Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Vol. 67, No. 413, March, 1850
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Title: Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Vol. 67, No. 413, March, 1850

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BLACKWOOD'S EDINBURGH MAGAZINE, VOL. 67, NO. 413, MARCH, 1850 ***

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BLACKWOOD’S
EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.
No. CCCCXIII.      MARCH, 1850.      Vol. LXVII.

CONTENTS.

Civil Revolution in the Canadas, | 249
A Late Case of Court-Martial, | 269
A Farewell to Naples, | 279
Barbarian Rambles, | 281
Goldsmith. Part II., | 296
To Burns’s “Highland Mary,” | 309
My Peninsular Medal. By an Old Peninsular. Part IV., | 313
The Green Hand—A “Short” Yarn. Part IX., | 329
Canadian Loyalty. An Ode, | 345
Agriculture, Commerce, and Manufactures: Opening of the Session, | 347

EDINBURGH:

WILLIAM BLACKWOOD & SONS, 45, GEORGE STREET;

AND 37, PATERNOSTER ROW, LONDON.

To whom all communications (post paid) must be addressed.

SOLD BY ALL THE BOOKSELLERS IN THE UNITED KINGDOM.

PRINTED BY WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS, EDINBURGH.

ERRATUM.

Page 372, column second, Estimate of Expenditure of Absentees, for £40,000,000 read £20,000,000.

BLACKWOOD’S

EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.

No. CCCCXIII.      MARCH, 1850.      Vol. LXVII.

CIVIL REVOLUTION IN THE CANADAS.

We had intended changing the title of our papers on the Canadas, and throwing together for the Magazine the results of many years’ experience, and many opportunities of observing the lights and shades of colonial life. Not that we had a new system of settlement to propound, or a new art of colonisation to illustrate. Our purpose was simply to have conducted the reader along the high road of colonial life, and to have pointed out to him, on the way, houses evidencing comfort, respectability, and plenty, farms proving wealth and independence, and barn-yards filled with stock and with grain, belonging to men, who, but a comparatively short time before, had been labouring in Europe without a hope beyond their daily bread, or a prospect beyond that of constantly toiling for others. We had purposed, too, telling the story of how these men rose; and pointing out, in the same great country, thousands upon thousands of openings for others to go and do likewise. Nor did we intend stopping here. There is a large class of men in Great Britain, who, feeling as men, and wishing to discharge the duties of men, cannot look very comfortably around them, and see those who owe their existence to them likely to be left worse off in the world than they were left themselves; yet who cannot, from the peculiar organisation of society in Britain, help themselves; and who are often prevented—through family connexions that bring them no good, and family pride that often sickens much more than it elevates the heart—even from using those exertions and efforts that might better their condition. We purposed pointing out the adaptation of the colonies to such men, and their adaptation to the colonies. But this to us agreeable undertaking—for we believe it might be attended with good—we are obliged for the present to abandon, to consider the state of the colonies with respect to their government and the institutions of England; and to see if we cannot suggest a plan whereby those we might induce to settle in them might not lose the protection, the glory, and the fostering care of their mother country.

The legislation of Great Britain, for the last ten years, is marked by some peculiar and distinctive features over that of perhaps any other portion of her legislative history. These are eminently, a studied and intentional disregard of the teachings and the experience of the past, in an overweening confidence in the wisdom of present measures, and their being proof against all future disasters; a sort of supercilious spurning, in sailing under the new canvass of free trade, of all the old landmarks which saved England’s power from many a shipwreck, and her glory from many a stain. It will hardly be denied, that that portion of Great Britain’s national worth which is made up of her achievements, of her glory, ever well-earned, and of her fame, ever dearly bought, has been and is regarded, by the philosophy of the Manchester school of politicians, as a possession by no means worth its cost, and little worth the keeping. May it not, in truth, be fairly presumed, from the movements that have followed the portentous measure of free trade, and from the recent agitations and speeches of its principal promoters, that they are seeking to establish a new description of glory for Great Britain; that they are endeavouring to change her whole national character; that they are, in short, seeking to raze all the former monuments, sacred to her greatness, in order to construct, in their stead, monuments sacred to their own? Clearly the spirit of the age, in so far as they have evoked it, is destructive alike of reverence for the wisdom, and pride in the achievements, of the past. Neither is it unnatural, with the views of this school of politicians, that it should be so. The free-trade movement has ever advanced, in proportion as it succeeded in converting Great Britain to the belief, that the whole mind of the past was shrouded in darkness and error. It could not, therefore, be expected to inspire admiration or reverence, for what it thus practically taught men to condemn and repudiate. And it may well indeed seek to establish a new and a great glory for Britain; for assuredly great is the glory, and great is the national possession of which it is fast bereaving her. The essential spirit of national patriotism—that chivalrous feeling of disinterestedness, which once made Britons proud of forgetting the world for their country, and themselves in its defence—where is it?—what is now swiftly becoming its doom? Is it not palpably withering beneath the cold shadow of free-trade philosophy? Are not the cosmopolitan doctrines of free trade rapidly making Britons forget their country? Are these doctrines not absorbing all the energies of the nation in the struggles of avarice? Are they not sinking every patriotic, every noble national feeling, in the love of gain? Speak now of a measure involving the glory, the shame, and the interests of England, or of even a single class in England, and what will be its probable treatment? The glorious part may have a few advocates, who will be laughed at for their antiquated notions; or it may serve to evoke a few bright ideas in a debate—the modern surplusage of great men’s speeches. The shame part may occasion a feeling of effervescent indignation for the moment. But the interest portion will instantly call forth all the energies of the economic mind of Britain, and will soon accumulate such an avalanche of figures and calculations, as will bear down and crush every other consideration before it. It was once thought wise that men should be taught, through the achievements of their forefathers, the value of their institutions. Free-trade philosophy calls it wiser to teach them to forget forefathers, achievements, and all, in a gigantic struggle for pounds, shillings, and pence. “Confound your acquiring a manly pride by learning your hereditary right to it!” is the language of this school of politicians, and the language they are rapidly teaching England. “Give us the pride of money.” “Britain against the world, as long as Britain pays; but the world against Britain, the moment she doesn’t,” are the popular and practical lessons of the Manchester school,—though a nation’s glory, all the world’s experience teaches us, is the very vitality of its patriotism. A throne or a republic, without such flowers blooming around it, is a poor, unsightly, unlovable thing, having nothing for a people’s affections to cling to; yet are not these flowers fast withering round the throne of England? Are not the memories of the nation, which nourish and keep them alive, being obliterated by the all-powerful tendencies of a political philosophy which recognises no greatness but that of money, and no pursuit worth following but that of material interests? Are not the ties, too, which bind subjects together, and the duties which men owe to each other in a state, of harmonising their interests for the common good, and of making mutual sacrifices for national unity and great national destiny, being fast relaxed and forgotten in Great Britain?

The parties ruling the United States of America are at this moment making sacrifices of the vastest magnitude to each other—sacrifices of great principles as well as of great interests. And why? Because, did they not do so, the republic could not hold together perhaps for a twelvemonth; and, once severed, they know full well what would be the magnitude of their disaster. Mutual sacrifices and concessions are, in truth, the ties that bind them together. Let their common glory and their common destiny, let the knowledge of what they have achieved united, and what they would become if severed, once fail to produce a patriotism, or national virtue, powerful enough to cause them to yield sectional interests for the common good, and to forego great party principles and objects, for the preservation of their institutions and the integrity of their government, and glory would soon take leave of their Israel.

Now in Great Britain, where the operation of free institutions occasions similar necessities for sacrifices and concessions being made by each great class in the state to the other, or others, in order to secure that harmony and unity necessary to all national permanency, and to the perpetuation of national power, what does the legislation of the last ten years exhibit? Does it not exhibit one great class struggling for the giant’s power over another, and, having gained it, using it like a giant? In the great co-partnery in national property and national destiny, men owe it to each other to balance their books fairly as to national advantages. What ruins one large class, though it may temporarily benefit another, must eventually ruin the nation. A nation cannot, more than an individual, bear a constantly mortifying limb. Now it is impossible for an intelligent mind not to see, not to have the conviction forced upon it, that free trade in Britain is destroying the great agricultural limb of the state; and that, if the giant’s power is much longer wielded by the giant, fearful consequences must ensue.

But whether the philosophy of free trade has produced, or is producing, such great changes as these upon English national character—whether it is un-Anglifying England to the extent that we have indicated or not, we can answer, at least, for its training to forgetfulness of Britain the North American colonies. We can answer for its causing the sinking of the subject in the avaricious struggler for “material interests” in America. We can answer for its obliterating all national memories, obligations, and ties on the part of the colonists, in following the selfish lessons that have been sent to them from England, “to take care of themselves, for England no longer cares for them.” Perhaps the seeds that have been thrown upon the winds by free-trade discussions in England, have first taken root in the colonies. Perhaps it was designed that they should. Be this as it may, let England learn from the result of these on the colonies what it may soon be with herself. Let her learn, by their example, the effect of the doctrines, that allegiance may be made wholly subservient to interest, and that love of country must give way to love of gain.

Twelve years ago, in the month in which we write, the city of Montreal presented an appearance that no similarly situated city in the world perhaps ever presented before. Its whole British population, educated to business, little accustomed to ordinary exercises, least of all to those of war, were in the short space of a few days literally converted into an army; for, though they knew not the use of arms, and were incapable of systematic movements, yet each had the heart to grapple, hand to hand, with his foe: and in this they were soldiers. Old men of sixty and seventy years of age, accustomed to ease and luxuries, might have been seen, at this period, doing duty in the streets of Montreal, in the middle of a Canadian winter’s night, as common sentinels. Boys, taken away from their schools, might have been seen doing the same. A regiment of regulars at the time marched through the city; they struck up, as they halted, an air as familiar as the rhymes of children. The strains of the music were drowned in the spontaneous cheers of the people. Women shed tears of gladness. The air the soldiers played was God save the Queen! But why this enthusiasm? and why this military display? Two-thirds of the people of Lower Canada—its French inhabitants—had taken up arms against the institutions of England. The people of Montreal were British.

Now this city of Montreal was little, if at all, capable of military defence. It was so constructed as to have been peculiarly liable to destruction by fire; and, at the time that the spectacle we have faintly sketched might have been witnessed, the chances of war were at least two to one against its determined British inhabitants. Nor should it be forgotten, that nearly the whole of the property in this city was owned by these British inhabitants; was the fruits of many years of their honest toil; and as it is well known that policies of insurance do not cover losses occasioned by the Queen’s enemies, the loss to them might have been total had it been burned.

These British inhabitants of Montreal, therefore, without a moment’s hesitation, in an indefensible city, and with the chances of war as two to one against them, willingly and even cheerfully perilled their lives, their families, their hearths, their property, their all, to uphold the flag of England.

In the month of October last, upwards of twelve hundred persons, in the space of a few days—one half of whom were the very men who acted in 1838 as we have described—openly and deliberately called upon their fellow colonists to haul down the flag of Britain upon the continent of America; and coupled that request with another, that the flag of a rival power should be put up in its stead.

Now what are the causes of this most extraordinary change? What is it which has exerted so powerful an influence, as to have caused men capable of making the noblest sacrifices to uphold the institutions of their forefathers at one time, capable of making such attempts to destroy them at another? We answer, emphatically, it was free trade and its attendant philosophy. It was the injuries it inflicted upon the colonies—not in the spirit of national compromise or mutual sacrifices, but in the spirit of the giant using the giant’s power. It was the lessons, too, that accompanied the injuries. It was the obliterating the love of country in the pursuits of avarice. It was the ruinous latitude that free-trade philosophy had to allow to others, in claiming the same for its own disciples.

To those who have closely observed the opinions expressed regarding the colonies, in the debates upon free trade, little need be said to prove that the Manchester school of politicians not only considered their connexion with Britain as of no importance, but as actually undesirable in itself. There was no attempt made at harmonising interests with them. There was no intention expressed of making sacrifices for them, and incidentally, as we shall show, for England. There was no respect paid to their love of Britain; for loyalty is not a word in the free-trade catalogue. But there was a studious and intentional under-rating and disparaging of them and their country, to subserve the free-trade cause, and to destroy the force that the argument of their ruin might possibly have upon the people of England. They were made the subject too of cold, mercenary calculations, which were enough to insult them into sedition, and to disgust them out of their connexion with the mother country. When the disastrous effect that the loss of a protection, to the benefits of which they had been educated by England for fifty years, and to which the whole business arrangements of their country were as much adapted and which they as much required as the very crops in their ground required sunshine and rain—when these were pointed out in England, how were they met by the free-trade leaders? Was it not by cold calculations of how much they consumed per head of this, and how much they consumed, in comparison with the rest of the world, of that; and how much they cost for this, and how little they required of that; until, by some strange mystification of arithmetic, they were made out to be an actual injury to England. And had the colonies the satisfaction, if they must needs be injured and crippled, of knowing that one single individual connected with the free-trade movement had the justice to regret the injury that was being perpetrated against them, and to say, that England would endeavour to retrieve it in some other way? We believe we are justified in saying there was not one. The vilification of the colonies was an argument in favour of free trade, and they were vilified. And when the consequences of free trade upon the colonies have been alluded to; when the shops which had been built, in expectation of the agricultural interests of the country being stimulated as they had formerly been, and large quantities of land being taken up and cleared, as was formerly the case—when these shops became unrequired and useless; when store-houses, and wharves, and vessels, and steamers, which, before free trade came into operation, were full of activity, life, and business, became as so much dead property on the hands of their owners, and the people connected with them had to seek a livelihood by other means, and in other places than the colonies: when these disastrous consequences of free trade were experienced and pointed out, how were they also met? how were they regarded, and were the colonists sympathised with on account of them? They were spoken of and accounted for, by the free-trade leaders, in a spirit similar to the following paragraph—in a spirit of exaggerated detraction, instead of national sympathy and management. And we put it to the candour of the English public, if the succeeding remarks of the Daily News are not a fair sample of the manner in which the party that paper represents are in the habit of speaking of the colonies:—

“The argument of the Montreal traders is: ‘The Americans are more prosperous than we. If our territory was incorporated into the Union, we would be as prosperous as the Americans.’ The fallacy of this argument is obvious to dispassionate lookers-on. The superior prosperity of the Americans was as marked when the late Mr Stuart visited Canada and the United States as it is now. It has not originated in the change of British mercantile policy. It has all along been owing to the superior energy and enterprise of the Americans. The Canadians were listless, relying upon protection in the British market; the Americans were active, because they had only their own enterprise to rely upon. The Americans, in the position of the Canadians, are not afraid of free competition. The stronghold of the protectionist party in America is in the sea-board manufacturing states. If the Canadians would be as prosperous as the Americans, they must become as active and enterprising as the Americans. The self-government of the people of the United States promoted the spirit of enterprise; but, for all essential purposes, Canadians now enjoy that spring of energy. Canada annexed to the United States would advance more rapidly than Canada under its former close government and protective system did; but the advance would be the work of, and its profits would be reaped by, the hardy emigrants from the United States. The dreamers who think that their prosperity depends upon their being subject to this or the other government, not upon their own exertions, would be driven to the wall before the new-comers. Their individual plight, be that of the province what it might, would be worse than ever.”

Now, that the deductions and statements in this paragraph—if they are intended to apply to the state of Canada before as well as after free trade, and they certainly seem so intended—are as untrue, ungenerous, and unjust, towards the colonists—towards the hardy, persevering, and hard-working people of Great Britain in them—as they are grossly misrepresentative and unfair with respect to the prosperity of the country—we here undertake and pledge ourselves to the reader satisfactorily to prove.

We are no enemies to the American States; and in the incidental references we have had occasion to make to them, in the course of our papers upon the colonies, we have candidly and fully admitted their extraordinary advancement; we have conceded to the fullest the great impetus their peculiar working of the institutions of Britain—for this is in reality the true state of the case—has imparted to human progress. But we are practically and well acquainted with their agricultural interests, and with much of their great country, and with the comforts and prosperity enjoyed and gained by its farmers; and we are also well and practically acquainted with the whole of Upper Canada, and we assert without fear of question by any man in America who understands the matter, that, in period of settlement, and prosperity to show for it; in crops raised from the land, and evidences of good management and good farming; in stock proving comfort and plenty; in houses, carriages, dress; in all that establishes that an agricultural people are easy in their circumstances, and are enjoying comfort and plenty—the farmers of Upper Canada are behind none in any part of the United States, and are before them in many.

Now, London, as all the world knows, is a great leviathan city; but its being so does not prove that individual comfort, happiness, and prosperity are greater in it than they are in many a small town in England. The United States, too, have vastly more territory than Upper Canada has; have many larger and more bustling cities, and have finer and more gorgeous steamers; but this does not prove, more than London does as respects England, that this larger territory brings greater prosperity, health, and comfort, to the farmers in it, than Canada does; that the business in the larger and bustling cities is more healthy, or more profitable, than that which is the legitimate offspring of the people’s wants in Canada; or that the gorgeous steamers pay better, or are better, than those which are adapted to the purposes, and are admirably suited to the conveniences and comforts, of the agricultural population of the Canadas. The question therefore, to any man who has settled in either country, or who wishes to do so, is not how much larger one’s territory is over that of the other, but which secures, and has secured, the greater amount of benefits and prosperity for the same amount of labour and capital invested in it; and which has by experience been proved to be the most desirable place for man to live in? Now, that the only interest which Great Britain has ever fostered or encouraged in America, and indeed the only interest which, with her policy of manufacturing for the colonies, she has allowed to grow up in them—namely, their agricultural interest—was not in Canada, before free trade withered it, behind its state in any part of America; and that the Canadas as a country were before any portion of it, we adduce the conclusive and unquestionable proof, that, distributed over the last thirty years, twenty-five thousand shrewd and sagacious American citizens have left the institutions that they so much prized, have foregone the temptations of their magnificent prairies and valleys that the world has heard so much of, and have taken leave of all their fine and prosperous cities, to take up their abode in Upper Canada. As equally conclusive evidence that the legitimate business of the province was, in proportion to the requirements of the country, always in a healthy and prosperous state, we adduce the fact of the invariable success in every branch of business that they ever engaged in, in Upper Canada, of these same American citizens. And we here state it as a fact that will not be denied by a single American farmer in the province, that, before free trade prostrated its agricultural interests, there was not a single farmer, American or of other country—with the exception of the time of the rebellion in 1837–8—who would have been willing to exchange his property for similar property in any part of the whole United States. And does not, in truth, the fact that these Americans came and settled in the province, under their circumstances, and with their feelings of regard for their own institutions, prove that this must have been the case? And does not the fact of these men carrying with them the same energy and industry into Canada that their friends were possessed of in the States, prove, that in everything that marked the success of labour in a generous land, Canada could not have been behind the rest of America? But it is a well-known fact, as the Americans quaintly observe of themselves, “that they do not love to work as well as the English, Irish, and Scotch do.” They are, as a nation, given to speculating; and an American farmer or mechanic would rather at any time make a dollar by a “trade,” than he would two by hard work. So that, in the march of improvement in agriculture in the Canadas, and in the growth of wealth, these American settlers are by no means before their Canadian neighbours; and, excepting where they have combined some business with their farming, they have not wherewithal to show that they have equally prospered with them. Now, these are facts—facts whose force and justice will not be questioned by a single individual in America who understands the matter; and we state them, not only with the view of vindicating our own countrymen against the injustice of those who wilfully or ignorantly underrate their exertions and the success that has attended their labours, but we state them to save the Americans themselves from unjust and unfair comparisons, and in defence of one of the finest countries that a beneficent Creator ever spread out before needy humanity—a country teeming with unappropriated wealth; with a climate pure, bracing, and adapted to the largest development of the best energies of man, and with millions of openings for poverty to raise itself out of the ashes of its degradation; and for capital to reproduce itself to an extent unheard of in Europe.

Now the people living adjacent to Lake Windermere might just as well be supposed to be an inert, unprosperous race, because their beautiful little lake has fewer steamers, and sailing craft, and bustle upon it, than the Thames exhibits near London, as the people of the Canadas, in comfort and prosperity, can be said to be behind those of the States, because their towns have less bustle, and their waters fewer steamers and less trade upon them. The Canadas have been, and are, a purely agricultural country; and it is in this respect only they can be compared with the rest of America. Their trade and business is, and could only have been, such as naturally grew out of their other interests. If that trade and business was, though less bustling than that of the States, as it naturally would be from its character, healthy and paying, no man could expect more of it. Have we not fairly proved that it must have been so? But if any traveller wishes to judge truly and justly of Upper Canada and the States, he must not skim over their borders, and be deceived by the superficial glare. He must learn the intrinsic value of the thing itself, by going into the interior of the country. He must see men plough. He must see how deep they plough, and what sort of cattle they plough with, and how hard they work. He must examine the farmers’ houses, and learn how they are finished, furnished, and provisioned. He must hover round their barn-yards, and linger along their fences. He must witness their harvests, and be fortunate enough occasionally to be their guests. He must make his observations on their children; and we would excuse him even coming a little closer to their young women, although it would be hardly fair to expect him to judge impartially under such circumstances. But let any man of intelligence do this with regard to the farmers of Upper Canada, and of any portion of the American States—we care not which—and if he does not find that industry has secured as large rewards, and the farmers have as many comforts, in the British possessions as the American, he is at liberty to say that our upwards of seventeen years’ practical experience in them has been of no use to us; or, to use the words of an American friend of ours upon the subject, “we might be inclined to recommend his friends not to trust him very far away from home again.”

But now we would put it to the proverbial sense of justice and fairness of the people of England, if the calling such men “listless, relying upon protection in the British market,” is a fair way of treating them, after educating them to the benefits of that protection; and after checking the manufacturing interests that might have grown up in the colonies, and placed them on a par with the States, for the express benefit of the manufacturing interests of Britain? Men who built vessels, and store-houses, and purchased property in the colonies, upon the faith that England, having established the system of manufacturing for them, would continue that of discriminating in their favour in her markets, have now not only their property in ruin on their hands, but they are abused because it is in ruins. Farmers who, as we have shown, and as no man in America will deny, have worked hard, and have wherewithal to show for it—have achieved that which is no less a credit to themselves than it is to the country they came from—are vilified because they complain that England’s policy, in destroying manufacturing interests in the colonies, has deprived them of a home market such as the farmers of the United States have got; and England’s free-trade system, in destroying so much, and injuring so much more property, in the colonies, has involved them in the general depression and retrogression. The plain English, and the plain truth of the whole matter, is this—that the free-trade leaders of England, having sacrificed the colonies, are desirous of making their former history harmonise with the picture of the injury and ruin they have brought upon them. But we trust that we have established, to the satisfaction of every honest man, what we promised we should—namely, that the attempt is no less unjust and unfair to the colonists, to their industry, and to their perseverance, than it is to the country they came from—its institutions, and its patient, cheerful, and successful labour.

We have dwelt somewhat at length upon this matter; and for two reasons. The first is, because the reiteration of the same, or similar remarks and reflections as those contained in the extract we have made from the Daily News, has given a false impression, both in England and America, of the true state of the Canadas. People, forgetting that they were settled—at least the great province of Upper Canada was—by the very same people who have settled the greater portion of the States, and by whose labour these States have become what they are—people in England, unknowingly or unthinkingly, have been led to associate the inhabitants of the colonies with ideas of listlessness, inertness, and poverty, when, in truth, on the whole continent of America, there is not a hardier or a steadier working people, or a people whose success, independence, and comfort would afford a better example to the poor of Europe. The locomotives by which the farmers of Canada should be judged of, after all, are their waggons and their teams. The bustle which best shows their prosperity, is the bustle of their harvest fields. The business which gives the best proof of success to the world, is that which can show good balance-sheets, and few bankruptcies. Now, before free trade overtook the prosperity of these colonies, we can, with the most perfect safety, challenge any and all America to show a better state of things in all these several branches of their business and interests, than the province of Upper Canada did and could exhibit. We have felt that we owed it to this great province, to this province which might, and we trust will, be made a great right arm of Britain’s power and empire, to say thus much in its defence. We owed it to the manly and hard-working people of England, Ireland, and Scotland, who have settled in it, and whose industry and skill have made many parts of it the very gardens of America, to shield them against the unjust representations that have been sent abroad to the world concerning them, and that have been the more galling, because they have emanated from home and friends. Our other reason for going into this matter so fully, is to ask, at this important juncture, how it is possible to expect that these colonists will or can continue loyal to Britain long, with vilification and detraction thus added to the injuries that they have so unquestionably and undeniably suffered? They point to their vessels lying unused, and rotting in their harbours; and they point to the lands of the province not being taken up as they used to be, and those that are cleared not paying for the labour of tilling them: and they ask themselves, and they ask America, and they ask England,—Why is it so? And all answer—Free trade will not make it pay to clear the lands; free trade will not make it pay to till the lands; free trade has knocked Canadian farming on the head. Yet free trade, upon hearing this, turns round and asserts it to be all false, and says that the vessels are decaying because the Canadians are too indolent to use them, although they have nothing to carry. Free trade says, that the stagnation of the country, and the indisposition of people to settle in it, are owing to the country’s own backwardness, are the result of its inertness; whereas we have shown that its people, of all others on earth, least deserve such injustice and insults at the hands of England. Free trade, when driven—for it sometimes is—to admit that it must inevitably separate Great Britain from her colonies, then turns round, and charges the colonies with being an expense and an injury to England. Yet, after all this, free trade expects the colonies to continue loyal to England. Free trade affects to be shocked at the effects of the storm which itself palpably, and in a thousand ways, sowed. Free trade having sickened, weakened, and struck down the colonies, now literally stands over them, taunting them with the effects of its own medicines, and, at the same time, affects to wonder that they should be sick or depressed.

That these effects of free trade upon the colonies have been foreseen and accurately judged of by the shrewd and far-seeing mind of America, we may show, by quoting the opinions in point of the great leading journal of the New England States. This journal, the Boston Atlas, like many of the leading papers in Britain, is occasionally contributed to by the leading statesmen of the great Whig party in America; and as we happen to know that the article from which we quote was written by a gentleman who commands a wide and powerful influence as a statesman and political economist in the States, his views may be considered entitled to the greater attention in England:—

“We have said that Canada has been deliberately sacrificed; and we have too high an opinion of the intelligence of the British ministry not to suppose that, when they made the sacrifice, they foresaw the probable ultimate result. We do not believe that they will be surprised at the movements which are now taking place, or that they will think of making serious resistance to any step which the Provinces may decide to take—whether it be for annexation or independence—though we have no doubt the latter would best suit their views, for grave reasons upon which we do not now think it necessary to expatiate.

“As matters now stand, Canada is an agricultural State, paying for all the manufactures she consumes in the raw productions of the earth. She has been but a very short time in this position, and yet she already groans under the free-trade experiment. Her wants are the same; but the more timber and corn she exports, the less she gets for them. Instead of growing rich under this beneficent free-trade system, she is every day getting poorer. She has had enough of free trade, and is anxiously seeking some way of escape from it. Such is ever the inevitable result, when the attempt is made to pay for manufactures with raw productions; and the longer it is continued, the worse will be the situation of the agricultural state.

“Can she mend her position by adopting the proposed ‘Remedy?’ If her representatives in parliament happen to be the true representatives of her interests—which is very far from certain—and if they can persuade the government to restore the bounty upon her timber and corn—the answer is, yes. But we see little chance of that, for the situation of Canada is perfectly well known now by that same government; her case has been examined in all its bearings, and she has been deliberately sacrificed to ‘free trade,’—in other words, to the manufacturing interest of Great Britain; and it will take something more than the eloquence of a few Canadian orators, admitted to seats in parliament, to induce that interest to reconsider her case, or to yield a hair’s-breadth to her claims. She has not been sacrificed through ignorance, but because she stood in the way of a great theory. She will look in vain to this source for relief. But if the proposed consolidation should cause British capital to cross the water and set up manufacturing establishments, would not the end be gained? Perhaps so. Of this, however, the chance is small, unless labour is as cheap in Canada as it is in England, which it never can be until the United States, ceasing to afford any protection to labour, become parties to the Free Trade League, and so bring all the labour of North America down to the level of the labour of Europe. Such a suicidal system can never be permanently established here, and, therefore, we look upon this second source of relief as equally visionary with the first.”—Boston Atlas.

We had purposed showing that, in addition to the free trade party in England’s having literally endeavoured to injure and insult the colonies out of their allegiance to their mother country, they have also been educating them, by their speeches in parliament and otherwise, to the same end. But we trust that we have already proved enough to satisfy any man, not unwilling to believe the truth, that if some men in the colonies have fallen from their high estate, they have but taken the course that the free-trade policy of England left open to them; the course that that policy, if not intentionally, at least inevitably, must sooner or later compel them to take. If, therefore, England thinks that those men in the colonies who have looked towards another government have acted unworthily of themselves and of her, let her lay the blame at once on those who compelled them to take to the boats by making the ship no longer a home for them. If their love for their great and glorious mother country has diminished, it is only, and it is solely, because the nutriment which supported the affection has been poisoned by men who have ruled the councils of England. Yet, injured though they were, and galled and insulted though they unquestionably have been, to palliate and to justify that injury, still, we believe that the loyalists would have looked beyond the sway of the free-trade party over England; would have been willing to trust to England’s justice eventually doing justice to them, had it not been for the lessons which we have already referred to as having been diffused by free-trade philosophy with free trade itself. It is the colonists being practically told, that those who ruled the councils of the empire would do the best they could for themselves, and that they must and might do likewise, that made the inroads upon their loyalty. It is the utter absence of the spirit of compromise—of a disposition to make a single sacrifice, or to harmonise a single interest, either to preserve the empire or to save it from humiliation, by the free-trade party of England, that has taught the colonists selfishness sufficient to make them say that they would leave Britain behind for “material interests;” that they too had allowed all memories of the past to be obliterated in the struggles and aspirations of avarice. Let England contrast the conduct of these colonies twelve years ago with what it is now. Let her ask those who have been willing to forego their connexion with her destiny, and the glory and the safety of her protection, what it is that causes them to do so; and they will answer, to a man, it is the teachings and the effects of free trade. These lessons have been falling upon the colonial mind for years, like water upon a rock, and they have worn seams and made impressions upon it, that the swords of many enemies in many years could not have effected.

But we have now arrived at a point when that plain and straightforward question, common to Englishmen to ask, may be put to us—and that is, What is to be done with the colonies, situated as they are? Connected with this, too, is another question, equally necessary to be answered, which is—What is Great Britain likely to lose, in possessions, people, and character, with the Canadas, if she loses them?

With regard to the latter question, which, as it is suggestive of the consequences to be provided against, it may be better to consider before that which is suggestive of a remedy—it seems clear enough to us, that the loss of all the North American colonies would inevitably follow that of the Canadas. The situation of all of them is the same. Free trade has affected them nearly equally; and it is a significant fact, that the agitation upon the subject of “annexation,” without concert, common interests, or agreement, commenced in all the provinces simultaneously, though not to the same extent in some as in others. But, apart from this, if the great province of Upper Canada should take leave of Britain, the following of the others would be as natural as the limbs following the dictates of the head. It is indeed useless to waste words upon a matter that is perfectly self-evident; for if the Canadas separate from Britain, it must and will go forth to the world, that they had to do so in order to prosper; and all the colonies being dissatisfied, and chafing under the same mortifications, and suffering the same injuries from England’s free-trade policy, would claim, upon the same grounds, to be relieved of the withering shadow of her power in America. However uncomplimentary or unjust this may or might be, such will be the opinion of the world, and Great Britain must prepare to meet it, or to counteract what will occasion it. As misfortunes, too, do not come single with a nation more than with an individual, the West Indian possessions would assuredly follow the North American; and would certainly not give any more complimentary reasons for doing so. Great Britain would therefore stand forth before the rest of her colonies and the world, as having utterly and humiliatingly failed to govern those she lost with that success which ought to result from her free institutions, and the freedom of her people. Now this momentous consideration is clearly bound up with that of what she is to do with the Canadas. Now, will Great Britain—by whatsoever cause or policy they may justify their claim for separation, or by whatsoever party in England it may be or may have been favoured—permit the Canadas to shake off her power, with these consequences palpably before her eyes? Will she not the rather prefer coming back to that best of all systems—mutual sacrifices for common good, and mutual concessions for national integrity and destiny? Will she not rather endeavour to impart to them that capital and those people, which would benefit her much, and make them rich indeed? We think so; and we think she will, because we know she can devise a plan for doing so, and for governing them in a manner that will not be attended with the mortifications that have accrued to both the colonists and the mother country, from all former patchings and props to a constitutionally bad colonial system. Thinking this, we shall now proceed briefly to consider—for in the space we have at our command, it would be impossible fully to show—what great Britain would lose, in possessions, by losing the Canadas. In this we shall be obliged to lay under tribute a short but interesting sketch of the Canadas, their value and extent, by the late Charles Fothergill. He spent many years in the colonies; knew them well; and his opinions are those of an intelligent English gentleman, who saw, and made himself practically and thoroughly acquainted with what he wrote concerning

“The Canadas.

