mr Seward remarks thereupon—

“It is enough to say that in our view the proper agents of the British Government to make known its interest here, are the diplomatic, not the consular agents of her Majesty; and that the only authority in this country to which any diplomatic communication whatever can be made is the Government of the United States itself.”

The articles to which France and England desired to call attention were those which relate to the capture of the property of neutrals at sea. It was very necessary to the protection of our commerce that they should be made known, and to do so was not in any way contrary to any of the pretensions of the Federal Government. Yet because the Powers had chosen the English Consul as their medium, instead of the Federal authorities, who did not acknowledge or maintain communications with the Southern Government, the Consul’s exequatur was withdrawn.

The case of the Trent is too well known, and that of the Alabama is too recent, to need recapitulation here. It is only necessary to remind the reader that in the late debate in Parliament it was shown that Mr Seward’s demands could only be complied with by passing a special law, having for its exclusive object to aid the Federal Government by stopping vessels, not on evidence, but on suspicion, that they were intended to become Confederate ships of war. In the case of the Emily St Pierre he expressly tells us his views. That vessel had been captured in attempting to run the blockade, and had then been recaptured from the prize-crew and brought into Liverpool. Whereupon the Federal authorities demanded that she should be restored to them by the British Government. Lord Russell replied that “neutral nations are not bound to punish their subjects for offences committed only against the laws of war as enforced by belligerents, nor to restore property rescued by their subjects from foreign captors.” When our Government communicated its decision declining to restore her, Mr Seward remarked—

“I think it proper to observe at present that the reasons seem to be limited to a want of power vested in the Government to restore, and do not bear at all on the justice or legality of the demand. Under such circumstances this Government has in more than one instance admitted the claim, and appealed to legislative authority for the power to satisfy it, and it has been promptly conferred and exercised.”

The American Minister was directed to press these demands for an alteration of the law. In reply, Lord John Russell, after adverting to the injury sustained by England in the blockade, says:—

“Yet Her Majesty’s Government have never sought to take advantage of the obvious imperfections of this blockade, in order to declare it ineffective. They have, to the loss and detriment of the British nation, scrupulously observed the duties of Great Britain towards a friendly State. But when Her Majesty’s Government are asked to go beyond this, and to overstep the existing powers given them by municipal and international law, for the purpose of imposing arbitrary restrictions on the trade of Her Majesty’s subjects, it is impossible to listen to such suggestions.... If, therefore, the United States consider it for their interest to inflict this great injury on other nations, the utmost they can expect is that European Powers shall respect those acts of the United States which are within the limits of the law. The United States Government cannot expect that Great Britain should frame new statutes to aid the Federal blockade, and to carry into effect the restrictions on commerce which the United States for their own purposes have thought fit to institute, and the application of which it is their duty to confine within the legitimate limits of international law.”

Mr Seward’s demand, that we should adopt his interpretation of the character of the war, would entail the consequences that we should ourselves enforce the Federal blockade; that we should refuse all Southern vessels admission to our ports, while allowing the freest use of them to the Federal ships; that we should stop all exports of commodities to the South, while granting fullest commercial intercourse with the North: and that we should alter our own laws for the purpose of making ourselves the agents of the belligerent interests of the Federal Government. His interpretation of neutrality in affording supplies to the belligerents is amusingly, though we daresay quite unintentionally, illustrated by himself in a couple of sentences. It will be recollected that, at the time of the Trent affair, Federal agents had bought up a great quantity of saltpetre here, and that, in expectation that this might be used against ourselves in case of war, the export of the article was prohibited by an Order in Council. This prohibition was withdrawn when the settlement of the Trent affair removed the apprehension of war. “It affords me pleasure,” says Mr Seward thereupon, “to know that the inhibition of saltpetre, which was so unnecessary, has been rescinded.”

“It has been only European sympathies and European aid,” he proceeds in the next sentence, “that have enabled our disloyal citizens to prolong the civil war.” The coupling of his pleasure at getting munitions of war from England with his complaint against European aid to the South, is too impudent not to be, we hope, accidental.

Now, does any foreign European statesman living think that it would be a light task to persuade England to restrain the liberty of her subjects, or to change her laws? Would any such statesman think that he was labouring for a practicable object, if he were to found his efforts on the assumption that such changes would be made at his suggestion? Would any European people, of whose Government he should be the agent, regard such efforts with other feelings than derision? Yet there are ministers of potent Governments who could show plausible reasons for expecting that their efforts might prevail, and who could urge their arguments with skill and eloquence. But even if, confident in their long experience and profound knowledge of diplomacy, they might venture on the experiment, is it possible to suppose that, when the failure should be manifest, they would, instead of abandoning the ground for surer footing, continue to build an entire policy on the shadowy foundation, though certain to see the baseless fabric sink as often as it should be raised? Yet such is the hopeless task in which the American Secretary persists with dreary pertinacity. Some malign spell seems to rule his course like that by which Michael Scott compelled the devil to make ropes of sand, and to bale out the sea with a limpet-shell. All his arguments, all his complaints, all his homilies, are based on the delusion that he can compel the British Government, by the marvellous force of his persuasive eloquence, to occupy with him a cloudland of his own creation; where a resolute people in arms is a dwindling faction; where a strife that drenches a continent in blood is a waning insurrection; where the victorious result always seems close, yet is always receding; where in the obstruction of a commercial system there is nothing which the partners in that system are entitled to take note of; where the Union, repelled at all points, and staggering under a load of debt, is said to exercise authority in all but a few rebellious spots, and to keep firm hold on the affections of all but a few misguided men; and where nefarious contracts, armies of mercenaries and deserters and plundering generals, are bright examples of the virtue and patriotism of a great people elicited in the hour of trial. All his instructions, all his remonstrances, all his prophecies, proceed upon the assumption that these delusions are facts. If it were not so, the vast volume of despatches would shrink to the size of a pamphlet; for every dispute, every argument, every feeling of injury, has its root in the shadowy standing-ground which he chooses to occupy. Of this he appears sensible himself when he says:—

“I have not failed to see that every wrong this country has been called to endure at the hands of any foreign Power has been a natural if not a logical consequence of the first grave error which that Power committed in conceding to an insurrection, which would otherwise have been ephemeral, the rights of a public belligerent. It has seemed, therefore, to be wise, as well as more dignified, to urge the retrogression upon that false step, rather than to elaborate complaints of the injuries that have followed it.”