“The geographical position of this vast country may be thus generally stated:—It is bounded on the east by the Gulf of St Lawrence and Labrador; on the north by the territories of Hudson’s Bay; on the west by the Pacific Ocean; on the south by Indian countries, which extend to Mexico, and part of the United States of America—viz., Wisconsin, Illinois, Indiana, Michigan, Ohio, Pennsylvania, New York, Vermont, New Hampshire, the district of Maine, and by the British province of New Brunswick. These boundaries describe a large and magnificent portion of the globe we inhabit, large enough for the foundation of an empire, which may become hereafter the arbitress of the destinies of the new world, embracing with her mighty arms the whole width of the great continent of America. Secured in her rear by the frozen regions of the north, and with such a front as she possesses towards the south, it is impossible but that, with the adoption of wise and decisive measures, she must be able, hereafter, to hold a far more potential influence over the countries of the south, than was ever held by the Tartars, (in their best days,) over Asia; or by the northern hordes of Europe over the empire of Rome, at the period of her overthrow. The foundation stone of this empire has been laid by England, and it depends on the wisdom of her councils, and on the loyalty, ambition, temper, skill, industry, bravery, high qualities, and perseverance of the Canadians, no matter of what origin, how far the fairy vision which is kindled up in fancy may be realised.

“We have only to cast our eyes slightly over a map of North America, to be immediately assured of the singularly advantageous situation of the settled parts of Upper Canada. Seated like a gem in the bosom of a country that is neither scorched by the sultry summers of the south, nor blasted by the tardy, bitter, winters of the north; surrounded by the most magnificent lakes, and possessing the most extensive internal navigation in the known world, it would be difficult, perhaps impossible, to find in any other region of the globe a tract of country of the same magnitude with so many natural advantages, as that part of Upper Canada which lies between the Lakes Ontario, Erie, and Huron, and the Ottawa, or Grand River, nine-tenths of the whole extent of which are calculated for the exercise of almost every description of agricultural labour, and with such a prospect of success as, perhaps, no other part of this continent could realise. A part of this tract of country, commencing in the neighbourhood of Kingston, and running westward nearly 500 miles to the Sandwich frontier, by a depth, northward, of from 40 to 100 miles, is, alone, capable of supplying all Europe with grain; besides being rich in cattle, and producing silver, lead, copper, iron, lime, marl, gypsum, marble, freestone, coal, salt, wool, hemp and flax, of the best quality, tobacco and timber of every description, besides furs, game, fish, and many other valuable productions.

Much has been said, at a distance, against the climate of this fine country. Those, however, who have removed to it from Great Britain are agreeably disappointed in finding it more pleasant, (all things considered,) than that which they have left, because it is neither so moist nor so unsettled. It might be said, with no great impropriety, that the present inhabitants of Canada have but two seasons—summer and winter—for winter has no sooner disappeared, which generally happens by the middle of April, than the whole animal and vegetable creation starts into renewed life, with a rapidity and vigour that leaves the season of spring with such doubtful limits as to be scarcely perceptible, or deserving a specific character. Again, in the fall of the year, the months of September and October are generally so fine and summerlike, and these being succeeded by what is aptly termed the Indian summer, in November, (that month which is so gloomy in England, and said to be so fatal to Englishmen,) that we should have great difficulty, were it not for an artificial calendar, in saying when it was autumn. As a proof of the general nature of our climate, and to show that we have other sources of wealth, by the exercise of domestic industry, in store, it must not be here forgotten that the culture of both cotton and indigo has been attempted, on a small scale, in the western district, with success; that the various species of Mulberry, necessary for the growth of silk, flourish under the care of those who have made the experiment in the London and western districts; that vineyards may be advantageously laid out; and the hop is found in perfection almost everywhere. It may be readily supposed that, in such a vast extent of country, every description of soil, and every variety of surface, as to mountains, hills, valleys, and plains, must occur. Speaking of the inhabited parts of Canada, the Lower Province is the most mountainous, and the Upper the most level and champagne; indeed, from the division line on Lake St Francis to Sandwich, a distance of nearly six hundred miles, nothing like a mountain occurs, although the greater part of the country which is passed through, between those places, is gently undulated into pleasing hills, fine slopes, and fertile valleys. There is, however, a ridge of rocky and generally barren country, running south-easterly from Lake Huron, through the Newcastle district, towards the Ottawa, or Grand River, at the distance of from 50 to 100 miles from the northern shore of Lake Ontario, and the course of the River St Lawrence; a ridge which divides and directs the course of innumerable streams, those on one side running to the northward or north-east, whilst those on the other run to the southward, and empty themselves into Lake Ontario or the River St Lawrence. The base of this ridge has an elevation of not much less than 200 feet above the level of Ontario, and it is rich in silver, lead, copper, and iron, and near the Lake Marmora, in white marble. In the neighbourhood of Gunanoque, a beautifully variegated marble of green and yellow is found; and, in the vicinity of Kingston, there is an immense bed of black and also gray marble.

“Farther to the north, beyond the French River, which falls into Lake Huron, are immense mountains, some of them of great elevation. Many of the mountains which describe the great valley of the St Lawrence, are from 2000 to 3000 feet above the level of the river; and that part of the chain which approaches the city of Quebec, on the northern side of the river, is worthy the attention of the geologist; and, in a particular manner, of the mineralogist, from the hope there is every reason to entertain that these mountains yield several rare and valuable kinds of earth for pigments, which may hereafter become articles of commerce. When in Quebec, some years ago, the writer of this sketch was shown several fine specimens, in the seminary of that city, which had been procured in those mountains at no great distance from Quebec; amongst which may be mentioned a rich brown resembling the Vandyke brown of artists; a yellow, equal to that of Naples, and an extraordinary fine blue, of a tint between that of indigo and the costly ultramarine. The subject is mentioned in this place with a view of exciting further inquiry and experiment; because, at present, the artists and colourmen of London are principally supplied with their most valuable pigments from Italy. A scientific gentleman who has lately explored the coast of Labrador, and the Gulf of St Lawrence, was very successful in his mineralogical pursuits, particularly in the neighbourhood of Gaspé, from whence he obtained some new, and many valuable and beautiful specimens of the quartz family—including a great variety of cornelians, agates, opals, and jaspers; several of which have been cut into useful or ornamental articles at Quebec. From Labrador the same gentleman brought several large and beautiful specimens of the spar so peculiar to that coast, and which is commonly known by the name of Labrador spar, of a brilliant cornelian or ultramarine tint, with others of a green, yellow, red, and one or two of a singularly fine pearl-gray colour. These specimens were found at Mingan, imbedded in a rock of granite.

“It may give a just idea of the general richness of the soil to state, that we have frequently heard of instances where 50 bushels of wheat per acre have been produced on a farm, even where the stumps (which would probably occupy one eighth of the surface of the field) have not been eradicated; and, in the district of Newcastle, many examples may be found wherein wheat has been raised on the same ground for 16 or 18 years successively, without the application of manure! The general average of the returns of wheat crops, however, throughout Upper Canada, is probably not more than 25 bushels per acre, owing to the space occupied by stumps, and the indifferent skill of some of the farmers. The winter wheats are found to be the most productive, and they weigh the heaviest: the best seldom exceeds 64 lb. or 65 lb., to the Winchester bushel, although we have known several instances of higher weights.

“Of Indian corn or maize, from 60 to 80 bushels per acre is not an uncommon return; and of pumpkins, of the largest kinds, we have instances of more than a cwt. being produced from a single seed. But there cannot be a more certain indication of the depth and richness of the soil than the fine growth of the timber which it produces; and we have not unfrequently measured particular trees of that species of white oak, which grows in low moist places, and which is usually called swamp oak, that gave circumferences of sixteen to seventeen and eighteen feet, and an altitude of from thirty to forty, and even fifty feet to the first bough. And we have more than once, on the rich lands to the northward of Rice Lake, found white pine trees, that give a diameter of five feet, and altitude of two hundred! These are facts that determine at once the depth, richness, and vegetative power of the soil, since those giants of the forest are not nourished solely by the heavens which they pierce, but also by the earth from whence they spring.

“Vegetation is so rapid in this country, that barley sown in July has been reaped in the second week of September, for several years successively, and on land that was deemed poor and exhausted; and a more abundant crop has been seldom witnessed.

“From every observation and experiment that has been made, no doubt can be entertained of the great fertility of the soil of this fine country. Not only does every vegetable production which thrives in similar latitudes in Europe prosper here, but others, which require either greater heat or greater care, are found to succeed in Canada, without any particular attention. The finest melons and cucumbers are brought to perfection in the open fields, and tobacco is cultivated with success. Even the wild grapes become ripe by the first or second week in September; so that there is every reason to believe, if vineyards were cultivated, the inhabitants of this country might add a variety of choice wines to their list of articles of home consumption, and of foreign trade. We have drunk of wine very nearly resembling, and but little inferior to, that of Oporto, which was made from the common wild grape of the country.”

Now, we have already shown the prosperity that has attended labour in these provinces, and the comfort and independence that is enjoyed by their farmers. Few readers in England—at least it is to be hoped there are few—have not read something of the life and prosperity of the thousands who are annually taking possession of the vast prairies of the western states and the valley of the Mississippi. We have shown that, by the most adventurous and the shrewdest people in the world, the Canadas have been preferred to them. If England had the world to select from, she could not desire a finer country for her poor to prosper in, or for her poor gentlemen to strike out for themselves in, and to work where labour is honoured, and where its rewards are the only titles that the people lay claim to. We have, after some pains and calculation, arrived at the conclusion, that at least five millions of additional inhabitants can, by agricultural pursuits alone, prosper, in a manner unknown in Europe, in the province of Upper Canada; not by the hundreds perpetually toiling for the tens, but by the hundreds having an opportunity, from the prodigious extent of the country, of becoming, by industry and management, the lords of their own, and that an abundant, share of the soil. Now, will Great Britain let it go forth to the world, that she cannot keep her flag floating over this great country in prosperity and peace? We think not. But will she do what may be necessary to make it to her what it ought to be? and make herself to it what she might, and should be? We think she will; and we shall now, in so far as our short space will admit of, point out what the country has suffered from, and what it requires to make it a credit to England, and a support to her power, instead of being a source of mortification to her, and an inglorious field for the employment of her troops.

The country’s whole wants may be comprised in few words. It wants population—not paupers, without industry, or anything left to engraft a manly pride upon; but people that the country is by nature adapted to benefit, and who are by nature adapted to benefit it. It wants capital, nationality, stability in its institutions, and peace.

Now, will the people of England, under the present colonial system, which has from the very first been marked by broils, misunderstandings, and commotions—which have always undermined the credit of the colonies, which are now worse than ever, and which must soon lead to something worse still, (for paroxysms such as they have must change for the better, or the state of the patient will become hopeless,)—will the people of England, then, who have anything to lose, and who wish to live in peace, settle in the Canadas in this state of things; and in this state of hopes, too? We think not.

The same reasons which would prevent people settling in the colonies, would likewise prevent capital being invested in them; so that, under the present system, there can be no rational hope entertained of the colonies having much, if any, capital invested in them.

This brings us to the consideration, then, of this other great and principal want, upon which, in fact, all the others are mainly founded—namely, a nationality and stability in their institutions. We have already, in the October number of the Magazine, pointed out at some length, that these can only be properly and effectually acquired by the colonists being represented in the Imperial Legislature, and raised to the standard, in fact, of British subjects. We have shown—and every event and circumstance that has transpired since has confirmed us in the opinion—that it is only by this that the colonies can be, or, indeed, ought to be, connected with Great Britain. They can never otherwise have the stamp of permanency put upon their institutions. They can never otherwise command that credit in the world which they are justly entitled to. But, above all, they can never otherwise make their property and worth known to England, or to the world, in such a way as to secure that attention to it which is absolutely indispensable to the legitimate prosperity of the country.

We have left ourselves comparatively little space to say much, in addition to what we said in October, upon this great question. It may in the end, however, be mainly resolved into this—Would it be better to have intelligent colonists representing and making known their own interests in Great Britain, than to have incompetent governors sent out to the colonies, to keep them in constant broils among themselves, and in constant collision with the colonial office in England? We are but too well assured that it would be better. And in forming these great colonies into an empire, which Great Britain must do if she does them justice, and which indeed will be done with or without Britain,—the race that inhabits them must, in the very nature of things, be and become what they ought to be. But if Great Britain will but undertake to do so, can any man say that no questions could arise in that empire’s growth and maturity, upon which her wisdom, experience, and mind might not exert a salutary influence? Or can any person, willing to take a broad view of this great question and country, continue in the belief that it should be, or ought to be crippled, or have its growth longer stunted?

Probably one of the most galling circumstances connected with colonial residence and birth, is the constantly seeing and feeling that colonial mind is underrated by England; for no other reason, it would seem, than because it is colonial; or, if there be another reason, it is the no less humiliating one, that England deems the mind of the colonies beneath her attention. Not less injurious, though less disagreeable, is the indifference constantly displayed by England towards the colonies, and the almost universal ignorance that prevails there as to their importance and worth. It was the same with the old colonies. The idea was ridiculed of “clod-hopping colonists” entering the House of Commons, and holding up their heads among the collected wisdom of Great Britain. The unpretending but profound wisdom of Franklin was sneered at and underrated by men as much higher than him in power as they were lower in understanding. The powerful and convincing eloquence of Patrick Henry fell dead upon the English nation; and what has since commanded the admiration of the world for its originality and boldness, was then regarded with cold contempt.

Speaking of what should be the treatment of American mind by England, Adam Smith used the following language; and its complete applicability to the present state of things, shows that great truths lose nothing by long keeping. He said—

“By this representation, a new method of acquiring importance, a new and more dazzling object of ambition, would be presented to the leading men of each colony. Instead of piddling for the little prizes which are to be found in what may be called the paltry raffle of a colony faction, they might then hope, from the presumption which men naturally have in their own ability and good fortune, to draw some of the great prizes which sometimes come from the whole of the great state lottery of British politics. Unless this, or some other method is fallen upon—and there seems to be none more obvious than this—of preserving the importance and gratifying the ambition of the leading men in America, it is not very probable they will ever voluntarily submit to us; and we ought to consider that the blood we shed in forcing them to do so, is, every drop of it, the blood of either those who are, or of those whom we wish to have, for our fellow citizens.”

Before concluding this part of our subject, we cannot avoid comparing the conduct of the American States towards their distant possessions, and the feeling of these distant possessions towards them, with that of Britain towards her colonies, and of her colonies towards Britain. We could perhaps adduce no better argument in favour of what we are contending for; and the example of America is well worthy the attention of a power like Britain, which owes so much of its greatness to its distant possessions, and so many of its troubles and embarrassments to their bad management.

California is between five and six months’ passage from New York round Cape Horn. It is about thirty-five days by way of Panama. It is several months—and the journey is only at certain seasons accomplishable at all—by the south pass of the Rocky Mountains; and it is about forty days by way of the Mexican territory, with many dangers and uncertainties attending it to even well-protected parties—and somewhat of the most hazardous to those who are not protected. Now, these distant possessions of the United States—which are, measuring distance by the time and difficulties attending the journey, at least four times as far as Halifax is from Liverpool—these distant possessions, how are they treated by America? Has their intended application to be received into the Union, and to bear their share of its burthens, and receive their share of its benefits and protection, been regarded as dreamy and utopian? Have the States regarded it as impossible to extend to them their stability, and the conservative elements of their legislation and federal government? Have the States had their misgivings, as to California’s representatives having too much influence in their government? or have the Californians thought the United States’ government would exercise too much power over them? Whatever they have, or have not, thought in this respect, the great consideration of their becoming an integral portion of the United States, of their being identified with their destiny, and borne along with their prosperity, has utterly obliterated all others; and there is no doubt but that in a few years they will bear the same relation to the American Union that Louisiana and Texas do.

Now, what good reason is there why Great Britain should not regard her North American colonies and her West Indian possessions in the same way as the States do California? And why should these colonies and possessions not look to England as the Californians do to the States—and seek, in the same way, to identify themselves with her destiny—to share in her stability—to participate in her glory and greatness—and to enjoy, as far as they merit it, her vast credit?

But it is not alone in the mutual appreciation of each other’s value, by the States and their distant possessions, and their mutual willingness to share in each other’s burthens, and to have an identity of destiny, that these States and their possessions differ from Great Britain and her colonies. The two nations, apart from the views of their respective colonists, differ widely from each other in the most essential point necessary to the beneficial governmental connexion of any country with another, be it empire or colony, or distant far or near. And that difference consists in the people of the United States always becoming thoroughly acquainted with what they are connected with, and thoroughly understanding how that connexion may be rendered advantageous; and in the people of England’s desiring to retain their sway over what they will not take the trouble to understand, and wishing to combine and harmonise their interests with those which they seem, and ever have seemed, determined to be in ignorance regarding. Almost every intelligent inhabitant of the States, at this present moment, has nearly as definite and particular a knowledge of the portions of California that have been explored, as those who live in or have traversed California for themselves. The value of town lots, their situation and eligibility in San Francisco are as well understood in New York and Boston as they are by the man who occupies the next lot to them. There is not a spot where a village might grow up—there is not a place where a mill might be advantageously built—that is not known, marked, and considered, with all its relative bearings and benefits, by thousands in the States, with just as much intention of taking advantage of it, and, from the extraordinary enterprise of the people, with just as much likelihood of being able to do so, as those that are on the spot. The whole country—its towns, its situations for towns, its valleys, its hills, its woods, and its want of woods, its crops, and its climate, are, for all purposes of business, for present and for future advantage to the States, well and universally understood by the mass of the people. Its newspapers, published at the immense distance that San Francisco is from New York and Boston, are largely supported by subscribers in these cities, and by the people in every direction over the vast surface of the United States. The advertisements in them of village lots for sale, are matters of nearly as much interest to Americans as an auction sale of a bankrupt’s furniture and plate would be to a Jew in London.

Now, can it be accounted as other than natural, that the legislation of America should partake of the universality of its mind, and the largeness of its activity and enterprise?—that, California’s interests, situation, extent, and value, being well understood by America, America might wisely legislate for it?—that America might beneficially extend the mantle of her wisdom and experience over it, and infuse the conservative elements of her federal government into it, and raise it as much in the estimation of the world as it benefited it within itself? Hence the desire of the Californians that the flag of the United States should not only represent their protection of California, but their government over it, and their legislation in it, which the world has associated with success and advancement.

Now, for upwards of half a century, there has been an extensive commercial intercourse carried on between Great Britain and her North American colonies. The province of Upper Canada is all that we have described it to be—open to five millions of people to settle and become independent in—open to many more millions of capital being profitably invested in it. The other colonies ever have been, and are, full of opportunities for the successful employment of money and enterprise, and the profitable application of labour. But we would here ask, with such opportunities on the part of Great Britain of knowing the value of these magnificent possessions, has she shown anything of the activity of mind and the universality of enterprise of America? Has she literally done anything where the Americans have done everything, to render these possessions valuable to her—to render them a vast boon to her people, instead of being a perpetual source of confusion and embarrassment to her government? Who has there been in England, with capital ready to invest and enterprise ready to undertake, looking out for valuable mill sites on the magnificent rivers of the Canadas? How many of her capitalists have been looking over the map of the colonies, and inquiring into the richness and value of particular lands, adjacent to a stream, where a village or a town might be formed and grow up? Who in England have been learning the wealth of her colonies in timber, in fisheries, in minerals, and in scores of other things, with the view of profitably employing their capital in them, and making the colonies while they enriched themselves? Few, very few, indeed. Is it not a fact, that thousands in Great Britain, whose capital might be of the vastest use to the colonies, and the colonies the best field in the world for reproducing it, hardly know whether they lie on the north or the south side of the St Lawrence; hardly know whether the cities of Hamilton and Toronto are on lake Ontario or lake Erie; hardly know whether Upper Canada is a cold, inhospitable region, or possesses the bracing, genial, and healthy climate it really has? And though it is now but a ten days’ trip from these colonies to Great Britain, and they possess so many objects of interest and value to her, we believe we might with safety offer a reward to any person who would find in England, apart from government officials, news-rooms, and colonial traders, twelve men who take a Canadian newspaper. Now, is it any wonder that the colonists would like to get rid of a system of colonial government which has been productive of no better knowledge or understanding, for this period of time, of their interests and prosperity than this? Is it any wonder that they feel that they never can, and never will, be appreciated, valued, or benefited as they should, and might, and ought to be, as long as the present system is kept up? Is it any wonder that, knowing their great country—knowing what it is capable of—and knowing what they as colonists should be thought of in connexion with it, they should seek in the parliament of Great Britain to place themselves and their country before the world in the position that they both should occupy?

As pertinent to this view of the question, we may here mention that the facilities of communication between Great Britain and the colonies have now become so great and so perfect, that all the commercial houses of importance in the colonies send home their agents twice a-year to purchase goods. Thus these agents go home in January to lay in their spring and summer stocks. They return to Canada again in the latter end of March, and make their observations of the trade, and help to sell the goods they purchased in England. In July, they go home again to buy their fall and winter stocks, and in October they return to help to assort and to sell them. The agent for the large importing house of Buchanan, Harris, & Co., in Hamilton, at the head of Lake Ontario, has done this for years; and between Hamilton (which is five hundred and ninety-five miles above Quebec) and Liverpool, since the Canard steamers have been running, the time occupied on the journey has not varied two days, the time of performing it averaging but eighteen days. We may add, too, as a singular fact, that we have seen, in a country village six hundred and twenty-five miles above Quebec, fashions worn within the same month in which they first appeared in London!

Now, should these extraordinary evidences of the triumphs of science over matter not teach legislation to move from its old and crippling paths, and to keep pace with the spirit and the advancement of the age? Is it not a fact, pregnant with powerful reasons why the colonies should represent their own interests in the Legislature of Great Britain, that commercial houses find it indispensable to their success to be represented twice a-year in the British markets? Yet the vast property and interests of the colonies are without any representation in that legislature, where alone they can be fostered or withered. We have pointed out the consequences.

Before concluding this paper, it may be expected by the English public, (and indeed by the Americans,) that we should not pass unnoticed a movement in the colonies, which, though it might well have been looked for, from what we have already proved and shown, has still struck the great body of the people of England with surprise, if not with alarm. We mean the movement in favour of the “annexation” of the colonies to the States. It may be proper, in the first place, to say, that though its name would seem to imply that the consent of the government and people of the United States had been solicited and obtained, before the “banns” were published to the world, yet that consent has never been asked, nor was it either promised or given without the asking. The people of the United States are quietly and calmly looking on at the dispute between Great Britain and her colonies, and they are determined to continue so to do until that dispute is settled. The days of their bitterness and hostility to England are over. What they may, or what they would do, if the colonies should be separated from Britain, they reserve to themselves the right of deciding when the colonies are in a position to ask for themselves, and to act for themselves. In this we believe we express the feelings and opinions of the great body of the intelligent people of the American States—certainly we do of the distinguished individual at the head of their government, and of the whole of the respectable portion of the American press. A report may reach England, that a portion of the money which was collected in the States, to aid the late unhappy insurrection in Ireland, has been contributed to establish and support “annexation” newspapers in the Canadas. This report requires confirmation; and if it were even partially true, it would only amount to this, that the “Irish Directory” in New York, who are said to have the money, have been regularly sold; for if they wished to dismember England, there is nothing they could possibly do that would more effectually tend to defeat their intentions. The “annexation” movement rests, in truth, upon the merits or demerits of its own treason, for treason it assuredly is. Authorised by whomsoever it may be—justified, occasioned, or palliated by whatever men or measures, in England or elsewhere—it is clearly a case of attempting to dissolve her Majesty’s empire in the name of “material interests,” being moved and instigated thereto by a certain individual called free trade.

But can this movement go on and prosper, seditious as it palpably is, without establishing a most dangerous precedent for England? And can it be stopped without a waste of life and money, that would bring Great Britain but little credit, and less advantage?

Whatever may be the danger of the precedent, and whatever may be its effects upon other colonies, or upon England herself, it seems clear that a large expenditure of blood and money, to suppress this movement in the Canadas, is neither desirable, nor, in the present temper of the British public, might it be possible. And this movement never could be physically or forcibly put down, without a large expenditure of both these. The men who have deliberately entered into it are not such as could be easily driven out of the land, or frightened out of their convictions in it. They would fight for their opinions, and, considering all things—loyalists disgusted, and Frenchmen in power—they are dangerously numerous.

This brings us, then, to consider what is being done in a conciliatory point of view, by the free-trade party in England—who are answerable for the difficulty—to take the wind out of this “annexation movement’s” sails. This is, according to Lord John Russell’s speech—at the dinner given some months since, for the purpose, it would seem, of discussing colonial subjects—to give them more liberty. Heaven help us! If Lord John Russell saw, as we have seen, liberty recently running clean mad in these colonies; if he saw responsible government playing its “fantastic tricks before high heaven,” with England’s “dignified neutrality” looking on, he would hardly be disposed to give them any more rope. But what is the character of the liberty and privileges they ask? and, being asked, he would give them? The last small instalment they require is, to elect their legislative council; and, thinking that the phantom of Great Britain’s power, called “dignified neutrality,” may be had at a cheaper rate at home, they propose to elect that also—feeling, too, not without justice, that they might thereby neutralise the loss to the colonies of some four thousand pounds annually. But suppose England should waive the privilege of sending out a phantom, and the legislative lords would have, like David Crocket, to go about the country electioneering with a pocket full of quids, pray what, after all this, would be left in the colonies to recognise England by? An Englishman coming to them, like the man in the farce who had been asleep for a century, would find it rather difficult to recognise his relations. But, seriously, what is all this but annexation? And is this the only way the great authors of the colonial difficulties have of keeping the colonies British?—of making them a home for men who seek and who claim to live under the institutions of Britain? Better—infinitely better—would it be to tell men straightforwardly, and at once, that they must feel the iron enter their souls of seeing the flag of their forefathers hauled down on the American continent for ever, than compel them to endure its being thus slowly and gradually disgraced out of it. And this would and must be the inevitable result of Lord John Russell’s giving the colonies more rope.

But what other cause or question is there now before the colonies to put against this “annexation movement?” Of purely colonial questions there are none. Beyond the true and honest hearts which love Britain, despite of all her faults; who would, and will, cling to her, although she has sadly requited their attachment,—she has nothing now to bind her to or to represent her in America. Her institutions are gone; her government has ceased to be respected; Lord Elgin has made her power as “the baseless fabric of a vision.” There is nothing Britain can do; there is nothing Britain ought to do, but to say, emphatically and at once, to her North American colonies—We have not understood you—we have not appreciated you—we have not known your great country as we should have known it—we have not respected your mind or your interests; but we will now make you partners in our great legislature—we will impart to you our credit, our greatness, and our stability—and we will bind you up with our destiny.

Great Britain has a glorious part to play in America; and she has a disastrous one. She has but a short time to decide upon which she will play.

Hamilton, Canada West, Jan. 17, 1850.

(POSTSCRIPT.)

The very day on which I last wrote you, we received a London morning paper, containing an announcement that the Whig ministry were prepared to give up these colonies, and to take upon themselves, before parliament, the responsibility of the act. Though it seemed unlike that party—whatever they might privately think, or whatever they might plainly see must be the inevitable result of their present free-trade policy—to take so bold, or rather, so frank a step, yet the articles which have appeared from time to time in the Times, and which bore on the face of them an air of authority, had prepared me to attach some credence to the statement. These, after all, may be put from the cabinet as feelers upon the country. They may be but a disingenuous ruse of men who do not seek to regulate their conduct by what they ought to do from the dictates of enlightened principle and great national consideration, but are anxious only to float along with the current of popular delusion, regardless of the nation’s humiliation and dismemberment. It is my belief, however, that if the present ministry, backed by Mr Cobden and the Manchester party, play into the hands of those here who are struggling to dismember the empire, it will produce a civil or social war in the colonies. There is a large body of their British and loyal inhabitants who will cling to Britain, and keep her flag floating here; and who will, if necessary, part with their lives ere they part with it. It is possible—nay, is it not certain?—that Sir Robert Peel, and other statesmen, who have plainly and undeniably placed the colonies in a situation incompatible with imperial connexion,—may throw out such hints and suggestions in the approaching session of parliament, as will agitate and move the colonies to their very heart’s core,—one party to secure a majority in favour of their “annexation” to the States, the other to prevent the dismemberment of their mother country? Sir Robert Peel and others have thrown out such suggestions before; but, under existing circumstances, if they are again put forth, they will be regarded by the “annexation movement” party as an invitation to test the opinions of the colonies—to proselytise them, as in fact they are now doing, into insurrection, and away from allegiance to Britain. Meetings will follow; the stars and stripes will be hoisted by one party; the flag of their forefathers by the other; and, take my word for it, you will hear of struggles of which God only can tell the end, and what they may lead to here and elsewhere. Certainly the world will never have witnessed such a scene. The statesmen, the cabinet even of Britain playing into the hands of those who would tear down her flag in America; and her loyal children supporting it against the influence of many who are, and have been, surrounding the throne.

A long residence in the colonies, and a habit of observing, unbiassed by colonial party considerations, the character and tendencies of men and measures, have enabled me to judge, with some accuracy, of the effects of causes not generally supposed to be pregnant with important results. At this moment there are, in my judgment, the slumbering elements of a deadly strife in the colonies. There is but a small remove between a civil revolution and a physical struggle. The seeds of the national and revolutionary hurricane are often sown in the peaceful closet, and by men who could weep over the thought of what they would produce. The seeds of a wild and fearful hurricane in the colonies, and which must and will reach England, may be now sowing in many a peaceful closet in England. Mr Cobden may talk of peace, and denuding Britain of her national defences, and convincing men against all humanity’s experience; but he must be, he should be, made aware, that he has not made Britain, and may not be allowed to unmake her. He has not added these colonies to her crown; and while he may be in words twaddling about universal peace, his very speeches may be sowing the seeds here of a deadly struggle. Let him beware; let others beware of the vanity of free-trade success. The wisdom of the Manchester school has not been that which has made Great Britain. Let its vanity and its arrogance not ruin her. If it arms treason here—if it wings a storm, from which England may learn much, it may be taught to feel what it has done. The demagogues of Athens succeeded in banishing the great and the just, but they did not succeed in destroying greatness or justice—these are immortal. The free-trade party may denude Britain of her glorious possessions in America, but these possessions may be the rising, growing, unending shame of those who caused their loss, and the generation of Britons who permitted it.

Hamilton, 30th January 1850.

A LATE CASE OF COURT-MARTIAL.[1]

“Surely never was so slight a fault visited by so severe a punishment!” Such is the exclamation which will fall from the lips, or pass through the mind, we believe, of every one who shall peruse Mr Warren’s Letter to the Queen on a Late Court-Martial. The reader of that letter will also rise from its perusal with the painful conviction, that, in the awarding of this heavy punishment, a gross violation of one of the most ordinary and fundamental laws of jurisprudence has been committed; and he will probably conclude with Mr Warren, that if this be a fair specimen of the lax manner in which justice is administered in courts-martial, some reform is necessary in their structure, or, at all events, some higher court of appeal ought to be instituted for the revision of their proceedings.