It would have been well had he done so; but instead he has, without ceasing to urge retrogression, indulged in ceaseless complaints. Wrapt in his delusions, he drifts calmly on the tide of events that is bearing him and his despatches to chaos, and takes the crack of doom for a wholesome thunderstorm which is to clear the political atmosphere. Nothing can surpass the feeble complacency with which he records his perpetual illusions as incontrovertible facts. On Feb. 19, 1862, he writes to Mr Adams:—

“I was just about instructing you how to answer the querulous complaints in Parliament which you have anticipated, the chief of which is the assumed incompetency of Government to suppress the insurrection. But a very shrewd observer, a loyal, and at present exiled Virginian, fell in at the moment, and expressed to me the opinion that the end of the war is in sight; that there will be a short and rapid series of successes over a disheartened conspiracy, and then all will be over. I give you these opinions as entitling us to what is sometimes granted by candid tribunals—namely, a suspension of judgment.”

It is a pity that the name of the shrewd observer has not been preserved. So sagacious a man ought not to be anonymous.

On the 10th of February he tells us:—

“The process of preparation has steadily gone on in the loyal States, while that of exhaustion has been going on in the disloyal.... We have the most satisfactory evidence that the Union will be hailed in every quarter just as fast as the army shall emancipate the people from the oppression of the insurgent leaders.”

March 15—“The financial and moral, as well as the physical, elements of the insurrection seem to be rapidly approaching exhaustion.” On 25th March it seems impossible to the sanguine Secretary that the organisation of the insurgents can be longer maintained. On 28th April he asserts that “to-day the country is assuming that the fate of this unnatural war is determined by the great event of the capture of New Orleans.” On the 5th May the fiscal system of the insurgents must, he calculates, have exploded, and their military connections be everywhere broken. On 28th May the Federal Government is said to possess the Mississippi and all the other great natural highways. And on June 2—

“The war in the Mississippi valley may be deemed virtually ended.... The army of General M‘Clellan will be rapidly strengthened, although it is already deemed adequate to the capture of Richmond.... No American now indulges any doubt that the integrity of the Union will be triumphantly maintained.”

24th June:—

“You tell me that in England they still point to the delays at Richmond and Corinth, and they enlarge upon the absence of displays of Union feeling in New Orleans and Norfolk. Ah, well! scepticism must be expected in this world in regard to new political systems, insomuch as even Divine revelation needs the aid of miracles to make converts to a new religious faith.”

On 7th July, after M‘Clellan’s disasters, he says:—

“The military situation is clearly intelligible, and ought to be satisfactory to the cool and candid judgment of the country.... We have a rumour that Vicksburg is actually taken. But the report is premature, though we have no doubt but the capture has before this time occurred.”

And on the 10th November, just before the defeat of Fredericksburg, we find him “apprehending no insurmountable obstacles to complete success.”

Nor are his prophecies addressed only to England. On the 15th April he tells Mr Dayton:—

“A few days will probably complete the opening of the Mississippi river, and restore to the country that national outlet of the great granary of America which disunion, in its madness, has temporarily attempted to obstruct, in violation not more of political laws than of the ordinances of nature.”

22d April:—

“We have reason to expect Savannah to come into our possession within the next ten days.”

5th May:—

“We shall have peace and union in a very few months, let France and Great Britain do what they may. We should have them in one month if either the Emperor or the Queen should speak the word, and say, If the life of this unnatural insurrection hangs on an expectation of our favour, let it die. To bring the Emperor to this conviction is your present urgent duty.”

On the 10th May he has a vision of a Yankee millennium:—

“Less than a year will witness the dissolution of all the armies; the ironclad navy will rest idly in our ports; taxes will immediately decrease; and new States will be coming into the Confederacy, bringing rich contributions to the relief and comfort of mankind.”

On the 10th July he says:—

“The reduction of Vicksburg, the possession of Chattanooga, and the capture of Richmond, would close the civil war with complete success. All these three enterprises are going forward. The two former will, we think, be effected within the next ten days.”

And in September he actually bites his thumb at the Emperor:—

“We have not been misled,” he says, “by any of the semblances of impartiality or of neutrality which unfriendly proceedings towards us in a perilous strife have put on. When any Government shall incline to a new and more unfriendly attitude, we shall then revise with care our existing relations towards that Power, and shall act in the emergency as becomes a people who have never yet faltered in their duty to themselves while they were endeavouring to improve the condition of the human race.”

Compared with these prophecies the ravings of Mother Shipton become respectable oracles. Yet on them was founded the entire foreign policy of the Federal Government; the complaints that foreign statesmen and other sane persons would not confide in them were incessant; and they were the lights by which American envoys were expected to steer.

These gentlemen, with more or less sense and discretion, all write in the stilted creaking style, stuck over with hard metaphors, which distinguishes the master-spirit Seward, and which appears to be the characteristic of American public compositions. They seem to have caught, and to express very honestly, not only his style but his ideas, and to represent perfectly the querulous, arrogant, exacting tone of the Secretary. It is not, probably, from a wish to do him homage that they thus accurately reflect him, but rather because it is natural to American politicians to take abroad with them that idea of the pre-eminence of their country which they have passed their lives at home in asserting, and because their habit of regarding England as the abode of a jealous aristocracy, and as being always in the wrong, places them in a position of natural antagonism to us in every case that can arise. But, granting this to be inevitable, we may consider ourselves very fortunate that America is represented among us by a gentleman in every way so entitled to respect as Mr Adams. The son of one President and the grandson of another, both of whom were elected to the chief place in the Republic at a time when something else besides obscurity and the absence of any quality which could excite the jealousy of aspiring men, was demanded for the attainment of the position which Washington had filled, the claims of Mr Adams as a public man evidently rest on other grounds than those of ordinary American politicians. We do not doubt that the expressions of goodwill and courtesy addressed to him from our Foreign Office are perfectly sincere and deserved. It is true that the tone of his correspondence with that office is often captious, and his demands are sometimes unreasonable. Without prompting from his own Government he seems often to prejudge questions of international law with a bias that blinds him to the true bearing of the question, as in the case of the Emily St Pierre, and leads him to treat as an injury the denial of concessions which are denied because impossible to be granted. But this is the traditionary character of American diplomacy: it thus expresses the spirit of the people, with the promptings of which a Minister may think himself bound to comply; and both Mr Adams and Mr Dayton, Minister to France, appear in their correspondence to discharge their duties with great zeal and fidelity, and, moreover, to display the virtue, not by any means universal among their brethren, of confining themselves to the business of their own legations.

We need not say that our remarks relate only to Mr Adams’s share in the published correspondence, and not to his later acts. The extraordinary step he took on the 9th April, in granting a permit to an English vessel enabling her to pass the blockade, is fraught with consequences too important to be dwelt on here, and, if unexplained, would force us largely to qualify our encomium.

It might be supposed that the ties between Austria and America are neither numerous nor close, and that consequently the Minister to Vienna would find but a narrow field for the display of his qualities as a diplomatist. Accordingly we find Mr Motley, in the dearth of other matter, falling back upon the grand resource of American politicians, and discussing English affairs as the most natural topic possible to engage the attention of an envoy at Vienna. From that convenient point of observation, then, he proceeds to enlighten the Washington Cabinet on the disposition and intentions of the statesmen, and organs of the press, of Great Britain; and as other ministers elsewhere imitate this course, the Government of Mr Lincoln has the advantage of seeing British policy represented, not merely in the aspect in which it is seen by Mr Adams the special photographer, but as it appears when viewed by amateurs from the various capitals of Europe.

Should a Tory Government succeed the present Cabinet, Mr Motley anticipates much trouble. Nothing, he says, can exceed the virulence with which the extreme Conservative party regard America, nor the delight with which they look forward to its extinction as a nation. The hatred to the English Radicals is, he has discovered, “the secret of the ferocity and brutality with which the ‘Times,’ the ‘Saturday Review,’ and other Tory organs of the press, have poured out their insults upon America ever since the war began.” How the journals thus classified may approve being linked together as Tory organs, we cannot say. To ourselves we, of course, see nothing personal in the general allusion, our leaning to Radicalism and Republicanism being too notorious to admit of any mistake. Subsequently Mr Motley writes a long essay about British matters, explaining the sentiments of the “venerable Premier of England” and our Foreign Minister, and criticising the speech made by Mr Gladstone at Newcastle, part of which makes him very angry, and causes him to express a hope that that statesman’s tongue may be blistered. Nor, unusual as his style of diplomatic correspondence may appear, does he stand quite alone in it.

It is possible that the godfathers and godmothers of Mr Cassius Marcellus Clay are, in principal degree, responsible for the efforts made by that gentleman to attain notoriety. It would be mean to sneak obscurely about the world under such magnificent appellations. Better, in such a case, be called John Thomas. Hence, without any quality apparent that would entitle the bearer of these historic names to claim distinction amid the company of a pothouse, his efforts to become known in the world have been as unceasing as if he were some wronged genius entitled to a hearing. At the outbreak of hostilities he launched from Paris a tremendous defiance against our unfortunate country. Then he published a letter in the ‘Times,’ telling us what we ought to do in the American quarrel, and, in case we should not comply, threatening our great-grandchildren with the vengeance of we forget how many millions of unborn Yankees. At this time he was on his way to St Petersburg as United States Minister to Russia. For his guidance he had received one of Mr Seward’s most elaborate moral essays, beginning in this remarkable way: “Sir,—Nations, like individuals, have three prominent wants: first, freedom; secondly, prosperity; thirdly, friends. The United States early secured the two first objects by the exercise of courage and enterprise. But, although they have always practised singular moderation, they nevertheless have been slow in winning friends.” Fortified with a great deal of this kind of composition, Mr Clay arrived in the Russian capital. From his own correspondence we learn that he found the Emperor “absent in the direction of Moscow,” and being advised by the Assistant-Secretary of State to await his Majesty’s return, “I presumed,” he says, “it would not be agreeable to the Emperor for me to follow on.” In a few days he had an interview with Prince Gortchakoff, who “asked after Pickens” (whether Pickens is something, or some place, or somebody, does not appear), “my family, and other things in a familiar way, when I was dismissed by again shaking hands.” Soon after we learn that he and “his suite, Green Clay, William C. Goodloe, and T. Williams,” set out for Peterhoff, where the Emperor received them, and addressed Mr Clay in a set speech, which was delivered in Russian, though, says he, “the Emperor spoke American mostly.” We are at liberty, therefore, to suppose that his Majesty, during great part of the interview, spoke through his nose; and, no doubt, Prince Gortchakoff, who spoke only English, beheld with wonder, not unmixed with envy, this exhibition of his Imperial master’s accomplishments as a linguist.