We have read this admirable letter of Mr Warren’s with unusual interest. As a literary performance it well comports with, and sustains the established reputation of its author; but it reflects a high honour upon him of another and loftier description than that which springs from literary excellence. It shows him in the light of a warmhearted, zealous champion of one whom he believes, and with every appearance of reason, to be an oppressed and injured man. He had assisted Captain Douglas at his trial before the court-martial, on which he now comments, as his legal adviser; he had done his duty as counsel for the defendant, so far as such a court admits of the aid or interference of counsel; he had no interest to promote, and no obligation to fulfil, by any further advocacy of his cause. Captain Douglas had been condemned; the great authorities of the Horse Guards had sanctioned and confirmed the sentence: a cautious man, and a lover of his ease, would here have parted company. He would have shaken his mournful client by the hand, and, with some cold unmeaning words of condolence, have left him with that troop of summer friends, who have, no doubt, by this time, found him a most uncompanionable man. The world was now against him; to volunteer his defence was to oppose constituted authorities; it was to side with weakness against power—with defeat against triumph. It was to stand side by side with one in adversity—stricken, and condemned. But caution and love of ease are evidently motives that have very little influence on the mind of Mr Warren. As the counsel of Captain Douglas, he had grown warm in his defence; he could not suddenly cool when he saw him prostrate, defeated, and dishonoured. He was convinced of the innocence of his client; he felt persuaded that it was in his power to show to all mankind that that client had been cruelly dealt with—treated with a degree of harshness amounting to injustice. His position of counsel had also given him insight into the whole legal proceedings of this court-martial, which betrayed to his practised eye a palpable infraction of one at least of those essential rules by which every tribunal of justice ought to be governed, or cease to be considered a tribunal of justice. He knew all this, and the truth burnt within him; he could not sit down in silence; he could not at once dismiss his sympathy and indignation—his sympathy for an injured man, his indignation for the rules of justice violated. He had ceased to be the advocate of Captain Douglas, but he still clung to his cause, for it was the cause, he was persuaded, of truth and justice.

“Only a great and pressing exigency,” he thus explains himself in the eloquent exordium of his letter, “could have induced one of the humblest of your Majesty’s subjects to step forth from his obscurity, and thus publicly and directly address your Majesty. Even had he not known, however, the benignant and equitable temper of his sovereign, a case like the present would have forced him to bring it forward; for the voice of justice is a sublime one, strengthening the feeblest, and elevating the humblest, who, hearing, endeavours to obey it.

“He who has thus ventured to beseech the ear of his sovereign, believes in his conscience that the cause of justice in this country has recently sustained, through a defective system of military jurisprudence, a calamitous defeat.

“An officer, an accomplished gentleman, of ancient and honourable family, in the very flower of his age,[2] after having devoted thirteen years to the faithful and zealous service of your Majesty in almost every quarter of your world-wide dominions, has been ignominiously expelled from that service, branded as a Liar. He stood on trial before his brother officers with as high vouchers to character, as could have been presented, had it unfortunately been rendered necessary by such a casualty as has befallen him, by any one of themselves. He was, moreover, the eldest son of a general officer who lately descended to his grave with honour, after half a century spent in the service of three of your Majesty’s predecessors; leaving behind him, as his eldest son, the unhappy gentleman to whose case I earnestly implore the attention of your Majesty....

“That gentleman I believe to be, at this moment, one of the most deeply-injured men in your Majesty’s dominions. He has been convicted of misconduct of which he is utterly incapable; and I consider that conviction to be altogether contrary to law and justice, and to have proceeded upon an unconscious violation of cardinal and characteristic rules of British jurisprudence, essential to the safety as well as to the liberties of your Majesty’s subjects. And what has thus happened to Captain Douglas may happen to any other gentleman who is now, or may be hereafter, honoured by bearing the commission of your Majesty. I think myself able to bring forward facts which are incontrovertible, and reasonings which appear, if I may be permitted to say it, conclusive—and that not to myself alone, but to others whose judgment, were it publicly pronounced, would be deemed entitled to the utmost deference—to establish the innocence of one, upon whose brow, nevertheless, stands at this moment, and has stood for eight miserable months, the brand of ‘infamous and scandalous conduct.’”

He then proceeds to say that her Majesty alone has the power to redress the wrong of which he comes forward to complain.

“In the present case, the blighting sentence passed upon Captain Douglas cannot be reviewed in any court of law. It was solemnly decided, in your Majesty’s Court of Queen’s Bench, on a late occasion, that it had no power to issue a prohibition to restrain the execution of the sentence of a court-martial, after that sentence had been ratified by the king, and carried into execution. And yet, in the existing state of the law, the unfortunate accused has no means of knowing the sentence which has crushed him, until it has been so ratified, carried into execution, and thus declared therefore irrevocable! And that sentence, too, pronounced by a court of law, bound to proceed according to the law of the land—which law it may have violated in every particular!”

It is hardly necessary to say, that the military law under which our army has been governed, ever since the Revolution, is as completely founded upon the statutes of parliament as any other branch of our jurisprudence. A less technical mode of procedure is recognised as prevailing in courts-martial, than that which regulates our civil or criminal courts. But there is nothing of an arbitrary nature in the sentences they pass. These are determined, so far as this is possible, by the act of parliament. A judge of the bankruptcy court is not more bound by the statute, when he grants or withholds the bankrupt’s certificate, than are the judges of a court-martial when they sentence a fellow-officer to be cashiered. Let it be granted, therefore, that Captain Douglas had so far committed himself, in the course of the events we shall have to record, that it was expedient to bring him before a court-martial. Let this be granted—an opinion, however, from which many will dissent—when there, he claims justice! He is under the protection of the law. He is not to be punished with undue severity; he is not to be punished illegally.

It is probable that Mr Warren will be thought to have been carried a little too far, in his vindication of Captain Douglas’s conduct, by his generous zeal and by the ardour of advocacy. It would be asking too much to require that he should suddenly assume towards his late client the coolness of a quite impartial observer. But whilst his argument is that of an advocate, and is something too much tainted with the logic of the courts of Westminster, his statement of facts is full and impartial. He may be a too zealous advocate, but he is a candid historian. It is hardly necessary to add, that, whenever occasion legitimately permits, he is a very pleasant and graphic historian.

We do not intend that our account of this case should be a substitute for the perusal of Mr Warren’s pamphlet; we desire rather to prompt to such a perusal. It is far, therefore, from our design to enter upon all the topics it discusses. But the case is one to which, on public grounds, we would cheerfully assist in calling public attention. In doing so we shall endeavour, in the first place, to state, with perfect impartiality, the real and sole offence, or fault, or error, of which it seems to us Captain Douglas can be justly accused; and, in the second place, to show with what illegal severity this offence has been visited. On the first of these topics, we shall, perhaps, be in some slight degree at variance with our author; on the second, we shall fully accord with him in his main and leading argument: for we think there cannot be a doubt that the judgment of this court-martial is vitiated—not by any merely technical error, but by an error affecting the very justice of the sentence—by no less an error than the finding a man guilty of an offence of a certain degree of guilt, and condemning him to a punishment expressly and solely awarded to an offence of a far greater degree of criminality—finding him, in short, guilty of the crime A, and inflicting the penalty decreed only to the crime B.

The life of military men in time of peace presents, as we catch a glimpse of it here, no very attractive picture. Captain Douglas in barracks at Longy, in the island of Alderney, with one subaltern, Ensign Parker, is commanding his detachment. Lieutenant-Colonel Le Mesurier is commanding at Alderney, under the title of Town Major. Between these rival potentates disputes arise as to their respective jurisdictions. Instead of companionship, assistance, co-operation, there is only mutual repulsion, mutual hostility.

In this cheerless position of affairs, Captain Douglas “went one day—on Friday the 5th January—about twelve o’clock, for a little amusement, to practise pistol-firing, at a spot near the Frying-Pan Battery, as it is called, which was at a distance of two or three hundred yards from the barracks where he resided. This happened to be the first and only time of his using firearms during his stay in the island. No one but himself, indeed, knew even the fact of his possessing firearms. He ordered his servant Riley to procure some potatoes, and to follow him with them, and the pistol-case, (which, however, Riley did not know to be such, nor for what purpose the potatoes were required,) to the Frying-Pan Battery.”

These circumstances are mentioned to account for the scanty testimony which Riley afterwards gave; it being supposed that he had withheld evidence to serve the interest of his master. And certainly it is a little difficult to believe that Patrick Riley, who was a soldier as well as the servant of Captain Douglas, did not know what the pistol-case contained, or for what purpose he carried it and the two potatoes to the battery. We continue the narrative in the words of Mr Warren, which we should be very unwise not to adopt, wherever it is in our power to do so.

“Captain Douglas proceeded to make a target in the wall opposite, which faced the sea—by putting a potato into the centre of an open piece of newspaper, and then thrusting it into a crevice in the wall. This he did to make the mark at which he intended to aim more distinctly visible. He had selected this particular spot for his practice because it was retired and safe. It was entirely hid from the view of the sentry, or any of the men on guard at the barracks.... After firing about twenty or thirty shots, every one of them at the target in question—standing all the while with his back to the sea, and against the rampart, and at which stood the pistol-case and potatoes—he saw Mr Parker approaching. It was a few minutes before one o’clock when he got there. Having fired two shots, both at the same target at which Captain Douglas had been shooting, he went down by a somewhat precipitous descent to the beach, which lay about forty feet immediately below them, accompanied by his dog—intending to amuse himself for a few minutes by throwing stones into the sea, and sending his dog after them; and also desirous of ascertaining whether a hole, which had caught his eye in descending, was that of a rabbit or a rat.”

Amusements were scarce at Alderney.

“Neither Captain Douglas nor Mr Parker’s attention was called to the circumstance of their harmless pistol practice, on the 5th January, till about three or four o’clock on the ensuing Monday afternoon—the 8th January. During the interval, Captain Henderson had arrived from Guernsey; and he, Mr Parker, and Captain Douglas were walking together towards the town, when they met Mr Bains, (a medical gentleman.) After the ordinary salutations, Captain Douglas asked him, ‘What news was going on in the town?’ To which Mr Bains answered, laughing, ‘Nothing new, since your sport with the bulls of Bashan at Longy;’ and he proceeded to say, to the surprise of Captain Douglas and Mr Parker, ‘that he understood a bullock had been shot at or near Longy.’ Captain Douglas replied with a smile, ‘You surely don’t mean to say that I am charged with having had anything to do with it?’—‘Indeed you are,’ said Mr Bains—‘and you will find the constable at your quarters about it, on your return! But it is true, is it not, that you and Parker were ball firing there?’—‘Yes, we were practising,’ replied Captain Douglas unhesitatingly; ‘but I know nothing about the bullock.’ After some other observations, Mr Bains, who knew the position in which Colonel Le Mesurier and Captain Douglas stood towards each other, said with a smile, ‘Colonel Le Mesurier has gone up to look at the bullock.’ To this observation Captain Douglas made a brief sarcastic answer; and shortly afterwards Mr Bains left them.

“The three officers, after continuing their walk for some time longer, separated, towards five o’clock. Captain Henderson went to Corblets barracks, to dress for dinner, both he and Mr Parker being engaged to dine that evening with Captain Douglas; who, with Mr Parker, walked towards Longy, expecting to meet with the constable spoken of by Mr Bains. As they went, they conversed on the subject of his communication, remarking how oddly circumstances seemed to favour the notion that, if a bullock had really been shot, it must have been by them; and they also adverted to the fact of Colonel Le Mesurier having already become acquainted with the matter, and what could have been his object in going to see the carcase of the animal. After some consideration they agreed that it would be better, under the circumstances, not to admit the fact of their having been firing, but leave it to be proved by those who seemed disposed to charge them with having shot the bullock.”

Here was the fatal error. In this resolution, and the acting on it, lies the whole moral offence, fault, or delinquency of Captain Douglas. Not to admit a fact, when questioned on it, is so close upon a denial of the fact, that no human ingenuity can keep them long separate. His concealment of an act perfectly innocent was construed into a denial of that act: it could not well be otherwise, for an evasive answer, which serves the purpose of concealment, must be understood by the party who receives it as a denial, or it no longer serves the purpose of concealment. Yet an evasive answer of this description is permitted by men of the strictest honour in a thousand instances, and is only visited with moral opprobrium in those cases where there is an imperative claim upon the conscience to tell the whole truth. No such imperative claim can be made out in the present case. We admit, however, that it was an error. The better rule is never to resort to an evasion unless there are very strong reasons for so doing. We admit that the adopting of, and persisting in, this policy, or rather this impolicy, of concealment, was here to some extent blameable. But we can detect no base or dishonourable motive leading to it. The worst motive we can divine, is a certain love of a tortuous policy by which some ingenious persons are afflicted. They like finessing, and will introduce into the common affairs of life, much to their own and other people’s embarrassment, what they would describe as a diplomatic dexterity.

The constable, Renier, on the same afternoon, made his appearance at the house of Captain Douglas. There is much controversy as to the import of the question which he put to Captain Douglas; whether, when he asked him, “If he knew anything about it?”—he referred to the shooting of the bullock, or the firing on the battery. It is plain, from the circumstances of the case, that both these matters were inextricably mixed up in the mind of the constable; for he came to inquire of the shooting of the bullock because of the firing on the battery; and into the firing on the battery, because of the supposed shooting of the bullock. There is no wonder, therefore, that a man, not accustomed to analyse his own ideas, should, in giving his evidence before the court, sometimes state one, and sometimes the other, as the object of his inquiry. But it is equally plain, from the very nature of the case, that whatever was stirring in the mind of the constable, his first question to the Captain would be, whether he knew anything about the death of the bullock. He would never have thought of coming to the barracks to ask an officer whether he had been practising with his pistol, without showing in the first place that he had grounds for making what otherwise would be a very impertinent inquiry. We feel ourselves, therefore, quite justified in adopting here the statement of Captain Douglas. According to that statement, Renier asked him “if he knew anything about shooting the bullock?” He answered “No,” as he well might. For it is to be understood at once, and distinctly, that Captain Douglas had nothing whatever to do with the death of the bullock, and knew nothing about it. But, unfortunately, the dialogue between them did not stop here. It will be remembered that Captain Douglas had made use of a piece of a newspaper, the Times, to form his target. This newspaper bore his own name and address on it. The constable added—“That a Times paper had been found near the spot, with Captain Douglas’s name upon it.” This remark could have reference only to the question—who had been firing on the battery? And to this remark Captain Douglas replied—“Possibly so; there were plenty of his papers about; they went all through the barracks and into the town, and he had five or six a-week.” With this answer the constable departed.

The next day a civil court was held, presided over by Judge Gaudion, to inquire into this affair of the death of the bullock. Captain Douglas was summoned to attend. A number of witnesses were examined, whose testimony it is not necessary for our purpose to enter into. Mr Bisset, the owner of the animal, who had connected its death with the firing heard upon the ramparts, produced a number of flattened bullets, broken percussion caps, and pieces of a newspaper addressed to Captain Douglas, which had been found upon the battery. After the judge had asked Captain Douglas whether he had any knowledge who had shot the bullock, and had received the decisive and truthful answer, that “he had not,” he proceeded—pointing to some pieces of newspaper lying on the table—to put the following question: “Can you account for the Times newspaper to your address having been found in the battery, perforated evidently by ball practice?” To which Captain Douglas answered, “I am not accountable for my papers, as they travel through the barracks and into the town.”

This absurd policy (for so we should characterise it) of concealment is adhered to, and with these unfortunate pieces of the Times newspaper lying before him! His answer is understood as a denial of having been practising with his pistol on the battery, and there are those tell-tale fragments “evidently perforated with ball.” It is inconceivably absurd. He is getting into a scrape, and raising a scandal in the little island of Alderney, for no intelligible motive whatever.

Mr Warren here defends the conduct of his late client on the legal principle or maxim, that no man is bound to criminate himself. He stood there in a court of justice “virtually as an accused party;” the court throws its shield over persons in such a position, cautions them, and would protect them even against their own indiscretion. Captain Douglas was fully justified in availing himself of this well-known privilege—in evading and warding off a question which he could not answer without supplying evidence against himself.

Mr Warren will forgive us if we smiled, for a moment, at this instance of the inveterate habits of the lawyer, overpowering the natural shrewdness and sagacity of the man. This legal argument is manifestly inapplicable, and for this simple reason: in the circumstances of the case, there is nothing sufficiently grave—no impending charge of sufficient magnitude—to induce or warrant, in any reasonable man, a departure from, or a concealment of the truth, or any tampering with his honour. If the evasive statement of Captain Douglas be considered as tantamount to a denial, and if that virtual denial be considered as in some degree dishonourable, there can be no shelter for him in this maxim of law, because the fear of a false accusation of having accidentally shot a bullock, would not be accepted, by men of honour, as an excuse or justification.

If Captain Douglas had really shot the bullock, he would have been still more completely under the shelter of this legal maxim—and his equivocation would have been a ten times more heinous offence.

As Mr Warren repeats this argument more than once, it may be worth while to state, in general terms, wherein its fallacy lies. A person is tried before a court-martial, which partakes of the nature of a court of honour, for a departure from, or a concealment of truth, considered to be dishonourable to a gentleman. It is no sufficient answer to plead the privilege which courts of law throw around a witness, unless you show at the same time that, in his case, such a privilege could be taken advantage of without any derogation to his character as a member of society. A very little reflection will satisfy us that the permission granted by courts of law to the accused party, or to a witness, to deny or withhold the truth, may or may not be a valid excuse in the moral judgment of society—may or may not be such a permission as it would be honourable to accept.

A man is tried for his life on the charge of murder, or high treason. He pleads not guilty. Although he is in fact guilty, the most honourable and fastidious portion of society add nothing to their reprobation of the accused on account of this plea. The code of honour or of moral opinion, and the rule of the court of law, are not at variance.

But nothing is easier than to imagine cases in which they would be at variance, and at variance in all possible degrees, from slight difference to complete opposition. The accused is being tried on a false accusation for murder. Titus is a witness. He can by his evidence establish the innocence of the accused, but in giving that evidence he will reveal his own guilt. The court allows him to be silent where his answer to the question would criminate himself. And here, too, the opinion of society would probably coincide with the rule of the court,—yet not entirely; many would censure the witness, many would excuse, none would cordially approve.

Let us now suppose that Titus is innocent, but, in giving his evidence, he must confess some fact which will excite a strong suspicion against himself. Here the number of those who would justify his silence would greatly diminish. Suppose now that the suspicion which would be raised against him, was of a slight character, one which might be easily removed; suppose that by his evidence alone could the accused be saved from the unjust condemnation that hung over him; add to all this, that the accused and innocent party was the friend of Titus, and had been his benefactor—and now this witness, “not bound to criminate himself,” has become the object of execration to all mankind.

This legal maxim is but one of many rules which courts of law, or the legislature, enact for the better administration of justice,—rules which cannot be so framed as to be strictly consentaneous, or identical, with the rules of morality. One who owes a just debt takes advantage of the forbearance of an indulgent creditor, and pleads the statute of limitations. The court admits the plea, puts it in his mouth, justifies him for the use of it. But the use of it has dishonoured him for life.

To return to our case. Mr Bisset, the owner of the bullock, still associating its death, most erroneously, with the firing heard on the battery, published a newspaper paragraph in the Guernsey Comet, headed DISGRACEFUL AFFAIR! in which suspicion was thrown upon Captain Douglas and Ensign Parker, and which terminated with the offer of “A REWARD OF TWENTY POUNDS, to be paid to any one giving information sufficient to convict the party or parties who were shooting at the Frying-pan Battery on Friday the 5th January, between the hours of twelve and three P.M.

Mr Bisset also laid his complaint before Major-General Bell, the commanding officer at Guernsey. That officer wrote to Captain Douglas, requiring his explanation of the affair. A great part of the letter referred distinctly to this pistol-firing on the battery. Now then, the reader is prepared to say, Captain Douglas will surely lay aside this needless and silly piece of diplomacy, this concealment of a perfectly innocent act, which is only strengthening suspicion against him. If he could permit himself to trifle with Judge Gaudion, and the petty civil court at Alderney, he will not trifle with his superior officer; he will not run the risk here of being thought to equivocate. Nearly a month had now elapsed since the first visit of Constable Renier. Time had been given him to reflect: and Captain Douglas did reflect. Ensign Parker lets fall in his evidence that he wrote two letters in answer to this communication, and pondered some time which he should send. In the one, he frankly avowed having been firing with his pistol on the battery, whilst he utterly denied the accusation of having shot the bullock; in the other, he adhered to his policy of concealment, confined himself to a denial of the main accusation, and left all that part of the letter relating to the firing on the battery virtually unanswered. He pondered which of the two he should send; but the genius of diplomacy prevailed,—he sent the second!

Major-General Bell, as might be expected, was not satisfied with such a reply. He instituted a military Court of Inquiry, consisting of Colonel Le Mesurier, Captain Cockburn, and Captain Clerk, with instructions “to ascertain whether any person or persons, belonging to the garrison, were engaged in firing with ball, within or immediately adjoining Longy Lines, on the day and within the hours specified in several of the documents laid before them.” It was not till the evening of the second day on which this court had sat, that Captain Douglas seems to have had his eyes opened to the perilous manner in which he was compromising himself. On the evening of that day, he wrote a letter to Judge Gaudion, stating the whole and simple truth with regard to this pistol-firing; and the next morning, he repeated the same statement before the military Court of Inquiry. The confession, it seems, came too late to save him from the consequences of his unwise, needless, and pertinacious concealment of an act in itself perfectly innocent. It was thought a case sufficiently grave to bring before a court-martial.[3]

It will be seen and acknowledged at once, that we have not attempted to screen Captain Douglas from the degree of blame which an impartial judge would throw upon his conduct. If the court-martial had reprimanded Captain Douglas, we should have thought the penalty sufficiently severe, but neither we, nor perhaps others, would have been disposed to dispute the propriety of the sentence, or, at least, to call public attention to the case. But, for this offence, the court has sentenced Captain Douglas to be cashiered!

This sentence—to enter now upon our second topic—is not only cruelly severe, it is illegal, it is unjust. Our readers need not fear that we are about to involve them in the technicalities of jurisprudence. It is no technical matter we have to deal with, but broad principles of justice. Mr Warren has, indeed, raised a class of legal objections against the verdict of the court-martial, grounded on its refusal to admit certain evidence. On these objections we shall not enter. To us it appears that the president of the court exercised his power in this matter, in general, very discreetly. But, on these objections, we wish it to be understood that we give no opinion. We pass at once to what we deem a fatal error in this verdict—an error, not of form, but of substance; an error which constitutes it to be an unjust judgment.

Captain Douglas was tried upon the following charge,—“for conduct unbecoming the character of an officer and a gentleman.” Of such conduct he was found guilty. Now, the article of war under which he was arraigned, and the only one under which his offence, by any fair interpretation, could fall, is the 80th, and runs thus:—“Any officer who shall behave in a scandalous, infamous manner, unbecoming the character of an officer and a gentleman, shall, on conviction thereof before a general court-martial, be CASHIERED.”[4]

The penalty, under this article, is peremptorily that of cashiering. A less punishment the court is not competent to pronounce. The article has for its express object the removal from the service of officers who are convicted of scandalous and infamous behaviour.

“There is no provision,” says Mr Warren, “in the Articles of War, for the cognisance of unofficer-like and ungentleman-like conduct, divested of a tendency to prejudice good order and military discipline, (so as to bring it within Article 108,) in any degree less than that involving infamy and scandal. In the year 1801, an officer was charged before a General Court-martial with scandalous and infamous conduct, unbecoming the character of an officer and a gentleman. The Court acquitted the prisoner of ‘scandalous and infamous behaviour,’ but considering his conduct, nevertheless, as ‘unbecoming the character of an officer and a gentleman,’ adjudged him to ‘be suspended from rank and pay for six calendar months.’ His Majesty King George III. declared the adjudication irregular, and disapproved the sentence, ‘inasmuch as the Court had acquitted the prisoner of the only imputation which could bring the business as a charge before them—namely, of any scandalous and infamous behaviour in the transaction.’ In another case, which happened in 1814, in India, an officer was tried by General Court-martial, on the charge of ‘scandalous and infamous conduct, unbecoming the character of an officer and a gentleman,’ in two instances. The Court acquitted him of the first, but found him guilty of the criminal acts charged in the second instance; acquitting him, however, of ‘scandalous and infamous conduct, unbecoming the character of an officer and a gentleman.’ The Commander-in-Chief, Earl Moira, declared that ‘he regarded the Court as having returned a verdict of acquittal generally, and directed the officer who had been convicted to return to his duty.’ His lordship observed that ‘the Court, in declaring that the criminal act proved against the prisoner did not come within the description of ‘scandalous, infamous, and unbecoming the character of an officer and a gentleman,’ had divested itself of all power to award punishment, except inasmuch as the acts might be considered to come under the above specific definition.’ In the present case, the Court could not have acquitted of scandalous and infamous conduct, because it was not charged.”

The charge quotes a portion of the very words of the article. But that this portion can be separated from the rest of the sentence, and made to designate a distinct, substantive offence, would be a monstrous supposition. The whole stress, the whole meaning lies in the words “infamous and scandalous;” but because there may be scandalous and infamous conduct, which does not fall under the cognisance of a court-martial, it is added as a further definition, that it must be such misconduct as affects the character of an officer and a gentleman.[5] The article of war intends to describe such conduct as would make a man scandalous and infamous amongst his fellow-officers.

Suppose it were thought fit to frame similar rules for the medical profession, and one of these declared, “That any one who shall behave in a scandalous and infamous manner unbecoming the character of a physician and a gentleman, shall, on conviction thereof, be expelled from the profession,” would any one in his senses think it sufficient to adopt the last qualifying phrase, “unbecoming the character of a physician and a gentleman,” as descriptive of an offence which, under this rule, would incur an expulsion from the faculty? Why, it might be thought “unbecoming” a physician to break rude and silly jests upon his patients, (as a late celebrated character is accused of doing,) but not for such offences, we presume, would any one imagine that expulsion from the profession was provided.

But we shall be told that the proceedings of a court-martial are not fettered by the same strict rules which preside over the record in a court of law. This is very true. It is sufficient if the offence is substantially indicated. Perhaps it will be argued that these words, “unbecoming of an officer and a gentleman,” must be taken as a part for the whole, and that the charge was essentially for scandalous and infamous behaviour.

If so, the court has placed itself in the following dilemma, from which we do not see any possibility of escape:—Either the charge is to be understood as substantially for scandalous and infamous conduct—and, in that case, who will venture to assert that the evidence supports so heinous an accusation?—who will venture to assert that the concealment or equivocation proved against Captain Douglas was that falsehood, that sort of lie, which stamps a man as scandalous and infamous, and drives him from the society of gentlemen? Or (which is the plain common-sense view of the case) the charge is what it professes to be—for “unbecoming” conduct—it is this charge which is present to the minds of the members of the court-martial—it is on this he is tried, of this which he is convicted; and then, after being found guilty of this all but venial offence, he is visited with the punishment of a far heavier one—for behaviour which would make him scandalous and infamous amongst his brother officers.

We repeat, this is no technical argument—it is gross, palpable injustice—as palpable injustice as if a man were tried for manslaughter, convicted of manslaughter, and hanged for murder!

If we ask why the Court awarded so severe a sentence as cashiering on so trifling an offence, we shall be told that the Court had no power to pass any less sentence than that which is decreed by the article of war. We admit the reason. But surely if the Court was bound to inflict the severe sentence decreed by the article of war, it was bound to convict of the crime specified by that article. The court-martial which tried Captain Douglas was scrupulous in passing the right sentence, was not scrupulous in determining whether the crime had been committed for which alone that sentence is by law awarded.

Mr Warren concludes his “Letter” by some suggestions for the reform of our military law. These appear to us to be worthy of consideration. But legal reforms are grave and intricate matters; we would not give a hasty opinion on them; we would recommend them to the consideration of our jurists, and the whole pamphlet to the perusal of our readers. They will also probably find it far more entertaining than, from our meagre abstract of the case of Captain Douglas, they will expect. There is one subject which occupies a considerable space, and which, to the generality of readers, will form the most attractive portion of the “Letter,” to which we have made no allusion. We refer to a narrative of facts, which show the hostile attitude in which Colonel Le Mesurier and Captain Douglas stood towards each other. It is a little history we could not possibly abridge, and which did not appear to us as absolutely necessary to an intelligible view of the case. This narrative will be read with interest, affording as it does a glimpse into real life, and showing us what very animated contests and controversies a few officers may contrive to while away their time with, even in the dull quiet island of Alderney. It is well told, with graphic but subdued power. Conscious that the author of one of our best and most popular novels would be watched on such an occasion, and readily suspected of employing his art as a consummate narrator, Mr Warren has abstained from producing any startling effects; he has, at least, used no other than that highest art which conceals art. We have left the whole of this portion of the pamphlet fresh and untouched, for the perusal of the reader.

In the account we have given of this really very important case, we have not been able to mention the numerous points on which Mr Warren dwells for the exculpation of his client. We have been compelled to content ourselves with the impression which the whole narrative, after careful and unbiassed perusal, left upon our own minds. We are utterly unable to imagine, for the conduct of Captain Douglas, any worse motive than what we have described as a somewhat too diplomatic taste, as a want of a perfectly straightforward manner of speech. We see in his conduct a very palpable error in judgment, but we are quite at a loss to fix upon anything which deserves to be characterised as dishonourable—anything like such infamous and palpable falsehood as ought to drive a man with disgrace out of the service.

When we turn from the conduct of Captain Douglas to the sentence passed upon it, we are utterly amazed at its egregious disproportion and flagrant injustice. There is an article of war framed for the express purpose of ridding the service of scandalous and infamous persons. In order to bring the case of Captain Douglas under this article, he is first arraigned for “unbecoming conduct,” and by a very severe construction found guilty of this charge; and then these comparatively mild and harmless expressions are found to be equivalent to “scandalous and infamous conduct.” Why, if this be law, if this is a precedent, that article of war should henceforth be read thus,—“Whoever is guilty of unbecoming conduct shall be cashiered.” And what a terrible instrument of injustice such an article of war might be converted into, it is quite unnecessary to insist upon. If any officer should have made himself unpopular at the Horse Guards, or amongst his fellow-officers, no matter by what line of conduct, by being worse or better than the general and approved standard—it would be strange if his enemies could not fasten upon some act they could pronounce “unbecoming,” and thereupon expel him from the service with disgrace and infamy.

A FAREWELL TO NAPLES.

I.

A glorious amphitheatre, whose girth
Exceeds three-fold th’ horizons of the north,
Mixing our pleasure in a goblet wide,

With hard, firm rim through clear air far-descried;

Illumined mountains, on whose heavenly slopes,

Quick, busy shades rehearse, while Phœbus drops,

Dramatic parts in scenic mysteries;

Far-shadowing islands, and exulting seas

With cities girt, that catch, till day is done,

Successive glances from the circling sun,
And cast a snowy gleam across the blue:—
A gulf that, to its lakelike softness true,
Reveres the stillness of the syren’s cell,

Yet knows the ocean’s roll, and loves it well;

A gulf where Zephyr oft, with noontide heat

Oppressed, descends to bathe his sacred feet,

And, at the first cold touch, at once reviving,

Sinks to the wings in joy, before him driving
A feathery foam into the lemon groves;—
Evasive, zone-like sands and secret coves;

Translucent waves that, heaved with motion slow,

On fanes submerged a brighter gleam bestow;

Fair hamlets, streets with odorous myrtles spread,

Bruised by processions grave with soundless tread,

That leave (the Duomo entered) on the mind

A pomp confused, and music on the wind;

Smooth, mounded banks like inland coasts and capes,

That take from seas extinct their sinuous shapes,

And girdle plains whose growths, fire-fed below,

In bacchanal exuberance burst and blow;

A light Olympian and an air divine—

Naples! if these are blessings, they are thine.

II.

Thy sands we paced in sunlight and soft gloom;

From Tasso’s birthplace roamed to Virgil’s tomb.

Baia! thy haunts we trod, and glowing caves

Whose ambushed ardours pant o’er vine-decked waves.

Thy cliffs we coasted, loitered in thy creeks,

O shaggy island[6] with the five gray peaks!

Explored thy grotto, scaled thy fortress, where

Thy dark-eyed maids trip down the rocky stair,

With glance cast backward, laugh of playful scorn,

And cheek carnationed with the lights of morn.

The hills Lactarean lodged us in their breast:

Shadowy Sorrento to her spicy rest

Called us from far with gales embalmed, yet pure;

Her orange brakes we pierced, and ranged her rifts obscure.