Mr Clay then addressed to the Emperor an essay on the moral government of Russia, which, from internal evidence, we pronounce to have been learnt by heart from a prize paper by Seward. “The Emperor,” he says, “seemed much gratified and really moved by this last remark,” possibly because it was the last; and, besides speaking Russian and American, Alexander was so ostentatious as to conclude the interview by speaking English, perhaps deeming it appropriate to the subject-matter. “He wanted to know if I thought England would interfere. I told him we did not care what she did; that her interference would tend to unite us the more; that we fought the South with reluctance; we were much intermarried and of a common history; but that the course of England had aroused our sensibilities towards her in no very pleasant manner. The Emperor seemed to like my defiance of old John Bull very much. He wanted to know if I was a relative of Henry Clay, and what was my military rank. I told him I was only a distant relation of Clay, and that I wore the uniform of an American colonel” (borrowed, perhaps, from another relation, Pipe Clay), “which rank I filled in my own country.” His Majesty then shook hands twice with the Ambassador, and dismissed him.

Before concluding the despatch from which we learn the foregoing interesting particulars, it seems to have occurred to Mr Clay that it would be judicious to show Mr Seward that moralising on the war was a game which two could play at; and he wound up in the following style:—

“I have already made this letter too long; but I cannot conclude without saying how much more and more I value the great and inestimable blessings of our Government, and how I trust in God that no compromise will be made of the great idea for which we have so long fought, but that General Scott, following out the programme of Mr Lincoln’s inaugural, will slowly and surely subdue the rebellion, ‘stock, lock, and gun-barrel,’ ‘hook and line, bob and sinker,’ and that we may all be spared to see once more the glorious old banner restored,—‘Liberty and union, now and for ever—one and inseparable.’”

These extracts from the Clay correspondence of 1861 will no doubt cause the reader keenly to regret that we cannot give more. But the fact is that, whether Mr Seward was jealous of Mr Clay’s native humour as displayed in these papers, or considered him a formidable rival as a moral essayist, or whatever the cause might be, the omissions are so numerous that a great part of the Ambassador’s correspondence consists of asterisks, leaving only the driest details, such as any ordinary John Thomas or Green Clay might have written. So numerous are the stars between the stripes of print, that the successive pages look like so many representations of the American banner. But in January last year he wrote an essay on the subject of the perfidy and general villainy of Great Britain, which has fortunately been preserved entire. “In this critical time,” he says, “whether war or peace with England ensues, I deem it my duty to give the President my impressions of European sentiment.” He then details the reasons why the monarchies and aristocracies of Europe have always regarded his republic with jealousy. “Their jealousy, their secret hate, their blind vengeance verges,” Mr Clay thinks, “upon insanity;.... they renew with us the fable of the wolf and the lamb; though we are below on the mountain stream, we are accused of muddying the waters.” His method of dealing with Secession is tersely expressed—“I have always thought that the whole property of the rebels, slaves and all, should be summarily confiscated.” But before prescribing this treatment for the South, he devotes a paragraph to the way in which England should be handled:—

“In case of war with England,” he says, “Canada should be seized at all hazards. A large force should be first placed in fortifications in some place suitable near the coast, which would cut off reinforcements from England. Union with us, with equal rights, should be offered the Canadians, and the lives and property of friends secured. Men and money should be sent to Ireland, India, and all the British dominions all over the world, to stir up revolt. Our cause is just; and vengeance will sooner or later overtake that perfidious aristocracy.”

Such was the esteem in which the Cabinet of Washington held either the practical qualities evinced in this essay, or the diplomatic services veiled under the asterisks, that they were considered to entitle him, on his return to America, to the position of a Brigadier-General. In the records of the war we cannot, however, find that Brigadier Cassius Marcellus ever performed any military achievement worthy either of the foe of Cæsar or the foe of Hannibal. He seems to have worn his warlike honours with remarkable meekness, and never to have done anything to fulfil his own aspiration that “liberty and union may be for ever inseparable,” by taking the smallest step towards the subjugation of the enemy. Under these circumstances Mr Seward, finding his military so inferior to his diplomatic talents, seems to have thought that the Brigadier who had failed to bid defiance to the South would find a more appropriate field of action in resuming his employment of gratifying the Emperor of Russia with other defiances of “old John Bull”—and accordingly we learn that the eminent statesman either is, or is to be, once more Minister to St Petersburg, and may possibly be at this moment engaged in his favourite occupations of shaking the hand of the Emperor, and shaking his own hand at the British monarchy. If it be so, we may perhaps hope to read, in another state paper, of his second reception at the Court of Russia—which, judging from the familiar cordiality displayed in the first, may, if the Czar should again deign to express himself in the American language, open something in this way,—“Wal, Cassius M. Clay, how air you, old hoss? Do you feel pretty brisk and spry, sir? How is it you ha’n’t chawed up them rebels yet, lock, stock, and gun-barrel, hook and line, bob and sinker? What do you think of our insurrection to Poland, sir?”

Future volumes of these documents will probably reveal Mr Seward as still assuring his correspondents that the end of the rebellion is at hand; that foreign Governments will soon see dire reason to repent their hostility; that the Union is growing stronger with every “reverse of our arms;” that discord and desertion and corruption are only “fresh developments of patriotism;” and that the flooding of the lands on the Mississippi, far from being an act of barbarous vindictiveness, will be as beneficent in its consequences as the overflowing of the Nile. We shall probably see, too, that American envoys, addressing themselves, not to Mr Seward, but to the masses behind him, his masters and theirs, are still denouncing our perfidious aristocracy and jealous monarchy. Is it a comedy or a tragedy that these men are acting? If unconscious absurdity and ludicrous unfitness for the conduct of grave affairs were all the elements of the exhibition, we might well afford to laugh; but, unfortunately, the grotesque display has its terrible side, and incapacity and conceit only increase the tremendous power of mischief wielded by the principal characters in the burlesque. Meanwhile the course of foreign Governments is not likely to be materially affected by the lucubrations of the American Secretary of State; and, amidst the strange displays of weakness made by the North, not the least strange will be the futility of its diplomacy.

The soundness of the position taken up by the Opposition last year in regard to the national finances, has this year been fully established by the admissions and procedure of the Chancellor of the Exchequer. It may seem remarkable that the Chancellor of the Exchequer should preface his financial statement by referring to a resolution of the House, which was adopted at the instance of the Opposition,—that he should avowedly base his present Budget upon that resolution. But Mr Gladstone is a Minister of consummate Parliamentary tact, who avails himself of every plea which best serves his purpose for the time; and, as we shall see in the sequel, he had a special reason for thus seeking to cover with the authority of Parliament a Budget which is not quite so accordant with the resolution of the House as he desires it to be thought. The resolution, which was adopted at the instance of the Opposition, and upon which the Chancellor of the Exchequer professedly bases his present Budget, insisted upon the necessity of reducing the national expenditure. It was urged upon the Government that the financial administration of the three previous years had been such as to trench deeply upon the extraordinary resources of the country, and that, while ostensibly adding to the military strength of the country, we were really diminishing our power by exhausting the sources by which the expenses of war and national defence could be sustained. It was pointed out that during these years we had not only abolished, and put out of reach, several important taxes for the remission of which there was no urgent necessity, but that, in order to do so, we had actually incurred a considerable deficit. Of late years not only the leaders of the Opposition, but some of the highest financial authorities on the Ministerial side of the House—including Lord Overstone, Lord Monteagle, and Earl Grey—had denounced as most impolitic the hand-to-mouth system pursued by Mr Gladstone, and had urged the necessity of framing the estimates with a view to obtaining a substantial yearly surplus. These were the considerations which led the House of Commons last summer to adopt the resolution to which the Chancellor of the Exchequer now appeals in justification of his Budget; and they must not be forgotten when examining how far the financial programme of the present year is in accordance with that resolution.

A new critic now takes the field against Mr Gladstone, and adds his protest to those which have already been made by the other leading financial authorities. In a new edition of his work on Taxation, that veteran Liberal and political economist, Mr M’Culloch, severely criticises the recent financial policy of the Government, and endorses with his high and obviously impartial authority the opinions by which that policy has been so often combated by the Conservatives. To all the special features of Gladstonian finance Mr M’Culloch is opposed. He is strongly in favour of the maintenance of a good yearly surplus, as an indispensable feature of a prudent system of finance; he condemns as most impolitic that narrowing of the area of taxation which Mr Gladstone extols as a “simplification of the tariff;” and he moreover objects, in the strongest terms, to the manner in which that principle of “simplification” has been applied.

It is not surprising that the voice of protest should thus be raised from all quarters against the principles of Mr Gladstone’s finance. To begin with, he has been a most prodigal financier, and cares not a jot for the future. At a time when the charges on the National Debt were reduced by the falling-in of the terminable annuities, to the extent of two millions a-year—when there was an unexpected repayment of a portion of the Spanish loan, and other windfalls—and when he found a surplus of considerable amount left to him by his predecessors in office,—then surely, if ever, the country had a right to expect from the Chancellor of the Exchequer a succession of good annual balance-sheets. If the policy of maintaining a substantial surplus is not carried out under these favourable circumstances, the fault must lie with the administrator of the national finances. Yet, so far has Mr Gladstone been from adhering to the old and sound maxim of financial policy, that he has not only given us no surplus, but has recklessly incurred us a deficit, of which he now makes no mention. Had this bad condition of the finances been incurred in consequence of an exceptional increase of the national expenditure which could only be met by the imposition of new taxes, it might have been excusable. But there was no such difficulty: the revenue was sufficient, if let alone, to have more than kept pace with the expenditure. The peculiar culpability of Mr Gladstone as a financial Minister—the pernicious feature of his system which called forth the eloquent denunciation of Lord Overstone, and the emphatic protest of Earl Grey and Lord Monteagle, and of the ablest financial journal of the Liberal party, the ‘Economist’—is, that during this period of so-called exceptional expenditure he has deliberately thrown away the means which were at his disposal for meeting it. He has abolished taxes against which there was no peculiar ground of complaint, and he has reduced others in order to cheapen certain commodities for which there was no general demand.

This financial system of Mr Gladstone is, unfortunately, not a mere thing of the past. Its consequences weigh upon us now, and there is no sign of his abandoning it. It is a novel system—novel even to himself; but he adheres to it with an obstinacy which threatens to embarrass us in the future not less than in the past. A grave question must be at stake when the greatest financial authorities of the Liberal party come forward prominently to side with the Conservatives in opposing and denouncing the policy of the Chancellor of the Exchequer. They feel strongly that the recent hand-to-mouth system of Mr Gladstone will not do, and that in times of emergency it would entail grave disaster upon the national fortunes. “Great nations—such, for example, as England and France,” says Mr M’Culloch, “with colonies and dependencies in all parts of the world, and with jealous and powerful neighbours, must expect to be every now and then involved in difficulties; and on that account they should have a considerable surplus revenue—i. e., a considerable surplus after defraying the cost of their usual establishments,” And he adds—“Had the affair in regard to the Trent led, as it was not unlikely to do, to a war with the United States, it would have found us in an awkward situation—without any surplus revenue, with discredited customs and excise duties, and nothing to fall back upon but an increase of the Income-tax and loans.” We regret to say that the calamity from which we so narrowly escaped two years ago, cannot be regarded as unlikely of occurrence now; and there are also elements of strife sufficiently formidable on our own side of the Atlantic to engage the thoughts of our statesmen, and to invest with peculiar interest the at all times momentous subject of the national finances. When we hear so old a Liberal and so practised a political economist as Mr M’Culloch echoing Lord Castlereagh, and charging the country in the very words of the Tory statesman, with an “ignorant impatience of taxation,” we cannot but be confirmed in the views which we have repeatedly expressed in regard to the policy of the present Chancellor of the Exchequer; and the country at large will do well to reconsider that policy and the principle upon which it is based.