Breathless along Pompeii’s streets we strayed
By songless fount, mosaic undecayed,
Voluptuous tomb, still forum, painted hall,

Where wreathed Bacchantes float on every wall;

Where Ariadne, by the purple deep,

Hears not those panting sails, but smiles in sleep;

Where yet Silenus grasps the woodland cup,
And buried Pleasure from its grave looks up.
Lastly, the great Vesuvian steep we clomb;

Then, Naples! made once more with thee our home.

We leave thee now—but first, with just review,

We cast the account, and strike the balance true—

And thus, as forth we move, we take our last adieu.

III.

From her whom genius never yet inspired,
Or virtue raised, or pulse heroic fired;
From her who, in the grand historic page,
Maintains one barren blank from age to age;
From her, with insect life and insect buz,
Who, evermore unresting, nothing does;
From her who, with the future and the past

No commerce holds, no structure rears to last:

From streets where priests and jesters, side by side,

Range the rank markets, and their gains divide;

Where faith in art, and art in sense is lost,

And toys and gewgaws form a nation’s boast;

Where Passion, from Affection’s bond cut loose,

Revels in orgies of its own abuse;
And appetite, from Passion’s portals thrust,
Creeps on its belly to its grave of dust;

Where Vice her mask disdains, where Fraud is loud,

And naught but Wisdom dumb and Justice cowed;—

Lastly, from her who planted here unawed,

’Mid heaven-topped hills, and waters bright and broad,

Lacks heart to gather, and lacks strength to bear,

From these, one impulse of the free and fair;
And, girt not less with ruin, lives to show
That worse than wasted weal is wasted woe,—

We part; forth issuing through her closing gate,

With unreverting faces, not ingrate.

BARBARIAN RAMBLES.[7]

That great geniuses meet, is a saying almost as ancient as the twin rocks that give a title to Mr David Urquhart’s latest literary production. But not often is the same country visited and described, within the short space of two years, by two such distinguished persons as the member for Stafford and the author of Monte-Christo. For the honour of their presence, the shores of Barbary and Andalusia are indebted to the chapter of accidents. “I did not visit Morocco or Spain on any settled plan. I was on my way to Italy by sea, and, passing through the straits of Gibraltar, was so fascinated by the beauty and mysteries of the adjoining lands, that I relinquished my proposed excursion for the explorations which are here recorded.” Thus far the Celt. Hear the Gaul’s reply to the Bey of Tunis, when questioned as to the motive of his African excursion,—“I answered, that I had the honour to be known to the king and princes of France; that I had the misfortune to be on tolerably bad terms with the father, but the happiness to stand pretty well with the sons; that one of these sons, of whom he (the Bey) had doubtless heard speak, and who was dead—M. le Duc d’Orléans—had more than once deigned to call me his friend; that another son, still better known to him than the first,—M. le Duc de Montpensier—had inherited his brother’s friendship for me, and had invited me to his wedding, which had just taken place at Madrid; that, being at Madrid, I desired to push on to Algiers, and, once at Algiers, I felt unwilling to quit Africa without saying a prayer upon the tomb of St Louis, who was, as he surely knew, a great marabout; that I was on my way to perform this duty, when I heard that he did me the honour to expect me, whereupon I hastened to pay him my respects.” Such trivial causes lead to great results! To the Montpensier marriage is the Bey of Tunis indebted for an interview with the first of French novelists, and the European world for the narrative of his African travels. We hesitated before associating the two books that form the theme of this article. We feared to rouse M. Dumas’ indignation, by coupling him with an author whom he, with his usual supercilious disesteem of things British, will probably set down as un pédant Ecossais. On the other hand, we thought it possible so grave and erudite a person as Mr Urquhart might consider his labours slighted, when linked with the playful superficialities of Le Véloce; and from this apprehension we were relieved, only upon finding him quote his French cotemporary’s Spanish tour with an air of greater approval than he usually bestows upon the works of recent writers on Spain. For it is not the most amiable of his peculiarities, that his references to brother travellers are generally censorious. He seems to have vowed opposition and animosity to all who have rambled and written over the same ground as himself. Blanco White, George Borrow, Richard Ford, and various others of less note, in turn come in for correction or a sneer. The last-named is particularly ill-treated. “To Mr Ford’s book, however disagreeable the task, I had intended to devote a special chapter; but, understanding that the two volumes are, in the second edition, reduced to one, I must infer that the author has anticipated my conclusion,—that the work might be made valuable by cutting out the slang, ribaldry, opinions, and false quotations.” Should The Pillars of Hercules reach a second edition, either condensed, or in its present diffuse form, we advise its author to cut out this passage, or at least to correct its discourtesy and exaggeration. So harsh and unjust a verdict drives us to the inference that, owing to some mental idiosyncrasy of Mr Urquhart’s, the chief merits of the book he decries altogether escape his perception; and that, whilst dwelling upon an occasional error—pardonable in a work embracing so great a variety of subject, and such a mass of detail—and condemning those opinions that are so unfortunate as to differ from his own, he totally overlooks the racy humour, the happy illustrations, the felicitous exposition of Spanish foibles and characteristics, the intimate knowledge of the country and its customs, which place the author of the Handbook and Gatherings amongst the very highest authorities respecting modern Spain. But we need not take up the cudgels for Richard Ford, whose works will stand upon their own bottom, and whose acute and pungent pen is quite able to defend his literary offspring, should he think it worth his while, even against his present formidable assailant.

There can be no doubt about the disappointment of those persons who open The Pillars of Hercules in expectation of finding what the title promises—a narrative of travel in Spain and Morocco. These countries are certainly mentioned here and there in the two bulky octavos, but quite subordinately to a variety of other matters which had perhaps better been treated elsewhere than in the professed book of travels they cumber and overload. Mr Urquhart, who has published volumes and pamphlets on innumerable subjects, social and political, foreign and domestic, appears to have had by him a heterogeneous mass of essays and dissertations, which he has now strung, pretty much at random, upon the slender thread of his Spanish-African ramble. Wearisomely discursive and desultory, he continually canters off to distant regions, and to subjects foreign to his text. Thus we have a chapter on the invention and antiquity of glass; another concerning the magnetic needle; a third and fourth, in which we are taken to America, Ceylon, China, and other remote places; one about the celebrated drug hashish, which temporarily transports its votaries into paradise. This is presently succeeded by a dissertation on buttered muffins; and shortly thereafter we arrive at a long essay on the early races of Spain and Mauritania, which we take for granted to be exceedingly learned and important, and which we are quite sure is awfully heavy and uninteresting. Etymology is a hobby of this author’s, and the portions of his work devoted to it would, of themselves, make a good-sized volume, by whose separation the book would be greatly lightened and advantaged. On the subject of corporal purification he grows positively eloquent and impassioned; and so minute are his descriptions of the scrubbing and scraping processes, by which alone men become fit to live, that he very rightly deems a prefatory apology essential. On this head more anon. We pause, for a specimen of solemn trifling, at Chapter Nine, Book the First, Volume the First. Nominally an “Excursion round the Straits,” it is actually an essay on costume, commencing with Spanish petticoats, giving a passing glance to the history and origin of lace, asserting the identity of the Moorish and Highland garb, and closing with an argument in favour of the importance and moral influence of a national dress. The chapter opens with praises of Cadiz, a city so long accustomed to rhyme with “ladies,” that it will hardly feel surprise or annoyance at Mr Urquhart’s attributing its charm less to the beauty of its buildings than to the “swarm of women,” with “fluttering eyes,” and “silk blonde tresses,” covering the floor of the cathedral. From tresses to dresses the transition is easy, and he proceeds to discourse upon the mantilla: not a very novel subject certainly, but one upon which he, nevertheless, contrives to cast some new lights—lights that would, we suspect, rather dazzle and astonish the amiable Gaditanas, whose habits and habiliments he professes to describe. Whilst stigmatising as “a bagged hood” the most graceful and elegant description of mantilla—that, namely, composed entirely of lace, and which is in fact the only kind worn by the higher classes of Spanish women—he informs us that “in windy weather the mantilla is secured against the cheek by the tip of the fan.” We laugh horribly as we summon up, at this conjuror’s bidding, a procession of mantilla-draped dames and damsels tripping the Alameda on a breezy day, each one of them with the extremity of her fan poked into her dexter jaw. Spanish women know better how to use that active little instrument of flirtation. Passing over these and other slight absurdities, we arrive at the hair-dressing department. Here Mr Urquhart is at first rather puzzled. But he will not be baffled, and goes to the very roots of the capillaries. “The hair is dressed in two styles. One is called sarrano. The only explanation I could get for this name was, that sierra means mountain, and that the mountaineers dress in this way. But neither does it seem to be the style of the sierra, nor does the word sarrano mean mountain: there is, indeed, no such word in Spanish.” When ascertaining this last fact by reference to his dictionary, it is strange that our traveller did not stumble upon the word “Serrano, subs. mountaineer; adj. pertaining to mountains,” and which is, in fact, the very word applied to the style of head-dress in question, his ear having doubtless misled him as to the e and a. This guides us to two derivations. First, the one furnished him by the natives, that the style in question is or was particularly affected by the dwellers in the Andalusian sierras, as it still is by the mountaineers of Catalonia. A second explanation may be found in the form of the comb that accompanies this mode of head-dress, (but of which Mr Urquhart makes no mention,) and whose turreted or dentated crest, rising full four inches perpendicularly from the crown of the head, may have suggested the term serrano, by its elevation and imaginary resemblance to a row of hill-tops. But such interpretations as these are far too simple and vulgar to suit Mr Urquhart, who loves to journey by roundabout roads, and would make, like Monkbarns, a Roman sacrificing vessel out of a kail-supper’s ladle. He bores and proses away till he proves, quite to his own satisfaction, that “sarrano head-dress means neither more nor less than Tyrian head-dress. Such an etymology is by no means far-fetched.” Certainly not, when compared with others scattered through the book, although even this one may be considered rather tiré par les cheveux: and, moreover, the whole fabric is overthrown by the word proving to be serrano. But the hunting after derivations is a passion with Mr Urquhart, and leads him to the unearthing of affinities which nobody else would suspect. We confess ourselves so overwhelmed by the flux of erudition, by the multiplicity of languages brought to bear, and by the extraordinary etymons assigned to words with which they have nothing visible in common, that we resign ourselves to believe in Urquhart, and are prepared to admit, at his dictation, the old derivation of cucumber from Jeremiah King as perfectly valid, and consonant to all received laws. So fond is the honourable gentleman of this grubbing for roots, that, when once he stumbles on a derivation, he goes on through a whole alphabet of them; like a child who, having begun to run down hill, is unable to stop till it reaches the plain, or falls exhausted by the road-side. We doubt if many of his readers will share the avidity with which he pursues his dry and long-winded investigations, which would be more in place in a dictionary of derivations than in a narrative of travel.

Our intention, in bringing Messrs Dumas and Urquhart into juxtaposition, is by no means to compare them, or to exalt either at the expense of the other. Their books form the strongest possible contrast. In one respect only do they agree—in a propensity to ramble from their subject. We have hinted at the crotchets that lead the Highlander from his track; the Frenchman strays in quest of the dramatic and romantic, and is beguiled by his prodigious vanity into the most divertingly egotistical details. The one is an eccentric dogmatist, full of crotchets, but unobtrusive of his individuality; the other never loses sight of himself, nor will suffer his reader to do so. He is always in the foreground of the picture, the chief character on the canvass, the hero of his own comedy; or, if for a moment he retires from the foot-lamps, it is that their light may shine upon his son and heir, Alexander the younger, a grand garçon blond, and one of the half-score artists and literati who compose the suite of the illustrious Monte-Christo. When the travellers arrived at Cadiz, in November 1846, Mr Dumas junior was suddenly discovered to be missing. Fascinated by the bright eyes of a Cordovan maiden, he had given his friends the slip. Although somewhat uneasy, his father contented himself with detaching one of his staff in quest of the truant, and went on board the war-steamer Véloce, which had been placed at his disposal by the Minister of Public Instruction. Some of our readers may remember that, about three years ago, this circumstance gave rise to a discussion in the French Chamber, when some doubt was thrown upon the fact of M. Dumas being intrusted with a government mission. This seems to have annoyed the distinguished dramatist, who repeatedly refers to the subject, gives a copy of his passport and of certain official letters; and upbraids M. Guizot, whom he at last, however, magnanimously forgives, declaring he has forgotten his name. He then protests against the envy of which his eminent position has rendered him the object, and concludes his remarks, made in a tone of dignified and chastened indignation, with the following striking passage:—“The steamer thus placed at my disposal has made me more enemies than Antony and Monte-Christo, which is saying not a little. It was in 1823 or 1824, I believe, that Sir Walter Scott, being then in bad health, expressed a wish to make a voyage to Italy. The English admiralty placed its finest frigate at the disposal of the author of Ivanhoe; and England applauded, and the two houses of parliament applauded, and the very newspapers clapped their hands approvingly. And it was well done; for, for the first time perhaps, the flag with the three leopards was saluted in every port of the Mediterranean by the enthusiastic acclamations of the people. Were those acclamations for the flag, or for the man of genius it sheltered? for the unknown captain of the frigate, whose name I never heard, or for Sir Walter Scott? True, I may be told that I am not Sir Walter Scott; but to this I reply, that it is the great misfortune of living men in France not to know what they are, so long as they are living.”

How very good is this quiet assertion of merit and anticipation of posthumous appreciation by an ungrateful country. “The steamer,” continues the possible future rival of Scott, “was granted me—be it as a matter of favour, or as an act of justice; and Government consented to expend for me some sixteen thousand francs’ worth of coal. It is right the world should know that this voyage, which caused such an outcry, cost the Government sixteen thousand francs. Just half what it cost me!” A paltry eight hundred napoleons! Can France regret it, when applied to the service of her brightest literary ornament? Let her read the Véloce, and take shame for her shabbiness. Astride upon his fiery charger, the giant commenced his cruise. Need we say that all eyes were upon him as he boarded the steamer, and that he took by assault the hearts of the entire ship’s company, whom he seized an early opportunity to convince that his skill was as great with the fowling-piece as with the pen. “The Véloce was surrounded by a flock of sea-fowl; on approaching the vessel, desirous to give our future companions a specimen of my dexterity, I fired my two barrels at a brace of gulls, both of which fell. The yawl pulled to pick them up; and, after this brilliant feat, we proceeded triumphantly to the steamer.” This is the first and least considerable of a series of “brilliant feats” of the same kind, recorded by M. Dumas of himself in the pages of Le Véloce. At Tangiers, his first landing-place in Africa, he goes out shooting, and encounters an Arab, the first he has seen. This meeting furnishes a chapter—a sort of parody of scenes in Scott and Cooper, the parts of Robin Hood and Leatherstocking by M. Alexandre Dumas. He has just shot a small bird, when the Arab appears and doubts his having killed it on the wing. A trial of skill ensues between the Parisian and the Bedouin, the former promising the latter, who is unwilling to waste his powder, six charges for every one he fires away. The Arab fires at a plover and misses. M. Dumas brings down a snipe. The Arab smiles.

“‘The Frenchman shoots well,’ he said; ‘but a true hunter uses not shot, but a ball.’ The janissary translated his words to me.

“‘’Tis true’ I replied; ‘tell him I quite agree with him, and that, if he will fix upon a mark, I engage to do what he does.’

“‘The Frenchman owes me six charges of powder,’ quoth the Arab.

“‘True again,’ I replied; ‘let the Arab hold out his hand.’ He held it out, and I emptied into it about a third of the contents of my flask. He produced his horn, and poured in the powder to the very last grain. This done, he would evidently have been well-pleased to depart; but that would not answer the purpose of Giraud and Boulanger, who had not yet finished their sketches. Accordingly, at the first movement he made,

“‘Remind your countryman,’ said I to El-Arbi-Bernat, ‘that we have each of us to send a bullet somewhere, whithersoever he pleases.’

“‘Yes,’ said the Arab. He looked about and found a stick, which he picked up, and then again set himself to seek for something. I had in my pocket a letter from one of my nephews, employed on His Majesty’s private domain: this letter reposed peaceably in its square envelope, adorned with a red seal; I give it to the Arab, suspecting he was looking for it, or for something like it. The letter was the very thing for a target. The Arab understood at once; he split the end of the stick with his knife, stuck in the letter, planted the stick in the sand, and returned to us, counting twenty-five paces. Then he loaded his gun. I had a double-barrelled rifle, ready loaded; an excellent weapon, made by Devisme: in each of its barrels was one of those pointed bullets with which one kills a man at fifteen hundred metres, (an English mile; well done, M. Dumas!) I took it from Paul, its usual bearer, and I waited.

“The Arab took aim with a care which showed the importance he attached to not being vanquished a second time. He fired, and his bullet carried off a corner of the envelope. Masters of themselves as Arabs generally are, ours could not restrain a cry of joy as he pointed to the rent in the paper. I made sign that I saw it perfectly well. He addressed to me a few animated words.

“‘He says it is your turn,’ interpreted the janissary.

“‘Certainly,’ I replied; ‘but tell him that in France we do not fire at so short a distance.’ I measured fifty paces. He watched me with astonishment. ‘Now,’ said I, ‘tell him that, with the first shot, I will hit the target nearer the centre than he has done; and with the second I will cut the stick that sustains it.’

“In my turn I took a careful aim; I had not come to Africa to leave a wrong prospectus; and, having declared my game, I was bound to play it well. The first ball sped, and broke the seal. The second followed almost immediately, and cut the stick. The Arab threw his gun on his shoulder, and walked away, without claiming the six charges of powder he was entitled to. It was evident he felt crushed under the weight of his inferiority, and that, at that moment, he doubted of everything, even of the Prophet. He followed the circular road along the beach, leading to Tangiers, and reached the town, I am certain, without having once turned his head. Two or three Arabs, who in the meanwhile had crossed the Oued, and who had witnessed the trial of skill, departed as silently, and almost in as great consternation, as their countryman. All Morocco was humiliated in the person of its representative.”

Mr Urquhart and Mr Dumas each made some stay at Tangiers, but, as will easily be understood, they employed their time very differently, and have scarcely an idea in common on the subject. The one talks politics, dissects languages and makes antiquarian investigations; the other, after the shooting match above detailed, and some rather high-flown attempts at description of scenery, goes fishing and boar-hunting, attends a Jewish wedding, and purchases half the stock in trade of David Azencot, an honest Israelite, and a wealthy dealer in sabres, burnous, scarfs, lamps, chibouks, and a thousand and one other Moorish curiosities. The Scot is didactic and dull; the Frenchman frivolous, but amusing. Of course they both visit Gibraltar, and devote a chapter to that remarkable fortress; and here we must say that M. Dumas carries it hollow, as far as pleasant tone and good taste go. As is customary with him, he is flippant and good-humouredly impertinent; but he shows himself grateful for a hospitable reception, and does not rake up old stories to the disadvantage of the dead. He begins with the notable discovery that Gibraltar has a foggy atmosphere. The English, he says, being used to a fog in their own country, have manufactured one, by the help of sea-coal, upon the coast of Spain. The English, he affirms, strive against and vanquish nature herself. “They have produced dahlias that smell like pinks, cherries without stones, gooseberries without grains, and they are now rearing oxen without legs. Behold, for instance, those of the county of Durham; they have but one joint, and walk almost upon their belly. Soon they will have no joints at all, and will walk quite upon their belly. Thus it is with the fog. There was no fog at Gibraltar before it belonged to the English; but the English were accustomed to fog, they missed it, and they made it.... On entering Gibraltar, I felt that I quitted Spain. Tangiers, which we had just left, was much more Spanish than Gibraltar. Hardly had we passed the gate, when we were transported into England. No more pointed pavements, no more latticed houses and green jalousies, no more of those charming patios, with marble fountains in the midst of the shops: but clothiers, cutlers, armourers, hotels with the arms of Great Britain, flagged footpaths, fair women, red officers, and English horses. Tom Thumb had lent us his boots, and each step we had taken from the deck of the Véloce had carried us seven leagues. We entered a restaurant. We ate raw beefsteaks, sandwiches, butter, moistening them with ale and porter; but when, after breakfast, we asked for a glass of Malaga, they were obliged to send out for it. On the other hand, the tea was irreproachable.” This is a very fair skit on the Englishman’s habit of carrying his country’s usages into climates for which they are totally unadapted. Although feeling, according to his own account, far from at his ease in this British military colony, of whose warlike aspect and regulations he sketches a ludicrous caricature, M. Dumas would not leave it without paying a visit to the governor; and, lest the anonymous lady to whom his African letters are addressed should be unable to comprehend this unusual (?) desire on his part to make the acquaintance of those in high places, he beguiles the time, till the governor returns from his ride, by telling the story of Lavalette. No matter that it has been pretty often told; related à la Dumas, that is to say, with a superabundance of detail, it covers a few pages, and explains his wish for an interview with the English general. “Sir Robert Wilson, a magnificent old man, sixty-six or sixty-eight years of age, who still breaks his own horses, and rides ten leagues every day, gave me a charming reception. I was so imprudent as to express my admiration of some Moorish pottery-wares upon his sideboard, and I found them in my cabin on returning to the Véloce. If anything could have induced me to remain another day at Gibraltar, it would have been the pressing invitation Sir Robert Wilson was kind enough to give me. Impressed with a lively sentiment of admiration, I left this noble and loyal-hearted man. May God grant long and happy days to him, to whom another man was indebted for long days of happiness.” All his admiration of Lavalette’s saviour was insufficient to detain him in Gibraltar, which he declares himself to have quitted with as strong a sensation of relief as Napoleon’s ex-aide-de-camp can have felt when, thanks to Sir Robert Wilson’s chivalry, he safely set foot across France’s frontier. French and English are now well used to each other’s jocular sarcasm, and are never the worse friends for it, because it is the interest of both to remain in amity. There is no venom in M. Dumas’ playful satire, which one glances over with a smile, quitting it with regret for the croakings of Mr Urquhart. This gentleman has some very peculiar notions respecting Gibraltar, whose restoration to Spain he strongly advocates, and to whose retention by Great Britain he ascribes a frightful catalogue of evils, including sundry European wars, fifty-five millions sterling unprofitably sunk, and the undying hatred of Spain towards this country—bringing no less a witness than Napoleon to the truth of this last assertion. The fifty-five millions are “suggested as a rough guess” at the actual outlay; and besides them, we are assured, hundreds of millions have been spent on wars entailed by our possession of Gibraltar. All this is too vaguely put, seriously to challenge argument or refutation; and as to the “undying hatred,” why, the anti-English party in Spain may occasionally bluster about the hole in the national honour, and so forth; but the great majority of the nation never bestow a thought upon the matter, and the smuggling portion of the community—no uninfluential class—find Gibraltar exceedingly convenient for their contraband traffic. But Mr Urquhart’s statements on this head are very loose, and some of them very fallacious; and he attains the climax of absurdity and misrepresentation when he says, that “the fiscal regulations of Spain, which sustain this (contraband) traffic, would long since have fallen but for its (Gibraltar’s) retention by England. We therefore lose the legitimate trade of all Spain, for the smuggling profits (which go to the Spaniards) at this port.” The sort of jingle of plausibility in these sentences will impose only upon persons profoundly ignorant of the subject. The assertion is made in the teeth of notorious facts, and is opposed alike to truth and to common sense. The more difficult, dangerous, and expensive smuggling could be rendered, the less would be its injurious effect on the Spanish revenue, and the less likely would be a reduction of duties. The smuggling facilities afforded by Gibraltar, by the Portuguese frontier and the Pyrenean line, (Mr Urquhart, it has been seen, wholly ignores the two latter channels, and lays the high-duty system entirely at the door of Gibraltar,) have, by limiting the custom-house receipts to the merest trifle, contributed, more than any other cause, to fix the attention of the Spanish government on the advantage to be derived from reductions in their monstrous tariff—reductions which the last four months have beheld carried out, although as yet but to an exceedingly limited extent. This subject, however, has of late been so fully discussed in our pages that we shall not here pursue it further, particularly as it is evident that Mr Urquhart has still to become acquainted with its rudiments. It were more amusing, although scarcely more profitable, to dwell upon a subsequent chapter, where, reverting to Gibraltar, the honourable gentleman tilts at its late governor, and raises the Russian bugbear—a goblin which he would doubtless always manage to evoke, in whatsoever part of the world he chanced to find himself. In portentous italics he tells us as how “a Russian steam-vessel of war was admitted to the quay of her Majesty’s vessels to get coal, which was furnished her from the royal stores, while French men-of-war were allowed no such indulgence; on departing she was saluted by the fortress with twenty-one guns! This I witnessed with my own eyes, and heard with my own ears. The assembled crowd said, ‘Es loco’—‘he is mad.’” Is Mr Urquhart certain to whom the crowd’s exclamation referred? His pet crotchet is by this time pretty generally recognised; and even his best friends, and a few partial admirers, cannot choose but smile at the tenacity of his monomania, and at the moonshine illumination he throws upon Russian designs and their British abettors. Truly he is a dead hand at a mare’s nest. With a scuttle of coals and a blank cartridge, he would build up a powder-plot, and talks darkly and ominously about “the system of government (in England) by secresy and intrigue.” We do think, however, he would have done more gracefully to let Sir Robert Wilson alone. “Since the above was written,” he says, “Sir Robert Wilson has disappeared from the scene. I do not on that account suppress what I have written, as I have not brought any charge against him.” No new charge; but he has revived and dragged forth an old one, wellnigh forgotten under the moss of years and the laurels of the departed veteran. It is no generous hand that will approach, otherwise than kindly and with reverence, the memory of the gallant soldier of the Peninsula, the brave defender of Portugal, the stout fighter by Dresden, of whom it has so truly been said, that “he ever was foremost where danger was to be encountered or glory won.”[8]

Totally dissimilar in character as are the two works under examination, the transitions from the one to the other are yet astonishingly easy. Thus Mr Urquhart’s Muscovite nightmare leads us, in the most natural manner possible, to a tale of a cotton nightcap, related by his witty contemporary. At Tunis, M. Dumas was quite confounded by the prevalence of this unpoetical but comfortable head-dress, which he constantly met with in the streets and on the quays. Puzzled at its naturalisation in a clime so remote from its native country, (an honour which he claims for France,) and being of an inquisitive turn of mind, he instituted inquiries, and received for explanation an anecdote, which we shall here transcribe, as nearly as possible, in his own phraseology. We feel that we neglect Mr Urquhart, and ought by right to give precedence of extract to his muffin-investigation; but really the nightcap story is much more amusing, and quite as important, although it may possibly owe more to its narrator’s imagination.

About twenty years ago, according to M. Dumas, under the reign of a former Bey, a ship bound from Marseilles to Gibraltar, with a cargo of cotton nightcaps, was driven by a gale into Tunis roads. At that period a duty was levied on vessels availing themselves of the port of Tunis; and this duty, depending on the caprice of the Raïa-marsa, or captain of the port, was very arbitrary. The Marseilles captain was naturally subjected to this impost; still more naturally the Raïa-marsa fixed it at an exorbitant sum. There was, however, no alternative but to pay: the unlucky speculator in nightcaps lay beneath the paw of the lion. With the loss of part of his skin, he slipped between the beast’s claws, and ran to throw himself at the feet of the Bey. The Bey hearkened to the complaint of the Giaour. When he had heard it, and had satisfied himself that the amount of extortion had been rightly stated by its victim, he said:—

“Do you desire Turkish justice or French justice?”

After long reflection, the Marseillese, with a confidence that did honour to the legislation of his native land, replied:

“French justice.”

“’Tis good,” replied the Bey; “return to thy ship and wait.”

The seaman kissed his highness’s papooshes, returned to his ship, and waited. He waited one month, two months, three months. At the end of the third month, finding the time rather long, he went ashore, and watched for the Bey to pass by. The Bey appeared: the captain threw himself at his feet.

“Highness,” said he, “you have forgotten me?”

“By no means,” replied the Bey; “you are the captain of the French ship who complained to me of the Raïa-marsa?”

“And to whom you promised justice!”

“Yes; but French justice.”

“Certainly.”

“Well, of what do you now complain?”

“Of having waited three months for it.”

“Listen,” said the Bey. “Three years ago your consul treated me with disrespect; I complained to your king, claiming justice at his hands, and three years have I waited for it: come back in three years, and we will see.”

“The deuce!” exclaimed the captain, who began to understand; “and is there no means of abridging the delay, your highness?”

“You asked for French justice.”

“But if I had asked for Turkish justice?”

“That were different: it had been done you on the instant.”

“Is it too late to change my mind?”

“It is never too late to do wisely.”

“Turkish justice then, highness—grant me Turkish justice!”

“’Tis good. Follow me.”

The captain kissed the Bey’s papooshes, and followed him to his palace. Arrived there: “How much did the Raïa-marsa exact from you?” inquired the Bey.

“Fifteen hundred francs.”

“And you consider that sum too large?”

“Highness, such is my humble opinion.”

“Too large by how much?”

“By at least two-thirds.”

“’Tis just; here are fifteen hundred piastres, making exactly a thousand francs.”

“Highness,” said the captain, “you are the balance of divine justice,” and he kissed the papooshes of the Bey, and was about to depart. The Bey stopped him.

“Have you no other claim to prefer?” he said.

“One I certainly have, highness, but I dare not.”

“Dare, and speak.”

“It seems to me that I deserve compensation for the time I have lost, whilst awaiting the memorable decision your highness has just pronounced.”

“’Tis just.”

“The rather,” continued the captain, emboldened by the Bey’s approbation, “that I was expected at Gibraltar in the beginning of the winter, which is now over, and the favourable season for the sale of my cargo is past.”

“And of what does thy cargo consist?” demanded the Bey.

“Highness, of cotton nightcaps.”

“What are cotton nightcaps?”

The captain took from his pocket a specimen of his goods, and presented it to the Bey.

“For what purpose is this utensil?” said the latter.

“To cover the head,” replied the captain. And joining example to precept, he put on the nightcap.

“It is very ugly,” quoth the Bey.

“But very comfortable,” retorted the captain.

“And you say that my delay to do you justice has occasioned you a loss?”

“Of ten thousand francs, at least, highness.”

The Bey called his secretary. The secretary entered, crossed his hands upon his breast, and bowed to the ground. Then he took his pen, and the Bey dictated to him a few lines, which, being in Arabic, were totally unintelligible to the captain. When the secretary had done writing: “’Tis good,” said the Bey; “let this decree be proclaimed throughout the city.” Again the secretary crossed his hands upon his breast, bent himself to the earth, and departed.

“Craving your highness’s pardon,” said the captain, “may I venture to inquire the substance of that decree?”

“Certainly; it is an order to all the Jews in Tunis to cover their heads, within twenty-four hours from this time, with a cotton nightcap, under penalty of decapitation.”

“Ah! tron de l’air!” exclaimed the Marseillese; “I understand.”

“Then if you understand, return to your ship, and make the best profit you can of your goods; you will soon have customers.” The captain threw himself at the feet of the Bey, kissed his papooshes and returned to his ship. Meanwhile, by sound of trumpet, and in all the streets of Tunis, the following proclamation was made.

“Praises to Allah, the universal, to whom all things return!

“The slave of Allah glorified, who implores his pardon and absolution, the Mouchir Sidi-Hussein-Pacha, Bey of Tunis:

“Forbids every Jew, Israelite, or Nazarene, to appear in the streets of Tunis without a cotton nightcap upon his accursed and infidel head.

“This, under pain of decapitation.

“Giving to the unbelievers twenty-four hours to provide themselves with the said covering.

“To this order all obedience is due.

“Written under date of the 20th April, in the year 1243 of the Hegira.

(Signed,) “Sidi Hussein.”

You may fancy the sensation excited in Tunis by such a proclamation as this. The twenty-five thousand Jews who compose the Israelite population of the city looked aghast, and asked each other what was this eighth plague which thus descended upon the people chosen of the Lord. The most learned Rabbis were appealed to, but not one of them had a clear notion of what a cotton nightcap was. At last a Gourni—it is thus the Leghorn Jews are named—remembered to have once seen the crew of a Norman ship enter that port with the head-dress in question. It was something to know the article required; the next thing to be ascertained was, where it could be procured. Twelve thousand cotton nightcaps are not to be picked up at every street corner. The men wrung their hands, the women tore their hair, the children ate the dust upon the highway. Just when the cries of anguish were most piercing, and the desolation at its climax, a report spread through the multitude. It said that a ship laden with cotton nightcaps was then in the port. Inquiry was made. It was, said rumour, a three-master from Marseilles. The question was, would there be nightcaps enough? Were there twelve thousand of them—a cotton nightcap for everybody? There was a rush to the water side; in an instant a flotilla of boats, crowded almost to sinking, covered the lake, and it was a hot race out to the roads. At the Goulette there was fouling, and four or five boats were capsized; but as there are but four feet of water in the lake of Tunis, nobody was drowned. They cleared the narrow passage, and approached the good ship Notre Dame de la Garde, whose captain was upon deck expecting their arrival. Through his telescope he had beheld the embarkation, the race, the accidents—everything in short. In less than ten minutes three hundred boats surrounded his vessel, and twelve thousand throats vociferated, “Cotton nightcaps! cotton nightcaps!” The captain signed with his hand for silence, and the noisy mob were mute as mice.

“You want cotton nightcaps?” said he.

“Yes! yes! yes!” was the reply on every side.

“All very well,” said the captain; “but you are aware, gentlemen, that cotton nightcaps are just now in great request. My letters from Europe advise a rise in the article.”

“We know that,” said the same voices—“we know that, and ve vill make a sacrifice.”

“Listen to me,” said the captain; “I am an honest man.”

The Jews trembled. The captain’s words were their invariable exordium when about to rob a Christian.

“I will not take advantage of your position to impose upon you.”

The Jews turned pale.

“The cotton nightcaps cost me two francs apiece, one with the other.”

“Vell, it ish not too dear,” muttered the Jews in their beards.

“I will be satisfied with a hundred per cent profit,” continued the captain.

“Hosannah!” cried the Jews.

“At four francs apiece, cotton nightcaps!” said the captain, and twelve thousand hands were extended. “Order!” he continued; “come up on the larboard side, and go down on the starboard.” Every Jew crossed the vessel in turn, carried away a nightcap, and left four francs. The captain’s receipts were forty-eight thousand francs, whereof thirty-six thousand were clear profit. The twelve thousand Jews returned to Tunis, every man plus a cotton nightcap, and minus four francs.

The next day the captain presented himself at the palace of the Bey, at whose feet he prostrated himself, and kissed his papooshes.

“Well?” said the Bey.

“Your highness,” said the captain, “I come to thank you.”

“You are satisfied?”

“Delighted.”

“And you prefer Turkish justice to French justice?”

“There is no comparison between them.”

“This is not all,” said the Bey. And, turning to his secretary, he bade him take his pen and write at his dictation. The writing was a second decree, forbidding the Jews, under pain of death, to appear in the streets of Tunis with cotton nightcaps on their heads, and granting them twenty-four hours to dispose of their recent purchases as advantageously as possible.

“Do you understand?” said the Bey to the captain.

“Oh, highness!” cried the Marseillese in an ecstasy of delight, “you are the greatest of all Beys, past, present, and to come.”

“Return to your vessel, and wait.”

Half an hour later, the trumpets sounded in the streets of Tunis, and the town’s-people thronged to the unusual summons. Amongst the listeners the Jews were easily recognised by their triumphant air, and by their cotton nightcaps cocked over one ear. The decree was read in a loud and intelligible voice. The Jews’ first impulse was to throw their nightcaps into the fire. On reflection, however, the head of the synagogue saw that twenty-four hours were allowed to get rid of the proscribed articles. The Jew is essentially a calculating animal. The Jews of Tunis calculated that it was better to lose one half, or even three quarters, than to lose the whole. Having twenty-four hours to turn in, they began by driving a bargain with the boatmen, who on the previous occasion had abused their haste, and overcharged them. Two hours later, the French ship was again surrounded by boats.

“Captain! captain!” cried twelve thousand voices. “Cotton nightcaps to shell! cotton nightcaps to shell!”

“Pooh!” said the captain.

“Captain, itsh a bargain; captain, you shall have them sheap.”

“I have received a letter from Europe,” said the captain.

“Vell! vell!”

“It advises a great fall in cotton nightcaps.”

“Captain, ve vill looshe upon them.”

“So be it,” said the captain. “I can only give you half price.”

“Ve vill take it.”

“I bought them at two francs. Let those who will give them for one come on board by the starboard gangway, and depart by the larboard.”

“Oh, captain!”

“It’s to take or to leave, as you like.”

“Captain.”

“All hands to make sail!” shouted the captain.

“Vat are you doing, captain? vat are you doing?”

“Lifting my anchor, to be sure.”

“Ah now, captain, can’t you shay two francs?”

The captain continued to give orders for sailing.

“Vell, captain, ve must shay thirty sous.”

The mainsail expanded its folds, and the capstan began to creak.

“Captain, captain! ve vill take your franc!”

“Stop,” cried the captain.

One by one the Jews ascended the starboard side and descended to larboard, leaving their cotton nightcaps, and receiving a franc apiece. For a miserable three francs they had twice saved their heads: it was not dear. As to the captain, he had got back his goods, and made a clear profit of thirty-six thousand francs. As he was a man who knew how to behave, he put eighteen thousand francs in his boat, went ashore, and presented himself before the Bey, at whose feet he again prostrated himself, and whose papooshes he once more kissed.

“I come to present my humble thanks to your highness.”

“Are you satisfied?”

“Overjoyed.”

“Do you consider the indemnity sufficient?”

“Too much. And I come to offer your highness half my net profit of thirty-six thousand francs.”

“Nonsense!” said the Bey. “Have you forgotten that I promised you Turkish justice?”

“I perfectly remember.”

“Well, Turkish justice is done gratis.”

“Tron de l’air!” cried the captain: “in France a judge would not have been contented with half; he would have taken at least three quarters.”

“You mistake,” said the Bey; “he would have taken the whole.”

“Aha!” exclaimed the captain, “I see you know France as well as I do.”

And once more he went down into the dust to kiss the Bey’s papooshes, but the Bey gave him his hand. The captain returned to his ship, and a quarter of an hour later he left the African coast under press of sail. He feared lest the Bey might change his mind.

Their brief experience of the nightcap convinced the Tunisian Jews of its superiority to the yellow caps and black turbans with which they were wont to cover their infidel heads; and upon the death of the Bey they obtained permission from his successor to adopt the cotton covering, whose wear previously entailed decapitation. Such, at least, is the explanation given by the ingenious M. Dumas of the naturalisation of Paris nightcaps on the Barbary coast.

Incidentally, and rather as things told him than of his own knowledge, Mr Urquhart gives some brief details of the celebrated French campaign against Morocco, in which Marshal Bugeaud won his dukedom, and Admiral Joinville immortalised his name. His account of the affair of Isly is contemptuous enough, and will assuredly entail upon him the indignation of France, or at least of that portion of Frenchmen who believe, or affect to believe, that there was a battle and a victory—not a surprise and a scamper, unexpected by the assailed, and bloodless to the assailants. “On the 14th August,” says Mr Urquhart, “the son of the sultan is awakened by an alarm, ‘The French army is in sight.’ He tells his people the marshal is coming to pay him a visit, before his departure; and after giving orders for a tent to be pitched, and coffee—which he knew the French liked—to be sought for and prepared, he again assumed, to use the phraseology of Antar, ‘the attitude of repose.’ He is again awakened—‘The French are on us’—and the French were on them—found the coffee ready, and, instead of drinking, spilt it. The loss of the Moors was eight hundred men by suffocation.” Compare this statement with the reflection of Alexander Dumas, on approaching the mountains of Djema-r’ Azaouat. “Behind yonder hills,” he fervently exclaims, “are two great mementos, equal to Thermopylæ and Marathon—the combat of Sidi-Ibrahim, and the battle of Isly.” Funny Mr Dumas! how gravely he says these droll things. How many persons, out of France, remember to have heard of this modern Thermopylæ? We seriously suggest to Mr Dumas, whose indefatigable pen, although more particularly devoted to romance and the drama, occasionally flies at history, to write that of the conquest and colonisation of Algeria, in which would naturally be included the episode of the campaign against the Moors. We are quite sure his account of the battle of Isly will differ widely from that of Mr Urquhart: as widely as, or still more so than that of Admiral Bruat, which was addressed to the inhabitants of the Society Islands, in a proclamation quoted as a note to The Pillars of Hercules, and which Mr Urquhart declares, with much truth, to be highly deserving of a place in history. M. Dumas seems to us to be exactly cut out for the historian of his countrymen’s African exploits. The razzias and crop-burnings, the bloody skirmishes of Zouaves and Bedouins, the constant pursuit and many narrow escapes of the Emir, will acquire additionally romantic interest from the picturesque handling of the author of the Mousquetaires, who declares, in the pages of Le Véloce, that he is not only a soldier’s son, but himself a soldier at heart. With what glowing eloquence will he refute the various charges brought against his countrymen in Africa! “If Abd-el-Kader,” says Mr Urquhart, “had not been playing a game, at all events a game was played in his person. He was necessary to the French military system of Algiers. He is known to have been three times in their hands, and to have been suffered to escape.” This accusation has frequently been brought against the French generals in Africa. If such collusion existed, it was not subscribed to, according to M. Dumas, by Colonel Montagnac, who commanded, in the year 1845, the garrison of Djema-r’ Azaouat, and who had repeatedly sworn to take the Emir or lose his life. One day an Arab presented himself at the colonel’s quarters. He came from the chief of the neighbouring tribe of Souhalias, who was, he said, more devoted than ever to the French cause; and who sent word that, if the garrison would make a sortie, and place themselves in ambuscade on the territory of his tribe, he engaged to deliver Abd-el-Kader into their hands. Confiding in the Arab’s promise, Montagnac issued forth at the head of four hundred and eight men and twelve officers, including sixty-five cavalry. But on the second day he found he was betrayed, and that the promised capture was but a bait to lure him from his stronghold. The little band retraced their steps, and were within five leagues of Djema-r’ Azaouat, when they were menaced by an overwhelming force of Arabs and Kabyles; and in the distance the Emir himself, his banner displayed at the head of his regulars, was seen descending the hills. Two companies of French riflemen remained to guard the baggage; and the others, with the cavalry, advanced against the foe. After a desperate struggle, the main body was cut to pieces, or made prisoners; and a company, advancing from the bivouac to its support, was surrounded and exterminated. Of these combats, Mr Dumas gives a minute account, introducing dramatic dialogues between the men and officers, and imparting to the whole scene his usual vivid and animated colouring. Thus, when the company from the baggage-guard is marching up, only sixty strong, to the assistance of its comrades, and is suddenly surrounded, we find the following graphic account of its proceedings:—

“The commanding officer had but just time to order formation of square. The manœuvre was executed under the fire of ten thousand Arabs (!) as it would have been in the Champ-de-Mars. Of all these men, only one showed signs of regret—none of fear. This was a young rifleman, twenty years old, named Ismaël.

“‘Oh, commandant!’ he exclaimed, ‘we are lost!’

“The commandant smiled upon the poor lad; he understood that at twenty years of age he knew so little of life that he had a right to regret it.

“‘How old are you?’ he asked of the young soldier.

“‘One-and-twenty,’ was the reply.

“‘Well, you will have eighteen years less to suffer than I have had; look at me, and learn how to die with firm heart and head erect.’

“He had scarcely spoken, when a bullet struck his forehead, and he fell as he had promised to fall. Five minutes later, Captain Burgaud had likewise fallen.

“‘Come, my friends,’ said the non-commissioned adjutant Thomas, ‘one step forward: let us die upon the bodies of our officers.’

“These were the last distinct words that were heard; the death-rattle followed them, then the silence of the grave. In its turn, the second company had disappeared. All that now remained was the company under Captain de Géreaux, left in charge of the camp.”

Mr Dumas’ habit of writing melodrama renders him very effective in this sort of romantic military chronicle, which is pretty well received in France, where people are used to the style. It is compounded upon the plan of all his historical romances and romantic histories, with the sole difference that, in these, he frequently audaciously perverts historic truth; whilst the African business is so recent that he cannot venture to be unfaithful to the outline, and confines himself to filling up and extending with his own fantastic details. Having been on the spot, and one of the first to welcome the few survivors of the prisoners taken in the above bloody affair, when they were ransomed from the Arabs, he doubtless picked up a number of the tales that always circulate in such cases; and these he has very cleverly amalgamated and patched up into a consecutive narrative—perhaps the most amusing section of those two volumes of Le Véloce which alone as yet have reached us. His account of the fate of the last company—the one that stopped with the baggage—is the best bit of all, although certainly very French, and strongly impregnated with that peculiar flavour of theatrical fanfaronade which is inseparable from the character of our vain and volatile neighbours, which they cannot see, and consequently are not likely to lose, and which stirs the gall of prejudiced and untravelled Englishmen, and brings a smile to the lip of those who, with greater justice and in a better spirit, will not allow peculiarities of tone and manner to blind them to the good qualities of a gallant and ingenious nation, whose soldiers, although of late years they have more than once been employed in wars and expeditions unworthy of their prowess, have never lost an opportunity of proving that, in valour at least, they are no way degenerate from their fathers who fought under the banners of Napoleon the Great. And although one cannot but be amused at the ambitious comparison with Thermopylæ, the affair of Sidi-Ibrahim was unquestionably most honourable to the handful of brave fellows who defended the Marabout of that name against fifty times their number. The term Marabout is applied, in Africa, not only to a saint, but to the small, round-roofed, stone edifice which serves as his mausoleum after death, and, not unfrequently, as his habitation during life. In a building of this description, after driving out the Arabs that occupied it, and when the cessation of the musketry warned them that their comrades were slain or prisoners, the last company of Colonel Montagnac’s ill-fated detachment took refuge, under the orders of its captain, de Géreaux, and there withstood the fierce and reiterated attacks of a host of Arabs and Kabyles. Abd-el-Kader himself approached the little fortress, and was wounded in the cheek by a French bullet. He offered quarter on surrender: it was refused. Thrice he summoned the handful of beleaguered warriors, who spurned his proposals, and would not trust themselves to the word of an Arab. Then the combat recommenced and lasted till night, whose arrival found the French still in possession of their post. At daybreak, hostilities were resumed, and continued till ten o’clock in the forenoon, when Abd-el-Kader took his departure, and the Arabs, whose loss was very heavy, converted the siege into a blockade. Night returned, and Captain de Géreaux, who was on the watch, saw an Arab creeping stealthily towards the Marabout. He awoke Dr Rosagutti, the interpreter; they called to the Arab, who came to them; they gave him all the money they had about them, and a letter to take to the camp of Lalla Maghrnia. The Arab was faithful; he delivered the letter; but none knew the signature of Captain de Géreaux; a stratagem was suspected, and no relief was sent. Hope of succour, however, buoyed up the spirits of the besieged of Sidi-Ibrahim, and they waited another day, without bread or water, almost without ammunition, their gaze fixed in the direction of Lalla Maghrnia. But the next morning at six o’clock, despairing of relief, they resolved to sally forth and cut their way to Djema-r’Azaouat. There were four leagues to get over, and thousands of Arabs were echeloned along the route. With desperate courage, the fifty-five or sixty Frenchmen repulsed numerous attacks, forming square when hard pressed, receiving many wounds, marking their track with corpses, but still, by their steadiness and deadly fire, keeping the undisciplined Arabs at bay. Some five-and-twenty succeeded in arriving within half a league of Djema-r’Azaouat, but then their ammunition was expended; the Arabs pressed upon them, and a volley at twenty paces stretched half their number, including the brave de Géreaux, lifeless in the dust. The remainder dispersed, and sought concealment and safety amongst the copsewood and bushes. Three of them reached the lines of Djema-r’Azaouat, told the sad tale, and died, unwounded, of mere exhaustion. A sortie was made, and five or six men, who had escaped the Kabyle sabres, were brought in. Eight men were all that survived of the gallant eighth battalion of the Chasseurs of Orleans. The disaster, however, was signally revenged. The Arabs who had brought it about, by the false message sent to Colonel Montagnac—the tribe of the Beni-Snanen—were cooped up by General Cavaignac on a narrow projection of the coast, and driven into the sea or put to the sword, to the number of four or five thousand. “The furious soldiers gave no quarter,” adds M. Dumas, “and General Cavaignac perilled his popularity with the army by saving a remnant of this unfortunate tribe. The trumpeter, Roland, the only survivor of the massacre of the m’Louïa, (when the prisoners taken by Abd-el-Kader were put to death in cold blood,) was in this affair: he had a terrible revenge to take, and he took it, and declared himself satisfied, for he had slain with his own hand more than thirty Arabs.”

Great as is the press of more important matter, and prolonged though this paper has been by the extracts to which the diverting Dumas has tempted us, we yet cannot close it without a glance at Mr Urquhart’s remarkable chapter, entitled “The Bath.” On this subject his notions and prepossessions are completely Oriental. His residence in the East has given him a distaste for the modes of washing customary in Western Europe, and which he styles “dabbling in dirty water.” Nothing less than the running stream can come up to his standard of cleanliness. And as it is not always practicable to have fountains in dwelling-houses, he tells us how he manages without one. “I find the most convenient substitute a vase holding about two gallons of water, with a spout like that of a tea-urn, only three times the length, placed on a stand about four feet high, with a tub below: hot or cold water can be used; the water may be very hot, as the stream that flows is small. It runs for a quarter of an hour or twenty minutes.” This is his plan in the West, we understand; but when the member for Stafford gets amongst Mussulmans, oh, how he revels in the shampoo! The gusto of his descriptions positively makes us shudder. The bathman, we are told, “stands with his feet on the thighs and on the chest, and slips down the ribs; then up again three times; and, lastly, doubling your arms one after the other on the chest, pushes with both hands down, beginning at the elbow, and then putting an arm under the back and applying his chest to your crossed elbows, rolls on you across till you crack. You are now turned on your face, and, in addition to the operation above described, he works his elbow round the edges of your shoulder-blade, and with the heel plies hard the angle of the neck; he concludes by hauling the body half up by each arm successively, while he stands with one foot on the opposite thigh. You are then raised for a moment to a sitting posture, and a contortion given to the small of the back, and a jerk to the neck by the two hands holding the temples.” This has rather a dislocating, formidable, and certainly a most disgusting sound; but Mr Urquhart assures us the process is delightful, and particularly gentle compared with the mode of operation in a Moorish bath, where, practised bather though he is, he shrieked under the rough usage of his manipulator. The conclusion of this latter bath he describes as follows:—“Thrice taking each leg and lifting it up, he placed his head under the calf, and raising himself, scraped the leg as with a rough brush, for his shaved head had the grain downwards. The operation concluded by his biting my heel.” We should like to see any human being, whether Turk, Pagan, Jew, or Christian, attempt such revolting liberties with our person. By the bones of Belshazzar! we would brain him with the bath-brush. The member for Stafford should be ashamed of himself. He positively makes us scunner. We have a firm and wholesome faith in the efficacy and cleanliness of a British spunging-bath and rough towel; we repel with abhorrence Mr Urquhart’s manipulatory innovations, and feel intense disgust at the Mahometan kneading, pummelling, trampling, sweating, soaping, and scraping, which he dwells upon with such nauseous minuteness, and whose results he describes as so wonderfully salubrious and delightful. We really hesitate at transferring to our page any more of his nasty details. We venture, however, to present him to our readers in the character of Marsyas, undergoing the flaying process which, it appears, forms an essential stage of the Turkish bathing operation. With a glove of camel’s hair, the bathman “commences from the nape of the neck in long sweeps down the back till he has started the skin; he coaxes it into rolls, keeping them in and up, till within his hand they gather volume and length; he then successively strikes and brushes them away, and they fall right and left as if spilt from a dish of macaroni. The dead matter which will accumulate in a week forms, when dry, a ball of the size of the fist. I once collected it and had it dried—it is like a ball of chalk.” Well may the honourable gentleman declare the human body “a fountain of impurities,” when he can back the assertion by such a startling statement of the weekly amount of his own cuticular incrustations. No wonder he commiserates the condition of the unwashed portion of his countrymen, and urges the establishment of public baths on a scale more magnificent than practicable. Cleanliness is so nearly a virtue, that all deserve well of their country who efficaciously promote its spread amongst classes by whom it is too often neglected. But the carrying out of such plans must devolve upon philanthropists of a more practical stamp than this fantastical theorist and crotchety M.P. It were ridiculous to suppose that all the advantages would be realised which he predicts, from the adoption in this country of a universal system of bathing; but so manifold and enormous are they, that, if only a tithe of them were guaranteed, it would suffice to make us sigh for the days when in London there should be “no gin palaces, but a thousand baths!”

GOLDSMITH.
PART II.

From the character of the man, we turn to the character of the author—from the life to the works of Goldsmith. What we said of the well-known events of his career would apply equally to his writings; it would be a tedious and superfluous office to pass in formal review performances so familiar, and which appear to be as justly appreciated as they are widely circulated. All that we propose doing, is to add a few miscellaneous observations, hints, and fragments of criticism, which may be interesting to those who like to examine also, as well as to admire. For these we could find no space in our previous Number: we throw them together here in the best order their miscellaneous nature permits.

In the Citizen of the World, Goldsmith tells us of a man who earned his livelihood by making wonders—curiosities of nature or of art—and exhibiting them to the world. “His first essay in this way was to exhibit himself as a wax-work figure, behind a glass door at a puppet-show. Thus, keeping the spectators at a proper distance, and having his head adorned with a copper crown, he looked extremely natural, and very like the life itself.” This would be no bad illustration of what his critics have often pointed out as Goldsmith’s own proceeding, in the manufacture of his literary wonders and curiosities. When he wanted a fictitious character for his novel, or his play, he sate himself down behind the glass door, with some copper crown, or other slight disguise upon his head, and all the world confessed that it “looked extremely natural, and very like the life itself!”

His Good-natured Man, in the comedy of that name; Young Marlow in She Stoops to Conquer, the Philosopher Vagabond, the Man in Black, and others that could be named, are all Goldsmith sitting behind the glass door. There is a strong personal resemblance in all his characters; they are portraits of himself, drawn with the features widened into broad humour, or elongated into saturnine wisdom. His Beau Tibbs seems to have been created by looking at, and magnifying, some of his own foibles; his Dr Primrose, by drawing forth those grave and kindly feelings, which, notwithstanding those foibles, lay, he knew, at the bottom of his heart.

The incidents of his life, too, supplied very often the plot or story; and memory took the place of invention. Yet, in this respect, considering the varied and adventurous nature of his life, we are rather surprised that he did not draw more copiously from himself, and from his past history. We should have thought that the curious scenes he must have witnessed in that wild journey of his—footing it through Europe, now as medical student, now as itinerant musician, at one time playing the tutor (he the tutor!) to some junior scapegrace; at another, furbishing up all the Latin and logic he was master of, to dispute at Padua for bed and supper—would have supplied him with many an incident for a novel. We are persuaded, that if he had lived in these days, when the value of an incident is better known, and it is more the fashion than it was formerly to put to literary profit the experience and events of private life, he would have made much greater use than he has done of such materials.

But it is not only thus that we trace the life of Goldsmith in his writings. We trace the influence of his career in the formation of his intellectual character. Travel had stood with him in the place of philosophy. It had enlarged his sphere of thought, had broken up national prejudices, and given him an insight into many a matter which otherwise would never have attracted his attention. But travel is far more effective in dispersing error or prejudice, than in lending assistance to the formation of settled opinions. It confirmed him in a desultory mode of thinking, uncertain and undecided. His horizon was extended, but his vision was not distinct. Yet as Goldsmith was never devoted to the discipline of philosophy, and would never, perhaps, have pursued any systematic study, he was, upon the whole, a great gainer by his varied vagrant life, and the cosmopolitan temper it had generated. A philosopher he never would have been: it was something to feel as a citizen of the world.

Goldsmith was of a quick apprehensive intellect, open to receive impressions, with ready faculty to give them forth again; but to continuous thought, to close and prolonged examination of any subject, he was by no means addicted. With him the philosophers were more talked of than read. Abstract thinking and severe reasoning were not his vocation. It thus happens that the solitary observation, simply asserted, is often excellent, and carries with it our cordial assent. He only discovers his weakness when he undertakes to convince us by his reasoning. On those occasions when he puts forth a thesis, and solemnly begins to demonstrate it, his thesis may be good, but it will stand none the firmer for his argument.

Let us give an instance of this from the Vicar of Wakefield. Nothing could be more just, or more happily expressed, than the opening observation we are about to quote. The reasoning which follows, and is intended to support it, is as weak and fantastical as, on so beaten a subject, it well could be.

“And it were highly to be wished,” says the Vicar, “that legislative power would thus direct the law rather to reformation than severity; that it would seem convinced that the work of eradicating crimes is not by making punishment familiar, but formidable. Then instead of our present prisons, which find or make men guilty, which enclose wretches for the commission of one crime, and return them, if returned alive, fitted for the perpetration of thousands—we should see, as in other parts of Europe, places of penitence and solitude, where the accused might be attended by such as could give them repentance, if guilty, or new motives to virtue, if innocent. And this, but not the increasing punishment, is the way to mend a state.”

Now, if the good Vicar had stopped here, he would have expressed a truth much needed at the time, in a simplicity and elegance of language which could not be improved. But the Vicar enters into abstract reasoning to prove his thesis, grows argumentative, and, at the same time, grows weak.

“Nor can I,” he continues, “avoid even questioning the validity of that right which social combinations have assumed of capitally punishing offences of a slight nature. In cases of murder their right is obvious, as it is the duty of us all, from the law of self-defence, to cut off that man who has shown a disregard for the life of another. Against such all nature rises in arms; but it is not so against him who steals my property. Natural law gives me no right to take away his life, as by that the horse he steals is as much his property as mine. If, then, I have any right, it must be from a compact made between us, that he who deprives the other of his horse shall die. But this is a false compact; because no man has a right to barter his life any more than to take it away, as it is not his own. And, besides, the compact is inadequate, and could be set aside even in a court of modern equity, as there is a great penalty for a trifling inconvenience, since it is far better that two men should live than that one man should ride. But a compact that is false between two men is equally so between a hundred and a hundred thousand; for as ten millions of circles can never make a square, so the united voice of myriads cannot lend the smallest foundation to falsehood.”

Logic such as this, even if set forth in Latin, would hardly have earned him his supper and his bed in the University of Padua.

We are told that at Dublin University Goldsmith manifested great repugnance to the study of mathematics. The conduct towards him of the mathematical tutor did not tend to diminish this aversion. In one of his miscellaneous essays, he thus revenges himself on the science and on its professors:—

“A youth incapable of retaining one rule of grammar, or of acquiring the least knowledge of the classics, may nevertheless make great progress in mathematics; nay, he may have a strong genius for the mathematics without being able to comprehend a demonstration of Euclid; because his mind conceives in a peculiar manner, and is so intent upon contemplating the object in one particular point of view, that it cannot perceive it in any other. We have known an instance of a boy who, while his master complained that he had not capacity to comprehend the properties of a right-angled triangle, had actually, in private, by the power of his genius, formed a mathematical system of his own; discovered a series of curious theorems, and even applied his deductions to practical machines of surprising construction.”—Essay on Taste.

But although Goldsmith could commit the most surprising blunders when he invades the region of abstract or severe reasoning, yet the credit must be given to him of thinking for himself. With undisciplined powers, and but slenderly equipped for the task, we still see him engaging in the solution of social and political problems. He does not merely repeat from books the ideas of others; nor is he a thoughtless spectator of the world. One subject especially our homeless wanderer, who had looked up at society from the last round of the ladder, is frequently observed to be canvassing. His opinions on it are far from settled; his conclusions are often diametrically opposed; his reasonings never very clear; but he is, at all events, seen from time to time pondering it with great interest. It is the subject of luxury—the gratifications and pleasures of the wealthy in a state of civilisation. The rule admits of exceptions; but, in general, he condemns luxury in his poetry, and defends it in his prose. In neither case is he very successful in his reasonings. When he assails, he appears to be under the influence of a mere sentiment; when he defends it, he seems to be dealing with a half-learned philosophy, and such as is generally understood to be rather a native of France than of England.

“Examine,” says the Citizen of the World, “the history of any country remarkable for opulence and wisdom, you will find that they would never have been wise had they not been first luxurious: you will find poets, philosophers, and even patriots, marching in luxury’s train. The reason is obvious. We then only are curious in knowledge, when we find it connected with sensual happiness. The senses ever point out the way, and reflection comments upon the discovery. Inform a native of the desert of Kobi of the exact measure of the parallax of the moon, he finds no satisfaction at all in the information; he wonders how any could take such pains, and lay out such treasures, in order to solve so useless a difficulty; but connect it with his happiness by showing that it improves navigation—that by such an investigation he may have a warmer coat, a better gun, or a finer knife, and he is instantly in raptures at so great an improvement. In short, we only desire to know when we desire to possess; and, whatever we may talk against it, luxury adds the spur to curiosity, and gives us a desire of becoming more wise.”—Letter XI.

Not true, Dr Goldsmith!—only a mere fragment of the truth; and your astronomical illustration singularly unfortunate. For the science of astronomy has been all along a labour of love—from the time when Chaldæan shepherds, quite heedless of navigation, watched the stars, and marked out the planet (the wanderer) amongst the fixed and stationary lights, to these our own days, when the profound mathematician, calculating, in the midst of revolutionary Paris, his disturbances on the remote boundaries of our planetary system, writes to the skilful observer, and bids him direct his great tube to a certain spot in the heavens, and he will find a new wanderer there, as yet unseen and unsuspected. The observer points his telescope as he is told, and discovers it that very night, in that very spot.

Still less will his reasoning hold together, or prove “refutation-tight,” when, as in the Deserted Village, he finds that the wealth of our merchants has occasioned the desertion of the country, and the depopulation of the land. “In regretting,” he says, in the preface to that poem, “the depopulation of the land, I inveigh against the increase of our luxuries.” Happily no one, in reading that poem, thinks of the political economy of the Deserted Village. Happily, also, there is often a greater truth in the poet’s general enunciations, than he himself is able to explain, or accurately to develop. The reader may adopt his language, and apply it to a more correct conception than was present to the author’s mind. The very paragraph which might be quoted for its manifest blunder in the rudiments of political science, opens with these admirable lines, which every one, in a sense of his own, will readily adopt:—

“Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen who survey

The rich man’s joys increase, the poor’s decay,

’Tis yours to judge how wide the limits stand

Between a splendid and a happy land.”

What follows will not easily bear a wise interpretation. Goldsmith speaks of commerce as if ships came in laden with nothing but gold—with “loads of freighted ore”—and finds that this imported wealth converts the ploughed fields into parks and pleasure-grounds. The writer of a history of England might have called to mind the Forest Laws, and the wide tracts of country kept waste, and, in some cases, laid waste by our rude ancestors, for their rude sports.

There is amongst the essays of Goldsmith a tale or allegory, which our readers may remember to have read in their youth, in some Speaker, or collection of Elegant Extracts. We are quite sure they have no acquaintance with it of a later date. This tale we will venture to revive. It belongs to so old-fashioned a species of literature, that it must needs be a novelty. We would quote it as an instance illustrative of the remarks we have made on the intellectual character of Goldsmith. It is wrong—argumentatively and logically wrong—yet no man would say that he was a mere repeater of other men’s words, who wrote Asem, an Eastern Tale; or a Vindication of the Wisdom of Providence in the moral government of the World. No one can read it without being prompted to think, which is good proof that the author thought when he wrote it—though he did not think very accurately.

In the time of Goldsmith, the fashion was not extinct of seeing moral visions, and dreaming sagacious dreams. Wisdom delighted to speak in allegory. There were still to be found in those days, here and there, retired hermits, with long beards, hiding in solitary caves, and living on the simplest herbs—cold water and a salad; and there were still lingering on the earth genii, or other stupendous and supernatural beings, who occasionally visited these favoured mortals, teaching them surpassing wisdom, and illustrating their lessons in the most marvellous manner. Asem was such a hermit. Yet, all hermit and Mussulman as he was, he bears a strong resemblance to the Goldsmith family. “From the tenderness of his disposition, he exhausted all his fortune in relieving the wants of the distressed.” Having reduced himself to want, he is shocked to find that one who comes to beg, is not so welcome as when he came to give. Accordingly, he turns with wrath from an ungrateful world.