On one occasion in 1857, when the late Sir G. C. Lewis—whose death is a loss alike to the country and to the Ministry—referred to an opinion of one who had as good a knowledge of the practical working of taxation as any man either before or since, Mr Gladstone exclaimed with the utmost contempt—“He goes back to Arthur Young, sir: old Arthur Young he takes for his authority!” And when, in his own recent Budget speech, Mr Gladstone, with all the ingenuity of rhetoric, was calling upon the House to stand amazed at the rapid increase in the [nominal?] income of the country (one-fifth during eight years), which he claimed as the result of his policy,—and Sir J. Packington quietly suggested that it is Australia and the new gold mines that have caused the difference,—Mr Gladstone rejoined, “Australia! Oh no: the right honourable gentleman is lost in the depths of heresy on that point.” This overbearing presumption is natural to Mr Gladstone, who finds it a convenient way of summarily evading difficulties which are more easily scoffed at than answered. But we take leave to think that there are few intelligent men in this country who, for width of view and soundness of judgment, would not have preferred the late Sir George Lewis to his more eloquent and ingenious colleague. And for ourselves we entertain no doubt that Sir J. Pakington was perfectly correct in his suggestion, and that the great increase alike in the income of this country, and in certain branches of the expenditure, is in part attributable to the rise in the monetary value of property and labour in consequence of the new markets for our goods in Australia, and the great addition to the stock of gold.^[9] Mr Gladstone would probably treat Mr M’Culloch in the same contemptuous fashion,—especially as Mr M’Culloch’s opinions and arguments, if correct, totally demolish the “system” which Mr Gladstone of late years, and in contradiction to his former self, has been labouring to establish. But we shall give the public an opportunity of judging whether Mr M’Culloch’s opinions are not as well founded as they are harmonious with those of the Conservative party.

Mr M’Culloch maintains that it is more than doubtful whether any remission of taxation should take place unless the revenue exceed the ordinary expenditure by some 5 or 10 per cent of its amount. In other words, he considers that, with an expenditure equal to that of the United Kingdom, the estimates should always be so framed as to have a conjectural balance of four or five millions. Mr Gladstone rarely aims at having a surplus of even a tenth of that amount; and sometimes £80,000 or less seems to him enough to meet the chapter of accidents, and sustain the moral power and financial credit of the country! The following passage, which appears in the new edition of Mr M’Culloch’s work, seems to have been written expressly in reference to the financial administration of the present Chancellor of the Exchequer:—

“In countries under free or constitutional governments the reduction or repeal of taxes is frequently proposed in the view of courting popularity, or of favourably influencing public opinion. And the desire to grasp an immediate advantage, to be relieved of a burden, without caring for the ultimate consequences of its extinction, is so extremely prevalent, that such projects, though often very undeserving, seldom fail to procure a less or greater share of the public sympathy for those by whom they are put forth. Statesmen, however, and those intrusted with the duties of government, should take a less circumscribed view of such matters, and are bound to inquire into the real character of the measures that come before them, and to weigh and consider their more remote as well as their proximate results. Their duty is to oppose, not to pander to the selfish and unfounded prejudices of the public.... The real questions are, can the tax be spared; and, if not, can it be replaced by a less inconvenient or injurious tax? If it can neither be spared nor replaced by another that is less objectionable, its repeal would be as futile, as inexpedient, and as unadvised a measure as can well be imagined.”

Mr Gladstone, in his desire for popularity, has carried the practice thus emphatically condemned by Mr M’Culloch to a most dangerous extreme. He totally disregards the sound principle of ending every year with a surplus, in order to meet sudden and unforeseen contingencies, and he lavishes every spare pound upon the reduction of taxation. Moreover, in making these reductions, he has adopted a practice which, although he presents it under the attractive guise of a “simplification of the tariff,” is paving the way for a serious popular agitation against some of the indispensable elements of our fiscal system. Sir Robert Peel, it is true, simplified the tariff; but he did so more wisely and prudently. It was not merely for the sake of simplicity that he reduced the list of taxed commodities, but because many of the taxes at that time vexed trade without appreciably swelling the revenue. Previous to his administration, our customs tariff comprised above a thousand articles, many of which were insignificant, and all but unproductive to the State. But Mr Gladstone has carried out the same practice on a very different principle. The tariff, as left by Sir Robert Peel, embraced above four hundred items; now it is restricted to about forty. Indeed, this branch of our revenue at present is raised almost entirely from sugar, tea, tobacco, spirits, wine, beer, corn, coffee, currants and raisins, timber, and pepper. This is objectionable in many respects. In the first place, it renders our revenue liable to be much more seriously affected by the fluctuations of trade and the condition of the masses of the people, than under the old system; and by concentrating taxation upon a few commodities, it makes the fiscal pressure more obvious and more felt, and furnishes proportionately greater scope for popular agitation. “When the public attention is fixed exclusively on a few leading and indeed necessary articles,” says Mr M’Culloch, “it is all but certain that the duties on them, even should they be moderate, will come to be looked upon as being, in no ordinary degree, objectionable and oppressive. But were a great variety of articles, suitable for the consumption of all classes, subject to duties, there would be but little probability of the public attention being concentrated on a few only.” And what are the few commodities which now furnish the principal part of our revenue? As we have seen, precisely those which are consumed in greatest quantity by the bulk of the people. There is no real inequality in the distribution of our taxation; for the Income-Tax, the Succession-Duties, &c., do not fall at all upon the lower classes, and have been framed so as to keep the balance of taxation equal between the rich and the poor. But we fear this fact will not be fairly considered by the masses, who, under the influence of demagogues like Mr Bright, are too prone to think themselves unjustly dealt with. Two months ago we pointed out this feature of Mr Gladstone’s financial policy, as one eminently provocative of agitation against some branches of our revenue which it is indispensable to preserve. Mr M’Culloch holds a similar opinion. He says—