“He began to view mankind in a very different light from that in which he had before beheld them; he perceived a thousand vices he had never before suspected to exist; wherever he turned, ingratitude, dissimulation, and treachery contributed to increase his detestation of them. Resolved, therefore, to continue no longer in a world which he hated, and which repaid his detestation with contempt, he retired to a region of sterility, in order to brood over his resentment in solitude, and converse with the only honest heart he knew—namely, his own.”

But the contemplation of this only honest heart was not sufficient consolation for that prospect of a wicked world which perpetually haunted him, and which filled him with doubts on the wisdom or the beneficence of Allah. He finally resolved on suicide. He was about to plunge into the lake, when—

“He perceived a most majestic being walking on the surface of the water, and approaching the bank on which he stood!

“‘Son of Adam!’ cried the Genius, ‘stop thy rash purpose: the Father of the Faithful has seen thy justice, thy integrity, thy miseries, and hath sent me to afford and administer relief. Give me thine hand, and follow without trembling wherever I shall lead. In me behold the Genius of Conviction, kept by the Great Prophet, to turn from their errors those who go astray, not from curiosity, but a rectitude of intention. Follow me, and be wise!’”

Such an invitation, and from so imposing a personage, was not to be declined. The Genius of Conviction conducts Asem along the surface, and to the centre of the lake: here the waters open, and close on them; they descend into another world, where human foot had never trod before.

“‘The rational inhabitants of this world,’ the Genius tells him, ‘are formed agreeably to your own ideas; they are absolutely without vice. If you find this world more agreeable than that you so lately left, you have free permission to spend the remainder of your days in it.’

“‘A world without vice! Rational beings without immorality!’ cried Asem in a rapture. ‘I thank thee, Allah!—thou hast at length heard my petitions: this—this, indeed, will produce happiness, ecstasy, and ease. Oh for an immortality to spend it among men who are incapable of ingratitude, injustice, fraud, violence, and a thousand other crimes that render society miserable!’

“‘Cease thine exclamations!’ replied the Genius. ‘Look around thee.’

“They soon gained the utmost verge of the forest, and entered the country inhabited by men without vice; and Asem anticipated in idea the rational delight he hoped to experience in such an innocent society. But they had scarcely left the confines of the wood, when they beheld one of the inhabitants flying with hasty steps, and terror in his countenance, from an army of squirrels that closely pursued him. ‘Heavens!’ cried Asem, ‘why does he fly? What can he fear from animals so contemptible?’ He had scarcely spoken, when he perceived two dogs pursuing another of the human species, who, with equal terror and haste, attempted to avoid them. ‘This,’ cried Asem to his guide, ‘is truly surprising; nor can I conceive the reason for so strange an action.’—‘Every species of animals,’ replied the Genius, ‘has of late grown very powerful in this country; for the inhabitants, at first, thinking it unjust to use either fraud or force in destroying them, they have insensibly increased, and now frequently ravage their harmless frontiers.’ ‘But they should have been destroyed!’ cried Asem: ‘you see the consequence of such neglect.’—‘Where is then that tenderness you so lately expressed for subordinate animals?’ replied the Genius, smiling; ‘you seem to have forgot that branch of justice.’ ‘I must acknowledge my mistake,’ returned Asem. ‘I am now convinced that we must be guilty of tyranny and injustice to the brute creation, if we would enjoy the world ourselves. But let us no longer observe the duty of man to these irrational creatures, but survey their connexions with one another.’

“As they walked farther up the country, the more he was surprised to see no vestiges of handsome houses, no cities, nor any mark of elegant design. His conductor, perceiving his surprise, observed, that the inhabitants of this new world were perfectly content with their ancient simplicity; each had a house, which, though homely, was sufficient to lodge his little family; they were too good to build houses, which would only increase their own pride and the envy of the spectator; what they built was for convenience, and not for show. ‘At least, then,’ said Asem, ‘they have neither architects, painters, nor statuaries in their society; but these are idle arts, and may be spared. However, before I spend much more time here, you should have my thanks for introducing me into the society of some of their wisest men: there is scarcely any pleasure to me equal to a refined conversation; there is nothing of which I am so much enamoured as wisdom.’—‘Wisdom!’ replied his instructor; ‘how ridiculous! We have no wisdom here, for we have no occasion for it: true wisdom is only a knowledge of our own duty, and the duty of others to us; but of what use is such wisdom here? Each intuitively performs what is right in itself, and expects the same from others. If by wisdom you should mean vain curiosity and empty speculation, as such pleasures have their origin in vanity, luxury, or avarice, we are too good to pursue them.’ ‘All this may be right,’ said Asem, ‘but I think I observe a solitary disposition prevail among the people; each family keeps separately within their own precincts, without society, or without intercourse.’—‘That, indeed, is true,’ replied the other; ‘here is no established society, nor should there be any: all societies are made either through fear or friendship; the people we are among are too good to fear each other; and there are no motives to private friendship, where all are equally meritorious.’ ‘Well, then,’ said the sceptic, ‘if I am to spend my time here—if I am to have neither the polite arts, nor wisdom, nor friendship in such a world, I should be glad, at least, of an easy companion, who may tell me his thoughts, and to whom I may communicate mine.’—‘And to what purpose should either do this?’ says the Genius. ‘Flattery or curiosity are vicious motives, and never allowed of here; and wisdom is out of the question.’

“‘Still, however,’ said Asem, ‘the inhabitants must be happy; each is contented with his own possessions, nor avariciously endeavours to heap up more than is necessary for his own subsistence; each has, therefore, leisure for pitying those that stand in need of his compassion.’ He had scarcely spoken when his ears were assaulted by the lamentations of a wretch who sat by the way-side, and, in the most deplorable distress, seemed gently to murmur at his own misery. Asem immediately ran to his relief, and found him in the last stage of a consumption. ‘Strange,’ cried the son of Adam, ‘that men who are free from vice should thus suffer so much misery without relief!’—‘Be not surprised,’ said the wretch who was dying; ‘would it not be the utmost injustice for beings who have only just sufficient to support themselves, and are content with a bare subsistence, to take it from their own mouths to put it into mine? They never are possessed of a single meal more than is necessary; and what is barely necessary cannot be dispensed with.’ ‘They should have been supplied with more than is necessary,’ cried Asem. ‘And yet I contradict my own opinion but a moment before: all is doubt, perplexity, and confusion.’”

After some other attempts to find happiness in this world without vice, Asem exclaims—“Take me, O my Genius! back to that very world I have despised!” And hereupon the triumphant Genius, “assuming an air of terrible complacency, called all his thunders around him, and vanished in a whirlwind.” Asem found himself at the very place, and (with such rapidity had these scenes passed in review) almost at the very instant of time, in which the Genius had at first accosted him. “His right foot was still advanced to take the fatal plunge, nor had it been yet withdrawn.”

Who would dare to contend with the Genius of Conviction?—who venture to prescribe laws of reasoning to so majestic a being,—one who walks upon the waters, calls his thunders about him, and has a whole subterranean world wherewith to demonstrate his theory of morals? Nevertheless, if we were quite sure that the Genius were out of hearing, we should be disposed to question whether he had ever framed an accurate definition of virtue. If, in a virtuous world, men must be chased by squirrels, and devoured by dogs, live in penury, and let their neighbours starve, either we, or the Genius of Conviction, have been in error all this time as to what virtue really is.

As a critic, it is confessed on all hands that Goldsmith lamentably failed. As a politician, he had this honourable peculiarity, that his speculations had very little reference to the party feuds of the day. He had contracted, probably from his Continental travels, a bias in favour of monarchical power. He seems to have embraced the opinion which Burke combated in his Thoughts on the Present Discontents; namely, that the houses of parliament, or the aristocracy through their influence in these houses, were dangerously encroaching on the royal prerogative. At least this is the best explanation we can give of the expressions that he, from time to time, throws out upon this subject.

The only grudge we owe his politics is, that they occasioned the introduction of the weakest and most confused passage in his noble poem of The Traveller. When discoursing upon foreign countries—on Holland, France, or Italy—he naturally and wisely restricts himself to certain general characteristics of the people and of their governments—general views which admit of vigorous and poetic enunciation, and are not likely to raise cavil or controversy. But when he lands upon his native country, these home politics beset him, and he gets entangled in a train of thought but half made out, of too controversial a character, and which does not easily lend itself to the harmony of verse, and the simple force of poetic expression.

“Calm is my soul, nor apt to rise in arms,

Except when fast approaching danger warms:

But when contending chiefs blockade the throne,

Contracting regal power to stretch their own;
When I behold a factious band agree
To call it freedom, when themselves are free;
Each wanton judge new penal statutes draw,

Laws grind the poor, and rich men rule the law;

The wealth of climes where savage nations roam,

Pillaged from slaves to purchase slaves at home;

Fear, pity, justice, indignation start,
Tear off reserve, and bare my swelling heart;
Till half a patriot, half a coward grown,
I fly from petty tyrants to the throne.”

Yet the whole passage must be forgiven for the sake of the two last lines. Of these the second is repeatedly quoted; but there is much significance and extreme felicity of expression in the preceding line—

“——half a patriot, half a coward grown.”

It is a pity they should be so often separated.

Having mentioned The Traveller, let us turn at once to this and to its exquisite companion—the two poems which give to Goldsmith his secure and eminent position in the literature of England. Our few detached criticisms on these old favourites shall not, at all events, be wearisome by their length. His comedies we design to leave untouched; they cannot be criticised without some review, however rapid, of the literature of the stage, and for this we have at present neither space nor inclination. A glance at The Citizen of the World and The Vicar of Wakefield will bring our subject to its conclusion.

Every one remembers the anecdote connected with the first line of The Traveller—

“Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow.”

Mr Irving shall relate it for us.

“The appearance of The Traveller at once altered Goldsmith’s intellectual standing in the estimation of society; but its effect upon the club, if we may judge from the account given by Hawkins, was almost ludicrous. They were lost in astonishment that a ‘newspaper essayist,’ and a ‘bookseller’s drudge,’ should have written such a poem. On the evening of its announcement, Goldsmith had gone away early, after ‘rattling away as usual;’ and they knew not how to reconcile his heedless garrulity with the serene beauty, the easy grace, the sound good sense, and the occasional elevation of his poetry. They could scarcely believe that such magic numbers had flowed from a man to whom in general, says Johnson, ‘it was with difficulty they could give a hearing.’ ‘Well,’ exclaimed Chamier, ‘I do believe he wrote this poem himself; and, let me tell you, that is believing a great deal.’

“At the next meeting of the club, Chamier sounded the author a little about his poem. ‘Mr Goldsmith,’ said he, ‘what do you mean by the last word in the first line of your Traveller, “remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow?” Do you mean tardiness of locomotion?’—‘Yes,’ replied Goldsmith inconsiderately, being probably flurried at the moment. ‘No, sir,’ interposed his protecting friend Johnson, ‘you did not mean tardiness of locomotion; you meant that sluggishness of mind which comes upon a man in solitude.’—‘Ah!’ exclaimed Goldsmith, ‘that was what I meant.’ Chamier immediately believed that Johnson himself had written the line, and a rumour became prevalent that he was the author of many of the finest passages.”

With due deference to the great critic, and to the author himself, he did mean tardiness of movement; but the epithet, joined as it is with others, tells us also that this slowness of motion was the result of heaviness of heart, and indicative of a sad and pensive spirit. It means all that Dr Johnson said; but it means also, and first of all, the slow pace of the solitary poet. Goldsmith was more probably “flurried at the moment,” when he so readily adopted the interpretation of Dr Johnson, than when he gave his first natural answer. He found the passage explained for him so authoritatively, and so much to the satisfaction of those present, that he could not hesitate in accepting the explanation. But had he taken time and courage to reflect a moment, he would have seen that there was no discrepancy between his own answer and what Dr Johnson had added. Take away the image of the slow moving poet, and you take away all picture from the passage. The pensive sadness is depicted in what Captain Chamier calls, in seeming imitation of the great man he is conversing with, “tardiness of locomotion.”

“Remote—unfriended—melancholy—slow.”

Every word comes from the heart. Many a time, without a doubt, had our wandering poet, at a distance from his country, walked by the side of some foreign stream—alone—unfriended—with nothing for his portion upon earth but genius and poverty.

“We cannot, for our part, see the point of Captain Chamier’s question. He might, with just as much reason, have put the same query to Petrarch, who opens one of his sonnets in a very similar manner.

“Solo e pensoso, i più deserti campi

Vo misurando, a passi tardi e lenti.”

He would have found here also “tardiness of locomotion,” and the languor of the pensive man, united in the same description.

“Where’er I roam, whatever realms to see,

My heart untravell’d fondly turns to thee;

Still to my brother turns, with ceaseless pain,

And drags at each remove a lengthening chain.”

The same image is made use of in the Citizen of the World. The reader may like to contrast the prose with the poetic version. “The farther I travel,” says Lien Chi Altangi to his correspondent, “I feel the pain of separation with stronger force; those ties that bind me to my native country and you, are still unbroken. By every remove I only drag a greater length of chain.” We prefer the prose. Indeed the metaphor is not so much to our taste as that we should have thought it worth using a second time, and in the greater work. It suited Lien Chi Altangi very well, and with him it might have remained. It is too cumbrous—too material. What are we to do with this “lengthening chain” which he “drags” along the earth? and where, in imagination, are we to fasten it? To his ankle? It would make a felon of him. To his waist? Ridiculous! But, you will say, we are not to see the chain at all—only to hear it clank a little in the verse—only to have some dim idea of lengthening ligature. Very good; and thereupon we honestly respond—if, whilst reading the line you feel no irresistible tendency to look down upon the ground for this chain—if you do not see it at all, then to you the metaphor is quite unobjectionable.

“And find no spot of all the world my own!”

The natural feeling of the homeless, unprovided wanderer, looking over a great stretch of country. How finely is it contrasted with the sentiment which follows! No spot his own! It is all his! He has taken sympathetic possession of the whole.

“Ye glittering towns, with wealth and splendour crowned;

Ye fields, where summer spreads profusion round;

Ye lakes, whose vessels catch the busy gale;

Ye bending swains that dress the flowery vale—

For me your tributary stores combine;

Creation’s heir, the world, the world is mine!”

Having thus wrought himself into proper mood for his philosophic purpose, the poet commences his survey of the several regions of the earth, and nations of mankind. The train of thought is, at starting, somewhat perplexed, from the author being occupied with two separate reflections, which, until they are closely examined, appear contradictory. We have them in close juxtaposition in the following lines:—

“Yet oft a sigh prevails, and sorrows fall,
To see the hoard of human bliss so small;
And oft I wish amidst the scene to find
Some spot to real happiness consigned,

Where my worn soul, each wandering hope at rest,

May gather bliss to see my fellows blest.

But where to find that happiest below—

Who can direct, when all pretend to know?

The shuddering tenant of the frigid zone

Boldly proclaims that happiest spot his own.”

&c., &c.

So far, then, from the hoard of happiness being small, every country proclaims itself to be specially and pre-eminently blest. The philosophic poet has no reason for his sorrow: he wanted one happy spot, and he has found every spot is happy—supremely happy.

But the apparent incongruity vanishes on a closer examination. Each nation boasts its pre-eminence over other nations; but man nowhere boasts much of being man. Every people is proud and self-congratulatory whilst it compares itself with other people; but its pride and gratulation are only sustained by this comparison. Every congregation of men who merely contemplate themselves as with the earth beneath them, and the sky above, are heard to fill the air with lamentations and discontent. So that the philosopher, notwithstanding these several vaunts of every nation, civilised and savage, may still search, if he thinks fit, for the spot “to happiness consigned.”

Our poet seems to find an equal proportion of good and evil in every clime, people, and government. Sometimes he is guilty of a little overcharge in this or that particular, in order to keep the balance even. Only thus can we account for the very severe language with which he takes leave of Holland. He had found the people of that country so very comfortable that it was absolutely necessary to abuse them as—

“A land of tyrants and a den of slaves,”

or the due proportion of evil would not have been preserved.

It is observable, and characteristic of the age in which Goldsmith wrote, that, beautiful as are his descriptions of the several countries of Europe, there is very little in them which betrays that he himself had ever visited those countries. There are few of those picturesque circumstances which the eye of an observer detects, and which the memory, or the note-book, preserves. Unfortunately, it was the habit of the day to trust more to the knowledge acquired from books than to the eyesight: learning had not lost that undue influence which it naturally acquired at the restoration of letters; poets chose rather to describe what had been described before, and adhere to traditional feelings and classical models, than to consult their own experience. The descriptions of scenery in The Traveller are so general, and consist of broad outlines so well known to all educated men, that they might have been written in Green Arbour Court, by one who had lived there all his life. Switzerland itself does not provoke him to quit the beaten track of broad generalities. He even describes what he did not see, because it harmonises with the ideas obtained from books. Thus,—

—“The bleak Swiss their stormy mansion tread,
And force a churlish soil for scanty bread;
No produce here the barren hills afford,

But man and steel, the soldier and his sword.”

Switzerland has been long celebrated for the mercenary troops she supplied to foreign courts; but there is no country where less is seen of the soldier and his sword; nor can “scanty bread” be said to be the lot of those who cultivate its soil.

While our eye is on this part of the poem, can we possibly resist quoting the following half-a-dozen lines? They are perfect:—

—“Those ills that round his mansion rise
Enhance the bliss his scanty fund supplies.
Dear is that shed to which his soul conforms,

And dear that hill which lifts him to the storms;

And as a child, when scaring sounds molest,

Clings close and closer to the mother’s breast—

So the loud torrent, and the whirlwind’s roar,

But bind him to his native mountains more.”

Perhaps the happiest of all these national portraits is that of France. He sympathised with the French; his pen is often employed in defending them from absurd attacks, and combating the prejudices of the John Bull of his day. The concluding lines are peculiarly happy: there is a refinement of analysis expressed in the most graceful diction.

—“Honour

Here passes current; paid from hand to hand,

It shifts in splendid traffic through the land;

From courts to camps, to cottages it strays,

And all are taught an avarice of praise;

They please, are pleased; they give to get esteem,

Till, seeming blest, they grow to what they seem.”

His praise of England we must not appear so deficient in patriotism as to quarrel with. But just as one is curious to know where an artist stood who has taken some captivating sketch of an old familiar spot, which never appeared to us so very charming before—so one might feel a little curious to discover where it was, in town or country, that Goldsmith took his stand when he saw—

“The lords of human race pass by;

Intent on high design—a thoughtful band.”

Was it on London Bridge or at Temple Bar that he read the marks of “high design” in the “thoughtful band” that we were rushing past him like a mill-stream? Or was he far off in the country, and did the squire and his tenantry sit for the picture?

We already find in The Traveller that strange hallucination which seems to have haunted him, and which he more fully expressed in the subsequent poem of The Deserted Village—that England was being depopulated! What could have conducted him to a conclusion so utterly at variance with the fact, it is useless to inquire. It was his crotchet. He had probably seen decay in some places, and took no calculation of the more than proportionate increase of others. For Goldsmith did not limit himself to the mistaken notion, which many had expressed, that the towns were growing large at the expense of the country, but entertained—what to us must seem the strangest of paradoxes—entertained the conviction that the population of the whole country was wasting away.

Happily, as we have already remarked, no one thinks of the theory of depopulation, or over-population, or any other theory of political economy, whilst reading The Deserted Village. We have all learned to love “Sweet Auburn” long before any idea connected with so crabbed and distressful a subject entered our minds. Indeed the village, with all its accessories, is brought with such distinctness before us, that even the decay of Auburn itself, is not the most prominent impression which the poem produces. The deserted Auburn is made to live again so vividly in the imagination, that the desolation in which it lies only occurs occasionally to the mind, throwing a feeling of sadness and melancholy over the picture. For ourselves, we can well remember that when we first became acquainted with the village of Auburn, we always thought of it—notwithstanding the use of the past tense—as somewhere still existing. It existed, at all events, very palpably in the imagination.

The scene is English: it is, in the main, a description of an English village; but because the poet has also drawn materials from the recollections of his early home, some of his critics have been resolved to place Auburn in Ireland, and to identify what is clearly an ideal picture with the definite locality of Lissoy. On this ground they have even proceeded to convict him of an error for introducing the nightingale in one of his descriptions, there being no such bird in Ireland.

This line, in which the nightingale is introduced, we should venture to quarrel with on quite another ground. Here is the passage. No one will object to read it again, though he has read it fifty or twice fifty times.

“Sweet was the sound when oft, at evening’s close,

Up yonder hill the village murmur rose;

There as I passed with careless steps and slow,

The mingling notes came soften’d from below:

The swain responsive as the milkmaid sung,

The sober herd that lowed to meet their young;

The noisy geese that gabbled o’er the pool,

The playful children just let loose from school;

The watch-dog’s voice, that bayed the whispering wind;

And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind;

These all in sweet confusion sought the shade,

And fill’d each pause the nightingale had made.”

Have not our readers already felt how much better the description would have been if the last couplet had been omitted? This nightingale takes us by surprise. We thought we were listening to the sounds of the distant village, and find that we have been attending to the song of the nightingale, and that these had only filled up the pauses of her song. What had been the chief and prominent subject is suddenly reduced to this subordinate part. But, what is more to the purpose, the description becomes unfaithful, and ceases to reflect a real experience, when this nightingale is introduced. If that shy bird were heard singing while the milkmaid and the schoolboy were still audible, there would be no pleasing, but a very displeasing effect produced by the mingling of sounds of so very different a nature. They would by no means harmonise. We should listen with pleasure to the milkmaid and to the distant schoolboy, (he must be very distant,) and we should listen with pleasure to the nightingale, but with very little pleasure to all these at once.

Goldsmith was a genuine lover of nature; but nevertheless he had not quite escaped that taste of the day which often led to the sacrifice of the truthfulness of a picture to what was deemed the perfection of the verse. He too can sometimes desert the sense for the sound. And this word sound reminds us of rather an amusing instance where he introduces some geographical names for no earthly reason except the array of sonorous syllables they present. “Farewell,” he exclaims to poetry,—

“Farewell, and oh! where’er thy voice be tried,

On Torno’s cliffs, or Pambamarca’s side.”

Had we been in Captain Chamier’s place at the club, and wished to puzzle our friend Goldsmith, we should have asked him why he sent the muse to Pambamarca? and where, indeed, Pambamarca lay? We suspect that Goldsmith must have answered, that he knew nothing about it, except that it was a great way off, and sounded very majestically.

There is one instance where the poet has introduced a reminiscence from Ireland, which we do not recollect to have seen noticed. In the inimitable description of the village schoolmaster, he says,—

“Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage,

And e’en the story ran—that he could gauge.”

Now the rustics of an English village were not at all likely to select this accomplishment of gauging as one to bestow upon their prodigy of learning. We were tempted to explain this choice in the poet by the necessity of rhyme, which too often has manifestly determined him in the selection of his epithets, till it occurred to us that his mind had been travelling back to the Irish village, where the illicit still may have brought even to the ragged urchins of the place some rumours of the science of the exciseman.

In the whole range of English heroic verse, there is nothing more beautiful or more complete than the description of the village pastor,—

——“The man to all the country dear,

And passing rich with forty pounds a-year.”

Indeed, of the entire poem, it may be deliberately said, that it has more tenderness and pathos, gives more of picture to the eye, and of feeling to the heart, than any other in the language which is written in the same verse or metre. The polished couplets of Pope are nowhere else seen united with so much of the genuine essence of poetry. How perfect, in every way, are such lines as these,—

“But in his duty prompt at every call,

He watched and wept, he pray’d and felt for all;

And, as a bird each fond endearment tries,

To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies,

He tried each art, reproved each dull delay,

Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way.”

One more remark, one other brief quotation, and we quit this most fascinating poem, which nestles deeper in the English heart than perhaps any other. What a bland, gentle, loving humour it is which occasionally steals over the picture of The Deserted Village, giving here and there charming touches, as of gay sunshine breaking out upon the several points of a shaded landscape, yet never disturbing the sweet serenity and sadness of the whole. Never did humour wear so gentle an aspect. We go from the pastor’s house, and the pastor himself, to the village inn, and there is no abruptness in the transition. What a quiet, observant, tolerant humour it is that sees those—“broken tea-cups, wisely kept for show.” What else could they serve for? And they may still do to be looked at.

“Vain transitory splendours! could not all
Reprieve the tottering mansion from its fall?
Observe it sinks, nor shall it more impart
An hour’s importance to the poor man’s heart.
Thither no more the peasant shall repair,
To sweet oblivion of his daily care;
No more the farmer’s news, the barber’s tale,
No more the woodman’s ballad shall prevail;
No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear,

Relax his ponderous strength, and lean to hear.”

But why continue the quotation, when half our readers could complete it from their own memory?

We proposed to ourselves a glance at The Citizen of the World and The Vicar of Wakefield. It can only be a glance.

Is this really the same—we are tempted to ask ourselves—is this really the same Citizen of the World that, on our first introduction to the acquaintance of books, we read, amongst the British Essayist, with so grave attention, and so implicit a faith? Yes, it is the same; for here is the Man in Black, and here is the unmistakeable Beau Tibbs. Can we possibly forget the invitation to dinner—on the first floor down the chimney—something elegant, a turbot or an ortolan, which finally resolves itself into “a nice little piece of ox-cheek, piping hot, which Mrs Tibbs shall dress herself with that sauce the Duke dotes upon,”—and which dinner, if his hungry guest will but wait, shall be “ready in at least two hours.” Yes, here is Beau Tibbs as full of life as ever. But the Chinese philosopher—he is gone;—there is left of him, or of China, nothing but his name, and the suspicious name of his correspondent, “Fum, the son of Fo.” Instead thereof, we have Oliver Goldsmith writing his series of clever Idlers and Spectators.

Pity this Chinaman ever made his appearance. All the humour and satire of the piece might have been preserved, if some simple Englishman, some Parson Adams or Dr Primrose, had been the writer of the letters; and we should have been spared the constant incongruity of a Chinese who is not only a palpable European, but a European of the literary class. So completely versed is this Chinese philosopher in the feuds and vexations of critics and authors, that we must suppose him commissioned by the Grub Street of Pekin, to inquire into the condition of distressed poets and discontented playwrights amongst the “outer barbarians.” We should have been spared also those episodes, or adventures, which his Eastern correspondents detail to him, and which, indeed, are neither European nor Eastern, but very tedious stories.

In vain does the Chinaman assume the prejudices of his country: he may amuse us; but he cannot even get a momentary credit for the outlandish taste he affects. He cannot disparage the beauty of Englishwomen, without insinuating his praise of them. There is as much flattery as abuse, when he says:—

“I shall never forget the beauties of my native city of Nanfew. How very broad their faces! how very short their noses! how very little their eyes! how very thin their lips! how very black their teeth. Here a lady with such perfections would be frightful: Dutch and Chinese beauties, indeed, have some resemblance, but Englishwomen are entirely different; red cheeks, big eyes, and teeth of a most odious whiteness, are not only seen here, but wished for; and then they have such masculine feet, as actually serve some for walking.”

That which constitutes the greatest charm of the work is the subdued and chastened satire one occasionally meets with. Not a rude and boisterous, a cutting or malicious satire, but such as requires to be read with some attention before the full force of its sly inuendos, and of slight circumstances mentioned as if in passing, is fully perceived. Take the following instance, and note how the effect is heightened by a number of little details, thrown in as if by accident.

“A few days ago, passing by one of their prisons, I could not avoid stopping in order to listen to a dialogue which I thought might afford me some entertainment. The conversation was carried on between a debtor through the grate of his prison, a porter who had stopped to rest his burden, and a soldier at the window. The subject was upon a threatened invasion from France, and each seemed extremely anxious to rescue his country from the impending danger. ‘For my part,’ cries the prisoner, ‘the greatest of my apprehension is for our freedom: if the French should conquer, what would become of English liberty? My dear friends, liberty is the Englishman’s prerogative; we must preserve that at the expense of our lives: of that the French shall never deprive us; it is not to be expected that men who are slaves themselves, would preserve our freedom should they happen to conquer.’ ‘Ay, slaves,’ cries the porter; ‘they are all slaves, fit only to carry burdens, every one of them. Before I would stoop to slavery, may this be my poison, (and he held the goblet in his hand,) may this be my poison—but I would sooner list for a soldier.’

“The soldier, taking the goblet from his friend, with much awe fervently cried out, ‘It is not so much our liberties as our religion that would suffer by such a change: ay, our religion, my lads. May the devil sink me into flames (such was the solemnity of his adjuration) if the French should come over, but our religion would be utterly undone.’ So saying, instead of a libation, he applied the goblet to his lips, and confirmed his sentiments with a ceremony of the most persevering devotion.”

There are some works so simple in their structure, and so highly popular, that on both grounds they defy criticism. Their faults lie so open and undisguised, that the critic who would pertinaciously insist upon them, would get neither credit nor thanks for his pains. In this category is The Vicar of Wakefield. To expose its improbabilities of plot or character would be an easy and most ungracious task. We love the good Vicar, and he shall be allowed to tell his tale to the end of time just as he pleases. To be sure, this odd notion he entertains, that a clergyman ought by all means to marry once, and by no means more than once, is very like a monomania. He is so staunch a monogamist, as he calls it, as to be resolved on convincing his old friend and fellow-clergyman, Mr Wilmot, who has been married three times. But this, and all the wonderful things which the Thornhills, nephew and uncle, contrive to do, who cares to cavil at? The genuine feelings of human nature are portrayed in the novel,—kind, homely, unpretending feelings which all can sympathise with—and when the attention is once fixed by this species of truth, a thousand improbabilities may pass without challenge. It is always thus. The writer of fiction, whether it be fable or romance, and whether he deal with man or monster, or spirit of the air, has always found that if he can present a faithful reflexion of the human heart, he may give almost any conceivable license to the imagination.

What most struck us on a late perusal of The Vicar of Wakefield, was the very low level, in point of refinement, on which all the female characters are placed. The love and the courtship are of the rudest sort, without the least trace of sentiment or the poetry of the passion. Mrs Primrose, notwithstanding the excellence of her gooseberry wine, and the liberality with which she dispenses it, is, we are sorry to say, decidedly a vulgar personage. That her learning and accomplishments were those which we should now assign to the housekeeper, rather than to the wife of a wealthy vicar, (for such is Dr Primrose when we are first introduced to him,) is no part of our objection; this the difference of times and systems of education may sufficiently explain. Mrs Primrose is vulgar at the heart. She lacks those feelings of refinement which sometimes grow up spontaneously even in the peasant’s hut.

Recall to mind the manner in which she receives back her unfortunate daughter Olivia. Let it be remembered that she had been practising her petty blundering artifices, her most visible palpable manœuvres, to catch the rich young squire. It was her plot, her scheme for elevating the family; in which scheme her daughter was of course to co-operate. Yet this is her speech upon the occasion. It is true human nature, but it is human nature of a very vulgar description. “Ah, Madam,” cried her mother, “this is but a poor place you are come to after so much finery. My daughter Sophy and I can afford but little entertainment to persons who have kept company only with people of distinction. Yes, Miss Livy, your poor father and I have suffered very much of late; but I hope Heaven will forgive you.”

This Olivia herself is not made interesting to us by any one trait in her character. Her beauty, and the cruel treatment she meets with from her coarse and brazen seducer, is all she has to depend upon for any claim to our sympathy. Affliction has its worst effect upon her, the effect it has on the selfish and unrefined. “Every tender epithet bestowed on her sister brought a pang to her heart, and a tear to her eye; and as one vice, when cured, ever plants others where it has been, so her former guilt, though driven out by repentance, left jealousy and envy behind.” It is just as well we do not get more intimate with the female part of the family, for it is evident that in proportion as we knew them better, we should like them less.

Had the life of Goldsmith brought him acquainted with no higher specimens of the sex? Had his fair cousin Jane, the daughter of good Uncle Contarine, with whom he used to practise music, and talk poetry, left with him no more refined impression of female society than we see reflected in The Vicar of Wakefield? Or, must we understand his portraits as fair specimens of the women of his time? Or, shall we seek a third explanation in the want of refinement in the literature of that period? We suspect the last has much to do with it.