“When such duties apply to all kinds of things [the raw materials of industry and the prime articles of food being excepted], it is seen that they must affect, in one way or other, every class, and, indeed, every individual, and being merged in and forming a part of the price of the articles on which they are charged, they attract little or no attention. But such will not be the case with us in time to come. Consumption duties have ceased to be general, and are now (1862) unfortunately restricted to a few leading articles, comprising some of the principal necessaries and luxuries of the labouring poor. So striking and momentous a change cannot fail to rouse the public attention; and will, it is to be feared, give rise to a belief that it is essentially partial and unfair. And such belief will be better founded than it is at all desirable it should be; for, while we admit various luxuries of the rich and the great, including the most recherché wines, at very low duties, and many more, comprising, among others, the finest laces, velvets, porcelain, tablecloths, carpets, silks, gloves, ornamental furniture, bronzes, and so forth, free of all charge, we lay heavy duties on the tea and sugar, which are indispensable to the labouring poor, and heavier still on the tobacco, the spirits, and the beer which constitute their luxuries. Is it to be supposed that such a policy should be considered by the bulk of the people as other than unfair and offensive?”

It is a most important principle of judicious finance that the incidence of taxation should be as little felt as possible, and also that it should not only be fair, but be seen to be fair. We believe that the present taxation of this country falls very equally on all classes; but, unfortunately, under Mr Gladstone’s “reforms,” it has assumed an appearance of gross inequality. We have largely increased the spirit duties, and we have kept up the taxes on malt and beer, yet we have greatly reduced the duties on wine. Moreover, we have made the reduction of the duties on wines in such a way that the finest wines pay no more than the cheap wines. Several articles of luxury have likewise, under the operation of the French treaty, disappeared from the tariff, and their absence, though of no great importance as affecting the revenue, gives a handle to demagogues who desire to excite the masses against the taxation of the country. The “Financial Reform Association,” and the Radical party in general, could have no better ally than Mr Gladstone; and the chief result of his “popular” Budgets will inevitably be to render our whole system of taxation extremely unpopular.

Mr Gladstone’s new Budget is less ingenious, less experimental, less obviously hazardous, than those which have preceded it. The balance is, in appearance at least, kept even between direct and indirect taxation: and the twopence off the income-tax, and the fivepence off the duties on tea, reduce these taxes to the level at which they stood prior to the Russian war. The modification of the Income-tax upon incomes between £100 and £200 a-year is an improvement. Mr Gladstone has also done well in admitting a past error of his, by abolishing the small charges on certain operations, of trade which he imposed in 1860, but which have been found exceedingly vexatious to commerce. Nor can any objection be taken to the change which he proposes to make on the taxation of railways, by which the tax on the passenger traffic is reduced from 5 to 3½ per cent, while the exemption at present enjoyed by parliamentary and excursion trains is abolished. His proposal to levy the Income-tax upon the revenues of corporations which are expended in charity, and on the income of endowed charities, is more open to question; and so are some of his other minor proposals; but the interests affected are not sufficiently powerful to offer much opposition to the Government.

The main facts of Mr Gladstone’s financial statement are briefly as follows. Warned by the strong expression of opinion on the part of the House in favour of a reduction of expenditure, the Government resolved to anticipate farther opposition by curtailing the estimates which the House had so reluctantly voted, and last year spent about £800,000 less than they had taken power to do. In respect to the Revenue, Mr Gladstone’s estimates were singularly at fault. As on previous occasions, his estimate of the Excise greatly exceeded the actual return, which this year has fallen short of his estimate by more than a million sterling. But the Income-tax yielded nearly half a million more than he calculated, and so have the Customs; and the total produce of the national taxes has been so favourable as to leave a surplus of about £400,000 above the estimate, and an excess of £1,300,000 above the expenditure. The revenue of the past year amounted to £70,603,000, the expenditure was £69,302,000: surplus £1,301,000. If the taxes were to remain on the same footing this year, they would yield (according to Mr Gladstone) £71,490,000; and he proposes some trifling new taxes amounting to £133,000: together equal to £71,623,000. And as the estimated expenditure for the ensuing year is only £67,749,000 (£1,553,000 less than last year’s), the surplus at the end of the ensuing year, if the taxes were kept at their present rate, would be £3,874,000. But the proposed reductions of taxation, chiefly on the Income-tax and Tea-duties, will cause a loss of revenue in the ensuing year to the extent of £3,343,000; so that the actual surplus, as estimated by Mr Gladstone, will be £531,000. The Budget stands thus:

The surplus which Mr Gladstone thus reckons upon this year is far below the amount which our best financiers consider requisite for the maintenance of a sound system of finance. It is true, and we attach great weight to the consideration, that the present depressed state of an important branch of national industry renders it desirable that the taxation of the country should be reduced as low as possible. But this argument, unhappily, cuts two ways. For the same depression of trade, which calls for a minimum of taxation this year, to at least a similar extent places in jeopardy the surplus which the Chancellor of the Exchequer reckons upon. In his estimate of the produce of the excise, especially, we believe that he commits his usual mistake of being too sanguine. But the really hazardous feature of his Budget consists in this: That only a part of the proposed reductions of taxation will take effect during the ensuing year; and, therefore, the estimates which suffice for the financial year, upon which we have entered, will be inadequate for the year following. The reductions of taxation which will take place before April next will, as we have said, amount to £3,343,000; but the total yearly loss of revenue consequent upon the reductions proposed by the Chancellor of the Exchequer, is £4,242,000; so that if they took entire effect during the present year, instead of a surplus of £531,000, there would be a deficit of £368,000. But of the loss on the Income-tax, £850,000 will only fall on the following year (1864–5), and £49,000 of loss from the abolition of some petty taxes will likewise be passed on to next year. Thus we obtain a surplus of £531,000 for the present financial year only by passing on to next year a loss of £900,000. If the finances had been in a thoroughly good condition, and if the state of the country promised to be prosperous, and our relations with other Powers peaceful, the heavy legacy of loss for the year 1864–5 might be contemplated with less alarm; for the experience of late years shows that, in ordinary times, the productiveness of the revenue tends to augment at the rate of £700,000 a-year. But this is not the case. And, moreover, as Mr Gladstone’s estimate of the miscellaneous receipts for the present year embrace half a million sterling of the China indemnity money—a payment which will not take place again—the deficit which we are preparing for the year 1864–5, is an exceedingly formidable one = £1,400,000.

This is the weak point of Mr Gladstone’s Budget. Suppose his expectations are fully realised—suppose he have a surplus at the end of this year of half a million, and that the productiveness of the taxes increase next year to the extent of £700,000 (which is not likely),—there would nevertheless be a deficit in the year 1864–5 of £200,000. Such a result, the most favourable that can be expected, cannot be regarded with indifference. But this is not all. Is it not a fact that the balances in the Exchequer in March last year were £2,684,000 less than they were in 1860, when Mr Gladstone began his present financial administration? And as he does not take any account of that deficit in his new Budget, the deficit remains unprovided for, and of course renders his present financial programme doubly hazardous. It was only by the help of the two and a half millions abstracted from the Exchequer balances, and also by creating new Debt to the extent of £461,000, that he escaped bankruptcy during the two first years of his financial administration: and if he had been a Minister of ordinary prudence, he would have felt bound to replace those sums before he proceeded to make further reductions of taxation. But he is determined to produce popular Budgets, however dear a price the country may have to pay for them in the long run. He justifies anew the censure which Mr M’Culloch has passed upon such a system of finance. He makes the show of a surplus for the ensuing year, only by ignoring nearly three millions of deficit which he has accumulated in past years, and by preparing a new deficit for the year 1864–5.

Every proposal to reduce taxation is sure to be popular,—we are equally sure that the present reductions are exceedingly dangerous. It is one thing to cut down expenditure—and this, we conceive, was what the Conservatives last year urged upon the Government: it is quite another thing to dispense with a real surplus, to resign ourselves to a past deficit, and prepare for ourselves a new one. The errors of Mr Gladstone’s previous Budgets now begin to weigh heavy upon the national fortunes. The abandonment of the paper-duties has rendered our present financial position one of no ordinary embarrassment. Had these duties still been in operation, the present reductions of taxation, so desirable in themselves, and so repeatedly called for by the Conservative party, could have been effected without any risk. As it is, we think the financial position of the country eminently unsatisfactory and unsafe. Not only must we experience a deficit in the year 1864–5, but we are totally unprepared for any untoward contingencies in the present year. The peace of Europe (if peace it may be called) is obviously insecure; hostilities seem impending between this country and Japan; and our relations with the Federal States of North America are such as, unhappily, and from no fault of ours, to render the occurrence of war between the two countries a contingency which cannot entirely be overlooked. But if any exceptional expenditure be forced upon us, how are we to meet it? Under Mr Gladstone’s management, the taxation of the country has been so concentrated upon a few articles of universal consumption, and the duty upon some of those commodities (such as spirits) has been so obviously carried to the highest possible point, that to increase the revenue from its present sources would be extremely difficult and unpopular. We cannot reimpose the old duties on wines, silks, gloves, and other articles embraced in the French treaty, for in respect to these we have sold our freedom of taxation to a foreign power. The paper duties are irretrievably abandoned; for, however impolitic may have been the abolition of those duties in times like the present, their reimposition would be a great hardship and injustice to the manufacturers who have made new arrangements in accordance with the abolition. A few months hence the same will be the case with the Tea-duties. A large increase of the Income-tax, and an issue of Exchequer bonds, are the only means by which we can hope to make head against an emergency. The surplus is merely nominal—the balances in the Exchequer cannot be further reduced,—and even the issue of Exchequer bonds can be resorted to only to a small extent, in consequence of Mr Gladstone’s repeated postponement of paying off, as they fell due, the amounts already in circulation. Over the term of Mr Gladstone’s present financial administration, as over his previous one, the country will yet have to write the words, so damnatory of the reputation of a statesman, Improvidus futuri. In the present aspect of affairs, we begin to think anew of his Budgets before the Crimean War; and we can only hope that the year 1864 will not be like 1854, and that the country will not find itself again in straits and embarrassments like those which proved wellnigh overwhelming ten years ago.