Here we must bring to a conclusion our necessarily detached and desultory criticisms on the works of Goldsmith. As a prose writer, it would be in vain for any too partial biographer or critic to elevate him to the rank of those who guide or confirm opinion, and teach us to reason and to judge. But how many a familiar truth has he clothed in clear and graceful diction! How often, too, the isolated observation, thrown out as if by happy chance, stimulates the mind to reflection! What a master he is of form—of the pleasing art which moulds the style! But his two principal poems are the works which raise him to the rank of the immortals. We can easily understand that many ardent admirers of our contemporaneous poetry—replete as it is with the philosophic speculations of the age, its subtle and ambitious thinking—may be disposed to look down with an air of condescension, and a sort of gentle disdain, upon the poetry of Goldsmith. But time passes on, and brings new modes of philosophising; the subtleties of one age do not always charm the next; and it may happen that much which is now held in highest repute, as the most poetical of poetry, shall have grown dim and obsolete, whilst mothers shall be still teaching to their children, and old men still repeating to themselves, the descriptions of The Traveller and of The Deserted Village.

TO BURNS’S “HIGHLAND MARY.”

I.

O loved by him whom Scotland loves,
Long loved, and honoured duly
By all who love the bard who sang
So sweetly and so truly!
In cultured dales his song prevails,
Thrills o’er the eagle’s aëry,—
Ah! who that strain has caught, nor sighed
For Burns’s “Highland Mary?”

II.

I wandered on from hill to hill,
I feared nor wind nor weather;
For Burns beside me trode the moor,
Beside me pressed the heather.
I read his verse—his life—alas!
O’er that dark shades extended:—
With thee at last, and him in thee,
My thoughts their wanderings ended.

III.

His golden hours of youth were thine—
Those hours whose flight is fleetest;
Of all his songs to thee he gave
The freshest and the sweetest.
Ere ripe the fruit, one branch he brake,
All rich with bloom and blossom;
And shook its dews, its incense shook,
Above thy brow and bosom.

IV.

And when his Spring, alas, how soon!
Had been by care subverted,
His Summer, like a god repulsed,
Had from his gates departed;
Beneath the evening star, once more,
Star of his morn and even!
To thee his suppliant hands he spread,
And hailed his love “in heaven.”

V.

And if his spirit in “a waste
Of shame” too oft was squandered,
And if too oft his feet ill-starred
In ways erroneous wandered;
Yet still his spirit’s spirit bathed
In purity eternal;
And all fair things through thee retained
For him their aspect vernal.

VI.

Nor less that tenderness remained
Thy favouring love implanted;
Compunctious pity, yearnings vague
For love to earth not granted;
Reserve with freedom, female grace
Well matched with manly vigour,
In songs where fancy twined her wreaths
Round judgment’s stalwart rigour.

VII.

A mute but strong appeal was made
To him by feeblest creatures;
In his large heart had each a part
That part had found in Nature’s.
The wildered sheep, sagacious dog,
Old horse reduced and crazy,
The field-mouse by the plough upturned,
And violated daisy.

VIII.

In him there burned that passionate glow,
All Nature’s soul and savour,
Which gives its hue to every flower,
To every fruit its flavour.
Nor less the kindred power he felt,
That love of all things human,
Whereof the fiery centre is
The love man bears to woman.

IX.

He sang the dignity of man,
Sang woman’s grace and goodness;
Passed by the world’s half-truths, her lies
Pierced through with lance-like shrewdness.
Upon life’s broad highways he stood,
And aped nor Greek nor Roman;
But snatched from heaven Promethean fire
To glorify things common.

X.

He sang of youth, he sang of age,
Their joys, their griefs, their labours;
Felt with, not for, the people; hailed
All Scotland’s sons his neighbours:
And therefore all repeat his verse—
Hot youth, or graybeard steady,
The boat-man on Loch Etive’s wave,
The shepherd on Ben Ledi.

XI.

He sang from love of song; his name
Dunedin’s cliff resounded:—
He left her, faithful to a fame
On truth and nature founded.
He sought true fame, not loud acclaim;
Himself and Time he trusted:
For laurels crackling in the flame
His fine ear never lusted.

XII.

He loved, and reason had to love.

The illustrious land that bore him:

Where’er he went, like heaven’s broad tent

A star-bright Past hung o’er him.

Each isle had fenced a saint recluse,

Each tower a hero dying;

Down every mountain-gorge had rolled

The flood of foemen flying.

XIII.

From age to age that land had paid
No alien throne submission,
For feudal faith had been her Law,
And freedom her Tradition.
Where frowned the rocks had Freedom smiled,
Sung, mid the shrill wind’s whistle—
So England prized her garden Rose,
But Scotland loved her Thistle.

XIV.

The land thus pure from foreign foot,
Her growing powers thus centred
Around her heart, with other lands
The race historic entered.
Her struggling dawn, convulsed or bright,
Worked on through storms and troubles,
Whilst a heroic line of kings
Strove with heroic nobles.

XV.

Fair field alone the brave demand,

And Scotland ne’er had lost it:

And honest prove the hate and love

To objects meet adjusted.

Intelligible course was hers

By safety tried or danger:

The native was for native known—

The stranger known for stranger.

XVI.

Honour in her a sphere had found,
Nobility a station,
The patriots’ thought the task it sought,
And virtue—toleration.
Her will and way had ne’er been crossed
In fatal contradiction;
Nor loyalty to treason soured,
Nor faith abused with fiction.

XVII.

Can song be mute where hearts are sound?

Weak doubts—away we fling them!

The land that breeds great men, great deeds,

Should ne’er lack bards to sing them.

That vigour, sense, and mutual truth

Which baffled each invader,

Shall fill her marts, and feed her arts,

While peaceful olives shade her.

XVIII.

Honour to Scotland and to Burns!
In him she stands collected.
A thousand streams one river make—
Thus Genius, heaven-directed,
Conjoins all separate veins of power
In one great soul-creation;
And blends a million men to make
The Poet of the nation.

XIX.

Honour to Burns! and her who first
Let loose the abounding river
Of music from the Poet’s heart,
Borne through all lands for ever!
How much to her mankind has owed
Of song’s selectest treasures!
Unsweetened by her kiss, his lips
Had sung far other measures.

XX.

Be green for aye, green bank and brae
Around Montgomery’s Castle!
Blow there, ye earliest flowers! and there,
Ye sweetest song-birds, nestle!
For there was ta’en that last farewell
In hope, indulged how blindly;
And there was given that long last gaze
“That dwelt” on him “sae kindly.”

XXI.

No word of thine recorded stands;
Few words that hour were spoken:
Two Bibles there were interchanged,
And some slight love-gift broken.
And there thy cold faint hands he pressed,
Thy head by dewdrops misted;
And kisses, ill-resisted first,
At last were unresisted.

XXII.

Ah cease!—she died. He too is dead.
Of all her girlish graces
Perhaps one nameless lock remains:
The rest stern Time effaces—
Dust lost in dust. Not so: a bloom
Is hers that ne’er can wither;
And in that lay which lives for aye
The twain live on together.

MY PENINSULAR MEDAL.
BY AN OLD PENINSULAR.
PART IV.—CHAPTER X.

Next morning, I commenced my regular attendance at the office; all hands employed in counting money.

“Well, Mr Y—,” said my commanding officer, “I fear you find the gentleman with whom you lodge rather dull company.”

“Particularly lively, sir; never met with a more pleasant person.”

“Thought he was rather morose,” replied Mr Q—. “That’s the character he bears amongst his acquaintance here.”

“Quite cheerful and obliging, sir; sings a good song. Yesterday he invited a couple of friends to meet me at dinner. Does all he can to make me comfortable, even to his own inconvenience. Last night, as we were short of blankets, he forced me to take his greatcoat, which he generally puts upon his own bed. Offered, as a favour, to sell it me, as I am going up to the army. Only asks ten dollars.”

“Yes, yes; he’s always trying to bargain. That’s what has got him such a bad name here. Constantly on the look-out to turn a penny. Well, do you buy the pony?”

“Yes, sir,” said I; “we settled about that this morning at breakfast. Shall have to trouble you for the needful, as he would like to be paid in the course of the day.”

“In the course of the day? Oh, very well. The cashier may as well give it you at once. Stop; I’ll write you an order. At the same time, I feel it my duty to say this to you; mind and take a receipt. How much will you draw?”

“I suppose, sir, the usual allowance granted by Government, eighty dollars. That, he said, of course.”

“What! Eighty dollars for that beast of a pony? Why, Mr Y—, one would think you had come out direct from England! Saddle and bridle in? Of course.”

“No, sir; we are to settle about the saddle and bridle to-morrow. Said he didn’t know what he ought to ask for them.”

“Ought!—a rascal! He knows very well, when you’ve got the pony, you must have the saddle and bridle. Don’t know of a saddle that would suit Sancho, in all Passages. Well, Mr Y—; I feel it my duty to say this to you—it’s a regular take-in. Sixty dollars I should call a high figure, saddle and bridle included. If you can sell at headquarters for forty, you may think yourself well off.”

“Hadn’t I better go and pitch into him, sir?”

“Pitch into him? Nonsense. That won’t do here, Mr Y—. Besides, a bargain’s a bargain, you know. If you have said eighty, it must be eighty. Have you looked out for a fresh billet?”

“Didn’t know there was any occasion, sir.”

“You don’t expect to pass another night in your present quarters, after you have paid for Sancho? If you complete the purchase this morning, depend upon it, you’ll have to get other accommodation before bed-time.”

“I’m rather at a loss how to proceed, sir.”

“Why, let me see. I must consider. Go and tell him—yes—go and tell him, for that money you ought to have saddle and bridle in. Tell him so, from me. We must try and be a match for this gentleman. Don’t think it right that your uncle’s nephew, the moment he joins, should be pigeoned at this rate. Stop—tell him, at the same time, you can’t purchase till the day you’re off. Under all the circumstances of the case, I feel it my duty to say this to you; till then, I shall keep the eighty dollars in the military chest. While you’re here, he may as well have the bother of keeping Sancho as you. And, besides, while the bargain’s open—don’t you see?—you won’t be disturbed in your quarters. If you lose them, the place is so crowded, ten to one I shall be forced to accommodate you myself.”

Charged with what promised to prove an awkward negotiation, I walked off to find my friend. Nothing of the kind. He took it all with the greatest good-humour; consented with alacrity to throw in the saddle and bridle; and as to the money, why, if it wasn’t forthcoming at once, he could wait till it was.

Three hands of us, counting dollars till dinner-time, did a good stroke of work:—only that plaguy “small mixed” was a serious addition to our labours. Fancy a bag of small silver, a thousand dollars in amount, shot out before you on the table; a heap of mingled coin, specimens of every fraction of a dollar, that ever issued in silver from the Spanish mint; the whole lot to be sorted, counted, and made right. A single bag took us often two or three hours. As to counting a bag of whole dollars, that was a far easier job. Count ten; set them on the table in a pile. Ten such piles in a row make a hundred; ten such rows in a square make one thousand:—the bag is counted. Unluckily, though, your last pile is sometimes nine, or eleven, instead of ten. Ah, you’re a greenhorn; you’ve counted wrong. Then down goes your nose to the edge of the table; your eye glances over the summit of the piles. Discover, if you can, a pile higher or lower than the rest: the error is then detected. Should you fail, there’s no remedy: “Mr Snooks, you had better count the whole again.” Still wrong? then some older hand is set to count. Can’t he get it right? Why, then, the bag is wrong. Set it on one side and count another. Fingers sore, about the third day. With the first day’s counting they get a little black; on the second, rough, and painful; third, cracked, and begin to bleed. About this time comes a thundering letter, blowing up the whole department sky high, for not having the money ready to pay the troops. What your fingers are, if the counting goes on a day or two longer, especially with the encouraging accompaniment of a rap on the knuckles, I leave you to guess. We had a military guard; four Germans, one of them a corporal. The man on duty as sentry walked up and down in the passage, while the other three sat over a small fire in an adjoining room. They could sing in parts—sang well. One of them struck up, the others followed, the sentry joined in as he paced the lobby. Sometimes it was a national song, sometimes a hymn. Nothing, in sacred music, like those German hymns. But then, take notice, you must have German voices to do them justice. The men of our guard were quiet, sober, well-conducted fellows; always willing to make themselves useful; rendered us great assistance in helping the carpenter to open and close the boxes, and in lifting the bags from the boxes to the table, and vice versâ. Mr Q—, as an acknowledgment, made a handsome addition to their supper.

Our dinner was strictly departmental, very much to my taste; quite a sort of family party. No one was present save the gentlemen of our own office at Passages. Mr Q—, I rather suspect, wanted to give me some idea of my duties, in the responsible charge of conducting treasure to headquarters through the enemy’s country. Perhaps he thought a little chat amongst ourselves would be the best mode of instruction.

Towards the close of the evening, as we sat talking over departmental matters, each with his tumbler before him—hot,—our conversation was interrupted by a tap at the door. “Come in,” said Mr Q—.

The door opened; and in the doorway appeared one of our German guard. With an earnest but somewhat vacant look, and his hand spread out upon his breast, he stood erect, his appearance that of a man who wants words, but is very anxious to speak. At length he began: “Mine haarrt ist folle.” Just at that moment the corporal appeared behind, seized the orator by the shoulders, and cut short his harangue by spinning him round into the passage, and closing the door. “Oh, I see how it is,” said Mr Q—. “The extra allowance has got into his head. He wants to return thanks for his supper; that’s all.”

Presently there was a scuffle outside. Again the door opened; and again the same individual made his appearance, commencing as before, with pathos and much gravity, “Mine haarrt ist folle.” The corporal interposed once more; but another scuffle ensued in the passage, followed by a third visit, with similar results.

“Better get him to turn in,” said Mr Q—; but that was more English than the corporal understood. Recollecting a few German words, I contrived to make the command intelligible; and partly by force, partly by persuasion, our grateful friend was stowed away for the night; still exclaiming, from time to time, “Mine haarrt ist folle,” and making strenuous efforts to break away from his comrades, come back, and finish his oration. When all was quiet, I took my leave for the night. The sound of my footsteps caught his ear, and set him off again. His voice grew louder as my distance increased; and “Mine haarrt ist folle” resounded in the street. Next morning he came up to me, looking very sheepish and compunctious; and commenced a long discourse in German, expressive of his profound regret. This at his request I interpreted, as far as able, to his “Excellenz” the “Haupt.”

At length arrived the day, the important day, of my departure to join the army. It was arranged that the treasure should be conveyed up the harbour in boats to the bridge of Oyarzun, with a guard of soldiers. At Oyarzun we were to sleep the first night; and there, also, we were to meet the rest of our escort, and the mules intended to convey the money. My friend and I had arranged it together, that he was to bring Sancho to the office in the course of the morning, saddled and bridled. I was then to pay the purchase-money, and the pony would be mine. My friend was punctual to his time; Sancho stood at the door; and I applied to Mr Q— for the eighty dollars.

“Oh yes, of course,” said he; “may as well give it you at once. Is the pony at Oyarzun?”

“No, sir; he’s here, at the door.”

“Here at the door? Then how do you mean to get him to Oyarzun?” I had never thought of that.

“Can’t he go with us, in one of the boats, sir?”

“Oh yes, certainly; yes, yes. If they were horse-boats, of course he could. But as they are common ship-boats, borrowed for the occasion from the transports in harbour, how will you get him in, and how will you get him out? Not to mention that he might take to kicking; and kick out a plank from the bottom of the boat, as you were pulling up the harbour. In that case, the treasure would have a short voyage, and you too.”

“Hadn’t I better mention it to my friend, sir?”

“Why, yes; I think you had. Stop; let me see. Suppose you request him to step in. I’ll speak to him myself.”

I invited my friend into the office. He entered smiling—rubbed his hands—looked sleeky and resigned—evidently thought he was going to realise.

“Well, sir,” said Mr Q—, addressing my friend, “this is an awkward business about the pony. I don’t see how the purchase can be completed.”

“Completed, sir?” said my friend, rather taken aback, and losing his temper. “I thought it was completed, all but paying the money.”

“Very true, sir,” said Mr Q—; “but that, you know, makes all the difference. The money is not paid; and, more than that, it’s not issued. And, sir, under all the circumstances of the case, I feel it my duty to say this to you; unless I see everything straight, I don’t intend to issue it.”

“Well, sir,” said my friend, “I conceive everything is straight, so far as I am concerned. There stands the pony, at the door.”

“Yes, I know he does. But how is he to be got to the head of the harbour?”

“Of course I supposed Mr Y— would ride him, sir.”

“No, no; that’s out of the question. The treasure goes by water; and of course, being in charge, Mr Y— must go with it.”

“Well, sir,” replied my friend, “if that’s all, my servant shall take the pony.”

“Oh, very well, sir,” said Mr Q—, “if you think you can trust your servant to receive and bring back the purchase-money.”

“No occasion for that, sir; I can receive it here, sir, if you’ve no objection.”

“None whatever, when I know that the pony is delivered at Oyarzun. Not before delivery, of course.”

My friend was seized with a fit of musing;—looked rather at a loss. At length he found his tongue.

“The long and the short of it is, I think, sir, I had better ride the pony to Oyarzun myself, and make the delivery in person.”

“Very well, sir,” said Mr Q—. “I think so too. Then, on receiving the pony at Oyarzun, Mr Y— will pay you the eighty dollars. Will you favour us with your company? We are just going to lunch.”

“Thank you, sir; much obliged. Think I had better be off at once. Mr Y— will not reach Oyarzun till late; and it’s out of the question my returning to Passages after dark, especially on foot, and with a lot of dollars.”

“Oh, certainly; and by such a horrid, cut-throat, out-of-the-way road, too. You’d certainly be robbed and murdered; that is, if you get safe there. Better secure a night’s lodging at Oyarzun, if there’s one to be had, sir.”

“Yes, and come back to-morrow by daylight. Well, the sooner I’m off the better. Good morning, sir.”

“Good morning, sir.” My friend mounted Sancho at the door, and set off forthwith to Oyarzun.

Mr Q—, laughing heartily, then handed me my route, made out in due form.

While I was making the necessary arrangements for my start in the afternoon, Mr Q— summoned me into his private apartment. He had doffed his blue frock with black velvet collar, and now appeared in full fig, departmental coat, epaulet on his shoulder, staff-hat on the table. His manner was serious, but friendly.

“You are probably aware, Mr Y—,” said he, “that the Allied army is not likely to resume active operations for some days.”

“So I have understood, sir,” said I.

“I presume, however, you are not acquainted with the cause of this temporary inactivity.”

“Can’t say I am, sir.”

“It is, I believe I may venture to inform you, principally the want of money. That deficiency your arrival will supply. You will readily perceive, then, how much depends on your conducting the treasure safely, and delivering it by the time when it is looked for. Your route lies through the enemy’s country; but the population is now comparatively quiet; the date of your departure is known at headquarters, and, I have no doubt, every requisite arrangement has been made to secure the safety of your convoy. All such arrangements, however, proceed, and must proceed, on one supposition—namely, that the officer in charge is, on his part, competent to the task committed to him, obeys his orders, and does his duty properly. You will readily perceive, then, that some measure of responsibility rests upon your own shoulders.”

“Yes, sir; and, in the course of the last few days, I have been thinking on that subject more than once.”

“All the better. Mr Y—, if you had ever discharged this duty before, I should now merely wish you a pleasant journey, and send you off. But this is your first expedition; it is one, to speak candidly, of greater risk than any that has hitherto fallen to our department. The army is considerably in advance in the French territory; you have before you six or seven days’ march upon French ground; it will, of course, be discovered that you carry money—there is no concealing that; a convoy like yours will naturally excite the cupidity of partisans and marauders; from St Jean de Luz to headquarters you will not find a single officer of our department to give you the benefit of his experience; and, under all the circumstances of the case, I feel it my duty to say this to you—mind what you are about; on no account separate from your convoy; let nothing induce you to deviate from the written route; always reach the specified station at the specified time; keep your escort sober, if you can; keep your muleteers in good-humour; keep your mules well together on the line of march; and, if you are asked questions, don’t be lavish of information. The French, Mr Y—, though an inquisitive people, are not apt to interrogate official persons out of mere curiosity. If, therefore, any individual should pester you with inquiries, depend upon it he has a motive.”

“I suppose, sir,” said I, “in such a case, it will be as well to return some sort of a general reply, just to avoid the appearance of mystery.”

“Exactly that,” said Mr Q—. “When a gentleman makes an inquiry, you are bound, by etiquette, to give him a reply. Whether you give him an answer is optional, and a matter of discretion.

“By the bye,” added Mr Q—, after a pause, “I shouldn’t wonder if you missed the pony, after all—no great harm if you do. To be sure, you must march on foot, the first day or two; but you won’t mind that; and you will have your eighty dollars. Put twenty to them, and I shouldn’t wonder if you pick up a very tolerable mule, which will answer your purpose far better. Then, if at headquarters you wish to come out well mounted, and choose to buy a horse, a mule, you know, will always fetch its value.”

“I hope, sir,” said I, “we shall have a good escort.”

“Oh, yes—the escort. That is one of the subjects I wish to mention. Well, Mr Y—, you must do the best you can with them. Your escort consists of twenty men; not, I am sorry to say, twenty men of any one corps, but twenty men of twenty different regiments; men who have been in hospital at Vittoria, sick or wounded—have recovered, and are now on their return to headquarters—not exactly the guard I should have wished to provide, but the best I could get for you. The worst is, I have seen the officer who is to command them, and don’t like him at all. Hope you will like him better than I do. Hope he won’t give you trouble, or prove incompetent. Should he turn out not quite the person you wish, or should your escort appear insufficient, say nothing till you reach St Jean de Luz, up to which point I consider you as safe as if travelling in England. Then wait upon old Colonel B—, the commandant; state your case to him; and he, I have no doubt, will make the best arrangements in his power, for the security of your subsequent progress. Come, Mr Y—, after dinner, we’ll see you into the boat.”

“Perhaps, sir,” said I, “you will oblige me with a line to the commandant, to be presented if the case requires.”

“No need of that,” said he, “I wrote to the Colonel yesterday, after seeing the gentleman who goes with you.”

Before leaving the room, I very heartily thanked my commanding officer for all his good advice, forethought, and kind attentions. We then shook hands upon it, in the usual English style; and I held by the paw as worthy a little man as ever trod shoe-leather, and as smart an officer as ever drew rations.

The dinner was again departmental, and so was the talk. “It is the boast of our department,” said Mr Q—, “that, since we have served in the Peninsula under our present commander-in-chief, no treasure in our keeping, not even a single mule’s load of specie, has ever been captured by the enemy. Recollect that, Mr Y—, and keep up our character.”

“Didn’t we once lose a box of papers, sir?” said one of my fellow-clerks.

“We did,” said Mr Q—; “but, two days after, it was recaptured, and all the papers found right. That was on the retreat, subsequent to the battle of Talavera. I see nothing of the boats,” he added, rising, and walking to the balcony. “Hope they’ll be here in time.”

“Get him to tell about that campaign,” whispered the senior of my fellow-clerks, winking to the junior. “Did you ever hear him tell it, Mr Y—?”

“I think, sir, in the course of that campaign,” said the junior, addressing Mr Q—, on his return to the table, “the whole department together, chest and all, had a narrow escape from being captured.”

“Not exactly,” said Mr Q—, “because we obeyed orders. Had we not, we should have had no escape at all: we must have been taken, every man of us. The boats are not in sight, so I’ll just tell you how it was. Gentlemen, try this Madeira. We halted one evening, after a weary march, in a village. The rain was coming down in torrents. We unloaded the treasure, and housed it, glad enough to get a little rest. Just at that moment, Mr Y—, an order came to your uncle, to load again, and be ready to move on at a moment’s warning, but not to stir till further notice. Well, sir, we made ready again, with all expedition; the night closed in; the rain fell, heavier than ever; and an anxious time we had of it. Parties of stragglers, one after the other, came hurrying through the village—one set assuring us the enemy were close at their heels, another telling us we had better be off, another warning us, if we stayed there, we should all be taken, and serve us right. I own I felt rather nervous; but the Governor would not budge. He had got his directions, he said, not to proceed without further orders; and there he should wait, treasure and all, till the orders came. Presently, in a mighty bustle, up rode a general officer. Begged to know, in a tone of authority, why we were waiting there. The Governor replied as before. ‘Well, but it was perfectly absurd. The enemy were close at hand—on our flanks, right and left.’ Couldn’t move the Governor. The general grew angry, swore, almost threatened. ‘Will you move on, sir, or will you not?’ Then clapped spurs to his horse, in a towering passion, and rode away with a wave of his hand, as if saying, ‘I leave you to your fate.’ Well, gentlemen, we waited, waited till midnight. No order came. Waited on till morning dawned. Then, at length, came a staff-officer, with a message from his lordship, directing us to proceed. We did so; and found the general quite right in one thing—the French had been on our flanks. But not only that; they had been in our front. During the night, they had occupied in force the very road by which we were to pass. Had we started sooner, we should have walked right into them.”

The boats now made their appearance, and were soon alongside the jetty. A working party embarked the treasure, packed, as before, in boxes. I then said farewell, and took my seat. With three boat-loads of treasure, and a guard of a corporal and six soldiers, we pulled away for the bridge of Oyarzun. There we found three individuals expecting our arrival—Captain Rattler, who was appointed to command our escort, my friend, and Sancho.

I completed the purchase of Sancho, by handing over to my friend the eighty dollars, and receiving an acknowledgment of the same, which he had brought in his pocket. Just at that moment, my attention was called from my friend, by something in the boats. The next instant I turned, to resume our conversation—he had vanished! By the dim ray of evening at length I caught sight of him in the distance, walking down the road towards the town. My friend! My jolly, good-humoured, hospitable friend! My friend, who could sing a good song! My friend, who laughed indiscriminately and immoderately at all my jokes! He had got his money. It was all he wanted. He was off, without staying to say “Good night!”

CHAPTER XI.

The departure of my friend was soon followed by that of the boats. The treasure was then placed in security for the night, in charge of two sentries; and Captain Rattler politely offered me accommodation in his quarters, as well as stable-room for Sancho. We accordingly started together, I leading the pony; when one of the soldiers stepped up, and, saluting in due form, took hold of the bridle. “Well,” said I, “just lead him to the stable, will you?”

“Yes, sir,” said he smartly; “and take care on him too, sir. Git across him, sir, if you’ve no objections, sir. Got a bullet in my leg, sir.”

Suiting the action to the word, and not waiting for leave, he then mounted the pony, or, as he had more graphically described the process, “got across” him. That is, laying hold with both hands, he took a spring, and brought the pit of his stomach upon the saddle; then, wriggling forwards, got one leg over, dug his heels into Sancho’s side before he was well in his seat, and started off at a trot, his legs dangling, and the stirrups too. As he mounted and rode away, I noticed a hard, droll sort of leer, on the weather-beaten countenances of his comrades. Jones, it soon became apparent, was both the wag and the butt of the whole escort.

The corporal, meanwhile, was receiving his instructions from Captain Rattler. “Fraser of the 42d?” said the captain. “Oh, very well. You will see to the whole party. We haven’t another corporal in the escort. Turn them out to-morrow in good time; and be sure to have them here by eight o’clock, when we load the mules.”

While the captain and I were seated at our tea, Jones entered without knocking, twitched his forelock, and with a savage look made a plunge at my boots, and walked away with them. Jones, it was clear, had made up his mind to be my personal attendant, as long as I and he marched in company. That being the case, I here beg leave to give you his character,—though I fear it would not gain him admittance into your service.

Jones went among his comrades by the name of Taffy, and certainly was not wronged by the legend, which says “Taffy was a thief.” Take a trait. On the march, he stole a Dutch cheese, sold it me for a dollar, and ate it himself. He was conversable, and couldn’t keep his own counsel: e. g. not satisfied with realising both dollar and cheese, he ostentatiously pleaded guilty to the original theft, walking by the side of my pony. Jones was no raw recruit:—had served in the Peninsula, if his word was to be trusted, through five successive campaigns; got his wound at Pampeluna, and was now returning from hospital to join his regiment. In active service, he had acquired all the good and bad qualities of an old campaigner; united with which were some of both sorts, that were properly his own. His oddities he did not attempt to hide, though they constantly exposed him to the jeers of his comrades. He was susceptible, touchy, testy—not quarrelsome. Felt ridicule very acutely; if laughed at, complained bitterly—expostulated—but was not to be laughed out of his own ways. He was somewhat undersized; a smart, wiry, hard-featured light-infantry man: had, to an excess, that wriggle in his gait, which was imparted to our foot-soldiers by the awkward set of their accoutrements—straightening their back, stretching their neck, fixing their head, projecting their chin, and throwing all the action, in walking, into their loins, thighs, and shoulders. His first appearance was by no means a letter of recommendation. He carried the gallows in his countenance,—in short, had that sort of look which helps to get “oudacious” boys a “larrupping;” desperate, dogged, abject, and impudent at the same time. He was capable of any sort of atrocity:—you might turn him by a word. Had a perpetual wolf—yet didn’t care much for eating, when he could get drink. Never refused a tumbler of wine—but preferred something short. His tact was considerable. He soon found out just what I disliked, and what I liked—accommodated his likings to mine. With a constant eye to self, was my intensely devoted humble servant. Never resisted—always gave up a point at once, when he couldn’t carry it—yet often contrived to have his own way. Much preferred riding to walking: seldom suffered a day to pass, without finding more than one opportunity to “get across” Sancho in the course of the march. If I was off, he was on. Took an amazing liking to “the pony,”—and sold his corn. Hated the French, but not so much as he hated our own horse-soldiers. Jones, often offended, was never saucy. Took a jobation as a matter of course. Looked savage at the moment; the next, was larking with the muleteers. The muleteers took to him amazingly. For endless neglects and trespasses, he had one plea, always ready—“Got a bullet in my leg, sir.”

Next morning, just as we had done breakfast, Corporal Fraser entered to announce the men ready, the mules arrived, and all prepared for loading. The captain and I proceeded to the spot, and the loading commenced. Corporal Fraser made himself universally useful; I soon discovered that, in him, we had an acquisition. Leaving the superintendence, for a moment, to the captain and him, I stepped back to the billet, for the purpose of stowing, in my already overcharged portmanteau, a lot of loose dollars, part of my own ready cash, which I found a drag. Just as I had piled them on the table, to the number of forty, and was forcing them in amongst shirts, shaving materials, and portable dictionaries, who should enter but the captain? “Ah!” said he, “don’t trouble yourself; you haven’t room. You’ll ruin your things. Here; my portmanteau is open.” So saying, he laid hands on the dollars, counted thirty, and whipped them into his box. “Thirty,” said he—“there, they’ll go safe. Remember. Thirty.” It was done in the twinkling of an eye. “Rather cool,” thought I; “but of course it’s all right.”

We returned together. A few of the soldiers were placed as sentries. The rest had piled their arms, and stood waiting about, ready to fall in and march when the mules were loaded. Something out of the usual course was evidently going on: the men were all on a broad grin. I walked into a sort of court-yard, and at once discovered the cause of the general mirth. On a money-box sat Jones, and before him stood a goat. “Purty creatur!” said Jones. “Purty thing—isn’t she, sir?” He held out a bit of biscuit. She playfully made a show of butting, advanced, and took it—“It’s mine, sir,” said he: “follows me about like a dog, sir.”

“No wonder,” said I, “so long as the biscuit lasts.”

“No, sir; ’tisn’t that, sir,” replied Jones. “It’s ’cause I speaks to her as goats understands, sir; same as we speaks to ’em in the Principality, sir. Only see, sir.”

Jones then knelt down, put his nose close to nanny’s, and, with a coaxing voice and a most affectionate look, gave utterance to a few low guttural sounds, in a language to me unknown. Nanny rose on her hind legs, and again made play with her head; then, just as I expected to see Jones punched and prostrate, arched her neck gracefully on one side, descended on her fore-feet, stepped back, cut a caper, ran up to Jones again in a butting attitude, and, instead of knocking him over, put her nose close to his, and uttered a short bleat. “There, sir,” said Jones; “see that, sir?—understands me every word, sir.” It certainly did look very much as if nanny understood Welch.

“Well, what did you say to her?”

“Why, I said this, sir. ‘Nanny,’ says I, ‘we’re off directly instant,’ says I; ‘and you must come along with us,’ says I; ‘and I’ll milk you morning and evening,’ says I. ‘And then the cappn, and this here hommerble jeddleham what’s present,’ says I, ‘won’t never not want milk for their tea,’ says I, ‘nor yet for their breakfast nayther,’ says I.”

“Well, and what does nanny say?” asked I, almost laughing at this stroke of generalship.

“Please, sir,” replied Jones, “she says she’s quite agreeable, sir; that is, if you are, sir. That’s what she says, sir.”

“Oh, very well.” Had Jones and I been better acquainted, I might have felt it needful to ask first, how nanny had passed into his possession.

“Thank yer honour,” said Jones, springing on his feet. “That’s jest the very thing as I was a-going to aast yer honour. Much obleeged to yer honour. Purty creatur! Nothing to her, a day’s march, sir. Won’t mind it the least in the world, sir. Come in quite fresh, sir.” As I was walking out of the yard, Jones ran after me,—“Please, sir, if the cappn makes any objections, when he siz nanny coming on along with us, sir, please just tell him she’s a nanny, sir; that is, I means to say, a femmel, sir, and giz milk, sir. Then he won’t have nothing to say against her, sir.”

Nanny did actually accompany our march to headquarters; and not only gave us milk, regularly twice a-day, but on one occasion rendered us a far more important service. She became the pet of the men, and soon knocked up an acquaintance with the pony. Sancho and nanny travelled side by side; except that nanny’s line of march was now and then excursive; on which occasions the pony expressed his uneasiness by turning his head to look, with an impatient snort. Nanny was certainly not undeserving of Jones’s commendations of her beauty. Not one of that homebred race, of vulgar aspect, ungainly form, and short, coarse coat, so common both in this country and abroad—a race that lose all their sprightliness when they cease to be kids, and become full-grown goats;—in form she resembled the antelope; her step was that of goats that haunt the precipice, the pinnacle, and the glacier; elegance was in all her movements; and her hair, fine, flowing, and luxuriant—in colour a beautiful light orange-tawny, softening into an amber yellow, pale and delicate—with its snow-white fringe almost sweeping the ground. A dainty hussy, too, was Miss Nanny. She had her luxuries, and scorned to browse on common grass: culled her tidbits by the road-side, as she trotted along—a nibble here, and a nibble there; was partial to biscuit broken small, and wouldn’t refuse a crumb of cheese. Didn’t care for bread, except when she could steal it—her only vice—off the table before dinner; an object which she easily effected, by raising herself on her hind-legs. At the end of the march, as Jones had predicted, she always came in as fresh as she started; and proved it, wherever we were, by commencing an immediate perambulation of the house and premises, in search of anything she could pick up. This sometimes brought her into odd positions, and gave us trouble.

Where are we? Oh, loading the money for our start from Oyarzun. Just as I was coming out of the court-yard, a soldier entered it, with a look of execration, muttering. Didn’t at all like appearances, when I got into the road. All the men looked sulky; the muleteers, perfectly vicious. The loading was going on, but without method, and not by any means with despatch. Of all the party, the only man that didn’t show ill blood was Corporal Fraser. He was doing his best, but looked serious, and somewhat nonplussed. The cause of all was soon apparent. The captain, for some reason or other, had worked himself into a perfect fury, to which he was giving expression in a regular stream of abuse and imprecations; discharging it indiscriminately on the muleteers and the escort, in Portuguese, Spanish, and English, as though he had rifled and ransacked the vocabularies for every bullying and blasphemous expression in the three languages. He had already got matters into a little bit of a mess—was ordering, counter-ordering—bothering the whole party out of their wits—in short, obstructing everything, and thereby indefinitely delaying our departure. This particularly enraged the muleteers: for you must know, first, they take the packing upon themselves, understand their business, and like to be let alone at it; secondly, they have a notion that nothing ruins their mules like keeping a beast standing, when once he has got his load on his back; and some of the first loaded were a couple of hours in this predicament, before we got off. We started at last, and passed through Oyarzun in no very military order: soldiers, mules, and muleteers, all jumbled together, like beef, pork, onions, and mutton-chops, in a Saturday’s pie. Fraser’s smartness saved us more than once from a jam, as we threaded the narrow street; and at length we emerged on the high road to St Jean de Luz.

Although, in our transition to French from Spanish ground, we mounted not to the regions of perpetual snows, we did certainly pass over some very high ground, both before and after crossing the Bidassoa; and our second elevation gave us a splendid prospect of the fertile plains of France. “Shan’t want for nothing to eat, sir,” said Jones, “when we gits down there, sir. Shocking bad country, Spain, for poor soldiers, sir. Starvation country, I calls it, sir. Nothing but lean ration beef, as tough as hides, sir; and couldn’t always get that, sir. Dreadful hard work up these hills, sir. Got a bullet in my leg, sir.”

Beyond Irun, we passed over an irregular eminence, which had been the scene of a sharp conflict with the enemy. Nothing, however, now indicated the field of combat, save a few dead horses, that lay scattered on the bare side of a hill. “What are those smaller animals,” said I to Jones, “lying about there, among the horses? Can’t be goats, can they?”

“Thim’s dogs, sir,” said Jones. “They goes and gits a good blowout off the horses, sir; then they crawls a little way off, and lies down a bit, jest to choe the quid, sir; and then they goes back again, and takes another pull, sir. That’s jest how three or four on us did at Vittoria, sir, when we come upon the Frinch Ginneral’s dinner, sir, which he hadn’t time to stop and eat sir. Please sir, it’s not correct, what the men jeers me about the goats where I comes from, sir. Niver see’d nobody a-riding of a goat in the Principality, sir; nayther man, nor yet woman, sir; no, nor a babby nayther, sir; let alone a clergyman, sir.”

Perhaps, my dear reader, as this is our first day on the road, I may as well give you here a description of our regular order of march; that is, so far as we marched in any order at all. We had eighty mules, then, in twenty strings, of four mules each. The muzzle of the second mule was connected with the albarda (or pack-saddle) of the first, by a thong of leather. The third mule was attached to the second in like manner, and the fourth to the third. Each of these strings of mules had its own muleteer—twenty muleteers in all. The twenty were divided into two parties of ten; and over each of these ten was a sort of master-muleteer, called a Capataz. Of the four mules in each string, three carried money, and the fourth carried nothing but his albarda. We had thus twenty unloaded mules, and sixty charged with treasure: that is, fifty-eight with dollars, and two with doubloons. Now, as each mule carried two boxes, and each box contained two bags of a thousand, I think you will find, reckoning the dollar at only 4s. 6d. (the value at which it was issued to the troops,) and reckoning sixteen dollars to the doubloon, that we were marching to headquarters to the tune of eighty-one thousand pounds sterling. If, however, you prefer calculating the dollar at what it was then and there worth in buying bills on England—say from 6s. 6d. to 7s. 6d.—why then, of course, the value of our load comes to so much the more. What a catch for a Frenchman—one of our mules!

Supposing us, then, to march in due order, the mules proceed in single file, each string of four attended by its own muleteer. Of the soldiers, some precede the line of march, others follow it, and others, again, march at intervals on the flanks: and so we walk on at mules’ pace, which is steady and uniform, convenient for marching, and gets over the ground at a very satisfactory rate; so that we cover our sixteen or twenty miles a-day with tolerable facility, going straight on from end to end. But we don’t always get on so pleasantly. If, not keeping the single file, one string of mules comes up abreast of that next in advance, then there is a thronging, which soon leads to confusion. Or if the load of one of your mules gets wrong, then there is a stoppage. Those in the rear come crowding up, and are brought to a halt; those in advance walk on. Thus a division takes place, your line is broken, and your cavalcade of mules (“bad English!”—It’s good Portuguese,) no longer kept well together as it ought to be, becomes extended over an undue length of road, and cannot be looked after and kept regular. Should you ever march with such a convoy, you will soon make the discovery that order, though excellent in theory, is not always reducible to practice. It won’t at all mend the matter, if you happen to have such a commander as ours was: a battered dandy of forty, a military roué, who carried in his countenance the marks of rough weather and hard drinking—for his face was not only bronzed by the elements, but pimpled with brandy—and whose continual language, all through the march from starting to halting, was just nothing but one stream of oaths, vituperations, and contradictory orders. And yet this same officer, I make no doubt, had we been placed in a position of real danger, would have conducted himself with coolness, energy, and judgment. As it was, he started us in confusion, and kept us in it all day. The muleteers, who set out in ill-temper, hadn’t one chance given them of recovering their amiability. The soldiers first walked along in dogged silence—then, finding what sort of a gentleman they had to deal with, began to take things easy, joked among themselves, talked loud, and, when he commanded them with an oath to hold their tongues, all but laughed in his face. Discipline was gone. One fellow, a Yorkshire lad, almost amused me with his provoking insolence. He was a red-faced chap with flaxen hair, white eyebrows, and a merry but malevolent eye;—could look, in a moment, either impudent or sedate—just kept himself steady under the captain’s immediate inspection; the moment it was off him, recommenced his antics—was clown, harlequin, and scaramouch, all in one—cut the double-shuffle, winked, twisted his mouth, broke out singing, and was dumb in a moment; cracked jokes, raised a roar, made believe to quarrel, kicked up every devisable sort of row. At length he deliberately disobeyed orders, and the captain put him under arrest; in other words, he was deprived of his musket. Whispered audibly, “It was just what he wanted; now one of the mules could shoulder arms”—set half-a-dozen fellows laughing. Yet this man afterwards, when we were differently commanded, was as well-conducted as any soldier of the escort.

We at length reached St Jean de Luz, after a long, and, to me, very anxious march—the more so as it was my first. Towards our journey’s end, the question was uppermost in my thoughts, “Is it thus we are to march, when the road is insecure?” Marching as we did now, far from being prepared to meet Marshal Soult, I should have felt it far from agreeable to meet another distinguished commander that shall be nameless. There certainly were periods, during the day, when a few resolute assailants might easily have driven off part of our convoy, money and all; nay, when one or other of our own muleteers, had they been so disposed, might have slipped down one of the cross-roads with his string of mules, and made his escape among the hills. These uneasy reflections brought to my mind the advice given me at Passages by Mr Q—; and I resolved to wait on the commandant immediately on my arrival, in the hope of effecting some more satisfactory arrangement for our subsequent progress.

We reached a large house assigned to our department on the outskirts of St Jean de Luz, stowed the treasure in safety under a guard, and dismissed the rest of the men to their quarters; Jones only excepted, who remained in charge of the pony. Captain Rattler took his leave, with a polite “Au revoir.” Having seen the moneyboxes all right, secured accommodation for the mules and muleteers, and ascertained that dinner would be ready in half-an-hour, I stepped on at once to the commandant’s, and found him in his office.

“I have waited on you, sir, to announce my arrival from Oyarzun, with a convoy of treasure for headquarters.”

“Oh yes; Mr Y—, I presume. Mr Y—, pray take a chair. Happy to see you, Mr Y—, especially on such an occasion. If you arrive safe, I trust we shall all get a little of it; for it’s what we’re all in want of. Can I render you any assistance, Mr Y—?”

“Should feel much obliged, sir, if you could increase the strength of our escort. For eighty mules, twenty men will hardly be sufficient.”

“Why, no; certainly not, Mr Y—, if you don’t happen to find the country quiet. Well, what sort of an addition would you like to have?”

“At Passages, sir, we had a guard of Germans; so steady and well-conducted, I should be very glad to have some more like them. As to number, I would leave that to you, sir.”

“Sorry to say we have no Germans going up at present, Mr Y—.”

“Well, sir, we have with us a Scotch corporal, decidedly the steadiest man in our party. Perhaps you could give me some Scotsmen.”

“My dear sir, I’d go with you myself, if I could, with the greatest pleasure. Unfortunately, though, we have no Scotch regiment in the place. Suppose I could give you—say twenty or thirty men, heavy cavalry.”

“Well, sir, I think cavalry, joined with our infantry, would be the best escort we could have.”

“Very good, sir. Well, now you’ll want an officer to command them.”

“Why, sir, the truth is, I wished to consult you on that subject. The present commander of our party is Captain Rattler.”

“Your present? Say your late. He’s off.”

“He was with me within the last half-hour, sir. Said nothing about leaving.”

“Well, I don’t know anything about that. All I know is this—he was here just before you; got his route changed. By this time, I should think, he’s on his way to St Jean Pied de Port. Very well, Mr Y—. Load to-morrow, and start with your present escort. At what hour may I expect you to pass here, in your way through the town?”

“Probably about ten o’clock, sir.”

“Very well, Mr Y—. Then, to-morrow morning, by ten o’clock, I’ll have your additional escort here in readiness for you. As to the officer that’s to command the party, we’ll talk about that when we meet. Let me see. I hardly know how to settle it. At present, I have only one that’s going to join, and he’s young—your junior, I should say, by three or four years; has never seen service—a cornet, fresh from England. Well, if you can’t have another, you know, you must have him. Very well, Mr Y—; to-morrow morning, if you please, at ten o’clock.”

I withdrew, satisfied with the result of my visit, not at all sorry to have got rid of the captain by his own act, and without any complaint on my part—a little surprised, however, at the precipitancy of his retreat, especially after his last words, “Au revoir.” Suddenly a thought came plump—“My thirty dollars! The caitiff! he’s off, and I am once more a victim!”

It didn’t turn out quite so bad as it looked, though. On my return to our office, I was met by Jones, who, with a face of famine, announced “dinner ready,” and handed me the following letter:—

“St Jean de Luz, March 1814.

“Dear Sir—As unexpected circumstances have induced me to alter my route, I adopt this hurried method of wishing you a safe and pleasant journey to headquarters. It would have afforded me much gratification to accompany you, or at any rate to have said farewell in person. You will, however, I am sure, pardon the little omission, as I am compelled to start without delay.

“I have thirty dollars belonging to you in my portmanteau. They are safe. I was about to forward them by the bearer of this, but, not feeling entire confidence in such a mode of conveyance, I beg to enclose you an order on England for the amount. Believe me to remain, dear sir, faithfully yours,

“R. Rattler.

“P.S.—Excuse haste.

G. Y—, Esq.,

Army Pay Department, St Jean de Luz.”

“Au revoir!” Never, from that time forward, have I and the captain met. Sly rogue! His modus operandi, how dashing, yet how cool! To say nothing of his walking off with my dollars in his box, and thus securing a little hard cash at my expense, when cash was so scarce, how civilly he took leave of me at the door of our office! Thence he must have cut away direct to the commandant’s, resolved to be off forthwith—in plain English, to bolt! “Excuse haste!” And then in the morning, too, at Oyarzun, how smartly he whipped up my dollars, stowed them in his own portmanteau without asking my leave, and locked them up before my eyes. “Au revoir!” Yes; “they are safe!”

Well, the less said about my dinner, that day, the better. In the course of the afternoon, though, Miss Nanny-goat thought fit to indulge herself in a bit of a spree. She walked, in search of varieties, into an old gentleman’s garden. Jones pursued—wanted to milk her for tea. The proprietor followed; I joined the chase. Nanny, for the fun of the thing, sprang on the wall, walked up the roof of the summer-house, ran along the ridge, pedestalled herself on the gable-end which rose in a peak, and there stood, looking down on us in defiance, her four little feet gathered up within the compass of a crown-piece. Jones called, coaxed, spoke Welsh, held out successively cabbage-leaf, lettuce-leaf, vine-leaf, all in vain. “Ah!” said the old Frenchman; and, toddling off to his geraniums, culled a scarlet cluster of aromatic flowers. That was irresistible. One jump brought Nanny down upon the wall, another landed her easy on the ground. Before you could say Jack Robinson, she was nibbling the nosegay out of the Frenchman’s hand. Next morning he loaded us, when we took leave, with a blushing bouquet of geraniums—shed tears, poor old gentleman, when Nanny departed—put his arms round her neck—a true Frenchman—and, hi oculi viderunt, kissed her.

The morning after our arrival at St Jean de Luz, I rose betimes, breakfasted, and descended into the road to superintend the loading of the mules—a much more expeditious process without the captain’s aid than with it. We got off with the convoy in good time, and soon reached the commandant’s. In that part of the town the street widened into a sort of “place;” and there, drawn up and awaiting our arrival, I had the pleasure of discovering a party of dragoons, in number four-and-twenty. Being fresh from winter-quarters, they had turned out in capital order; presentable, as to dress and accoutrements, at a Windsor review; their horses, too, in good condition, though rather undersized for the men, none of them being English. At the door of the commandant’s office stood two horses, held by a groom, both of them serviceable, and rather showy animals, apparently recent arrivals from home. I alighted, and ascended to the office.

“Punctual to your time,” said the commandant. “This, Mr Y—, is the officer who will command your party—the Hon. Mr Chesterfield.” Did the introduction in due form.

In the military undress of his regiment—viz. cap with tassel and gold band, said cap hiding one side of the head and face, and leaving the other bare, long greatcoat, redundant in frogs, belt and sabre, enormous boots, and formidable spurs—I saw before me a youth of eighteen, slight in form, elegant in manner, who quietly returned my salutation, and, shortly after, walked down stairs and mounted. “I have explained to Mr C. the nature of the duty,” said the colonel. “He is quite fresh from England; but he seems to have no nonsense about him; and, at any rate, I trust you will find the change for the better. Well, Mr Y—, we mustn’t keep the mules standing; so I now wish you a pleasant journey.”

“Thank you, sir. Much obliged to you for this arrangement. Good morning, sir.”

It soon became apparent, as we proceeded on our march, that matters were greatly mended since the day before. Our new commander said little; but, young as he was, seemed to know what he was about; and all went on much to my satisfaction. He never interfered needlessly; and his directions, when given, were much to the purpose. Managed the cavalry himself, and the infantry through Corporal Fraser. Things began to grow right of their own accord, and a great load was taken off my mind. The men, finding they were now commanded, were orderly and well-conducted. Even our jolly Yorkshireman behaved himself—that is, with the exception of an occasional caper or grimace when he felt himself safe. Nothing more was said about his arrest. Consequently he had to carry his musket through the rest of the march; for, seeing what kind of a person he now had to deal with, he was too wise to try over again the game of the day before. The muleteers, too, recovered their good-humour. Muleteers are like live lobsters—very tractable, if you know how to handle them. The delays were now few. And though, with such a mixture of men and mules, we could not keep perfect order, if anything got wrong, it was soon set right.

We reached at length that point in our march where a lane struck off to the left, from the high road which we were following, and which led direct to Bayonne. Our route, with official brevity, assigned Bayonne as our halting-place for the night. But as Bayonne happened just then to be occupied by the French, we proposed directing our course toward the headquarters of Sir John Hope, who commanded the besieging army. The aforesaid lane to the left soon brought us out on a heathy eminence, covered with fieldworks completed or in progress, and affording us a splendid view of the beleaguered city, of the river Adour, and of the bridge of boats thrown across it near the sea. Headquarters were at a small hamlet, on the right or opposite bank of the river.

Yes, we saw that famous bridge. The Duke was always great in passing rivers. Witness his services in India. Witness the Douro, the Bidassoa, the Nivelle, the Nive, and now the Adour. Sufficient attention, perhaps, has not been directed to this subject. Take two feats out of the number, and view them together—the passage of the Adour, and the passage of the Bidassoa: both original ideas; both ideas that no mere tactician would have conceived or brought to bear; and both vindicating their claim to a distinguished record, by taking an able, gallant, and vigilant opponent by surprise. Who, but the Duke, would have dreamed of passing the Bidassoa at its mouth, without a bridge? Who, but the Duke, would have dreamed of passing the Adour at its mouth, by such a bridge as we now beheld? One thing is clear: Soult did not dream of either one passage or the other. Obs. 1.—The execution, in each case, was off-hand, dashing, and daring. The preparation, in both, was deliberate, mature, and secret. Obs. 2.—The distinguishing excellence of the Duke’s strategy did not, however, consist in the mere exploit of throwing an army across a wide and rapid stream, in the face of an enemy assembled in force—though this, in itself, is among the most difficult operations of war; but in the combined, extensive, and successful movements which uniformly attended the achievement. In short, the subject claims a distinct volume. All the Duke’s passages of rivers, effected in the face of the enemy, should be brought into one view, and studied together. Such a work, properly executed, would merit a place in every military library. However, don’t think I’m going to inflict on you a detailed description of the oft-described bridge which we had now to pass. Suffice it to say, the bridge consisted of small vessels, moored side by side, all across the river. These vessels answered the purpose of piers; that is, they supported the gangway of planks, which formed the passage across.

It may be deemed extraordinary, that this idea of floating piers has not been more generally adopted. But I suppose the real objection is an inconvenience, to which the method is unavoidably liable, and which we experienced on the present occasion, in passing with our mules and moneyboxes; namely, the variation of the bridge’s altitude, with the rise and fall of the water. This, in the Adour, at spring-tides, is fourteen feet. You must know, the river was now low. The consequence was, that the level of the bridge was considerably beneath the level of the banks on each side; while its two extremities were two boarded slopes, connecting the higher level with the lower. It was a ticklish business, passing these two slopes with our mules four in a string—one of them light, three loaded. In going down-hill, to get on the bridge, the mules managed admirably—let them alone for that. Seeing that this part of the process was proceeding satisfactorily, I left an injunction with Senhor Roque, the chief Capataz, not to send on the mules too fast—for this might have led to a jam, which would probably have consigned some of our boxes to the bottom of the Adour—and pushed on for the opposite bank, to be ready to superintend the ascent. This was the real bother, the going up-hill. In coming to the rise, which was somewhat abrupt, the first mule of the first string stumbled and fell. The muleteer got him on his legs again—his load happily not unshipped—and, taking him by the head, was about to lead him up. But this, it was clear, wouldn’t do. The beast had sense to see it wouldn’t, and declined moving. It might have answered very well for a single mule; but was no security for the ascent of the other three, that followed in the same category; and, unless all ascended together, we were undone. Under these circumstances, the leading mule, not choosing to compromise himself, refused the ascent. Meanwhile, the other strings of mules came crowding up; and we should soon have had them all of a heap, shouldering one another into the water. It was a nervous moment. I shouted to the muleteer, “Anda para detraz, homem, e falla”—(Old fellow, go behind, and speak to them.) “Si, si, Senhor,” said he, catching the idea at once, and promptly adopting it. The moment the mules heard, behind them, the well-known “árre” of their driver, they bolted simultaneously; and, scrambling up like cats, soon reached the summit of the slope, and stood on terra firma. Thus, though they could not have done it walking, they did it with a run. The other muleteers, as they came up in succession, adopted the same expedient each with his own team; and thus we effected the passage of the Adour, without either jam, crowding, confusion, or capsize.

Before we go any further, though, I must let you into the use of that magical word “árre,” which, on the present occasion, effected so much in our favour. It is the word used by drivers to their beasts, to set them off, or increase their speed. Please to pronounce it with a lengthened rattling of the r—ár-r-r-r-r-r-r-re. Only remember this: pronounce it ever so correctly, you yourself can never do anything with it: for, if twenty persons sing out ár-r-r-r-r-r-r-re, neither horse, mule, nor donkey will move the faster, till they hear the ár-r-r-r-r-r-r-re of their own driver. This they distinguish among a hundred, and bolt forthwith. The knowledge of this singular fact in animal psychology tends greatly to enliven an Almada or Cintra donkey-party. Upon an occasion of this kind, my friend John G—, being the longest fellow of the party, thought fit to appropriate the tallest donkey. This was deemed a usurpation, and, as such, meriting castigation. A hint was therefore given to the driver of his (John’s) donkey. John was suffered to get one foot quietly into the stirrup; but, before he had got the other over the Albarda, ár-r-r-r-r-r-r-re was heard behind; away went the donkey through the village of Almada; and away went John, one hand holding by the Albarda, the other by an ear—one toe in the stirrup, the other now hopping along the ground, now describing circles aloft, in vain attempts to get across. John, how unjustly I need not say, imputes the Almada exhibition to my contrivance, and bides his time. Presently we enter a sandy lane—John warns me I shall be in the dust ere we get out of it—advises to take feet out of stirrups. Advice followed, in defiance. Again the cry is heard, ár-r-r-r-r-r-r-re; but now in a different key. This time, it is my driver. Donkey bolts—away we go—ár-r-r-r-r-r-r-re is heard once more—donkey can gallop no faster, so begins to kick. I stoop forward—hug him round the neck; both donkey and rider are soon rolling in the dust. “Now,” says John, as he trots exulting by, “you and I are quits.” “Yes,” says Frank Woodbridge, passing at a canter; “one Johnny has avenged the other.” Mem.—As, in an English donkey-race, no one rides his own donkey, and the donkey last in wins; so, in those Almada donkey-parties, each paid another man’s driver, no man paid his own. That driver got most whose donkey spilt his rider oftenest.

To proceed. All our party having passed the bridge, I was viewing with some satisfaction the train of mules, as they walked off from the river towards the hamlet, cheerily switching their tails—the animals’ usual practice after accomplishing any extraordinary tour de force—when I noticed, not far from the bridge-head, in a long military frock-coat, quietly eyeing me with folded arms, a stately officer of the engineers. Who, do you think?—who, but my fellow-passenger from England a year before, Captain Gabion? We exchanged greetings with mutual cordiality.

“Much obliged to you, Mr Y—,” said he; “you have saved me some trouble.”

“Happy to hear it, sir: don’t exactly understand how, though.”

“Why, the fact is,” replied the Captain, “I was here waiting to see the convoy safe over—if needful, to render assistance. But really you got them so handily up the bank, I had no occasion to interfere. Famous plan, that, of sending them up with a run: shan’t soon forget it. That ár-r-r-r-r-r-r-re starts them capitally,—acts like a brad-awl.”

“Were you not on the bridge just now, towards the other side of the river, sir?”

“Yes, yes; but I saw you were getting them on well; so I came over to this end, to see how you would get them off.”

“What I most feared,” said I, “was their crowding up, in passing the bridge.”

“No, no,” said the captain, “no danger of that. Had I seen the least tendency to confusion, I should have passed a command by signal. Effectual means would then have been taken at once, to keep back those coming on, till those in front were clear. Well, what do you think of our bridge?”

“I was thinking how I could destroy it—that is, if I was General Thouvenot, shut up in Bayonne with thirteen or fourteen thousand men. That’s what I began to think of, as soon as I saw it; and that’s what I’ve been thinking of ever since.”

“Destroy it?” said the Captain; “destroy the bridge? Come, that’s a good one. Destroy it, indeed! I should like just to know, now, how you would go to work to do that. Why, Thouvenot did come down and attack, on our first arrival here; got well pounded, though. Don’t think it very probable he’ll try that again.”

“Now, it’s too late, perhaps. Besides, he committed two great mistakes; he attacked with an insufficient force, and he came down only on one side of the river. If, instead, when the bridge was first thrown over, he had come down on both sides, and that with adequate—”

“Going up with the treasure to headquarters, Mr Y—?”

“That’s our destination, sir. This afternoon, though, we halt where we are.”

“What, halt here?” said the Captain. “Let me look at your route.”

“Our route says Bayonne, sir; but of course we came here.”

“Yes, yes; very right; exactly; just so. Sorry to say, though, Mr Y—, I fear you’ll find no accommodation where you are. Every house, every cottage, every shed, is as full as it can cram. If it was only yourself, pony, and goat, I would give you accommodation most willingly. I sleep on a deal table. Would give you half with pleasure. But such a lot of you—about seventy bipeds, I guess, and more than a hundred quadrupeds—why, where could we put you all?”

“Well, then,” said I, “we must make a bivouac of it, I suppose.”

“Bivouac? Nonsense!—bivouac! How would those fine fellows stand a bivouac, I wonder, with their white gloves and horsehair plumes? Besides, it’s beginning to rain. Bet you a dollar, it rains all night. Besides that, where would you put your money? If General Thouvenot should take your advice, ‘come down on both sides,’ and find your boxes ranged along that bank by the road-side—and that’s the only place to put them I know of—a pretty catch he’d make of it. No, no, Mr Y—; your only plan is to go on. Follow the lane till it brings you back into the high road above Bayonne. You will then soon find a village, which will afford you accommodation for the night.”

“Very well, sir. I suppose, then, the sooner we move the better. Will you have the goodness, though, to put me in the way of getting the men their rations?”

“Oh yes,” said the Captain; “yes, yes: I’ll set all that straight for you, in no time. I see you’re rather a young campaigner; and the officer of your escort, I suspect, is younger still. You can’t stay here to-night, that’s certain. Better see the General, though, before you move on; just report yourself, you know, and hear what he says about it. Step on to his quarters, that small house with a white front, and I’ll be after you directly.”

I turned to remount; but what had become of Sancho? Two minutes before, I held his bridle in my hand. Now, he was nowhere to be seen. At length, in the distance, I caught sight of Jones’ legs, dangling from the pony’s side, as he trotted off towards the houses, with Nanny cantering after him.

THE GREEN HAND.
A “SHORT” YARN.
PART IX.

“More than once that night,” resumed Captain Collins, “I woke up with a start, at thought of our late adventures in the river Nouries—fancying I was still waiting for the turn of tide to bring down the boats or the schooner, and had gone to sleep, when that horrible sound through the cabin skylight seemed full in my ears again. However, the weltering wash of the water under the ship’s timbers below one’s head was proof enough we were well to sea; and, being dog-tired, I turned over each time with a new gusto:—not to speak of the happy sort of feeling that ran all through me, I scarce knew why; though no doubt one might have dreamt plenty of delightful dreams without remembering them, more especially after such a perfect seventh heaven as I had found myself in for a moment or two, when Violet Hyde’s hand first touched mine, and when I carried her in after she had actually saved my life. The broad daylight through our quarter-gallery window roused me at last altogether; and on starting up I saw Tom Westwood half dressed, shaving himself by an inch or two of broken looking-glass in regular nautical style—that’s to say, watching for the rise of the ship—as she had the wind evidently on her opposite beam, and there appeared to be pretty much of a long swell afloat, with a breeze brisk enough to make her heel to it; while the clear horizon, seen shining through the port to north-westward, over the dark blue heave of water, showed it was far on in the morning. “Well, Ned,” said Westwood, turning round, “you seemed to be enjoying it, in spite of the warm work you must have had last night on board here! Why, I thought you had been with us in the boats, after all, till I found, by the good joke the cadets made of it, that that puppy of a mate had left you still locked up, on account of some fancy he had got into his head of your being in partnership with the schooner! For heaven’s sake, though, my dear fellow, wash your face and shave—you look fearfully suspicious just now!” “No wonder!” said I: and I gave him an account of the matter, leaving out most of what regarded the young lady; Westwood telling me, in his turn, so much about their boat expedition as I didn’t know before from the planter. Everything went to certify what I believed all along, ’till this sudden affair in the river. The schooner’s people had plainly some cue in keeping hold of our passengers, but hadn’t expected to see us so soon again, or perhaps at all—as was shown by their hailing the boats at once in a pretended friendly way, whenever they came in sight up the creek; while Ford and the rest shouted with delight, off her bulwarks, at sound of the mate’s voice.

“I tell you what, Collins,” continued Westwood, “this may be all very well for you, who are continually getting into scrapes and out of them, and don’t seem to care much whether you ship on board an Indiaman or a corn-brig—you can always find something to do—but to me the service is everything!” “Well, well,” said I hastily, “I’m much mistaken if we don’t find something to do in India, Tom,—only wait, and that uncle of yours will make all right; for all we know, there may be news from Europe to meet us, and I must say I don’t like the notion of being born too late for turning out an admiral! I’m sure, for my part, I wish old Nap well out of that stone cage of his!” “No, no, Ned,” said Westwood, “I ought to clear myself at home first, and sorry I am that I gave in to you by leaving England, when I should have faced the consequences whatever they were. Running only made matters worse, Collins!” “No doubt,” I said; “and as it was my fault, why, deuce take me, Tom, if I don’t manage to carry you out scot-free! Depend on it, Captain Duncombe’s friends would have you strung up like a dog, with the interest he had, and sharp as discipline is just now.” Westwood shuddered at the thought. “I fear it would go hard with me, Ned,” said he, “and I shan’t deny that these few weeks have brought me back a taste for life. But, in spite of all, I’d deliver myself up to the first king’s ship we speak, or go home in some Indiaman from the Cape—but for one thing, Collins!” “Ah!” said I, “what’s that?” Westwood gave me a curious half look, and said—“One person, I mean, Ned—and I shouldn’t like her to hear of me being—” “Yes, yes,” said I stiffly, “I know.” “It must have been by guess, then!” answered he. “Often as we’ve talked of her during the voyage, I thought you didn’t know we had met frequently in London before you came home, and—and—the fact is, I wasn’t sure you would like me to—” “Westwood,” said I quickly, “Tom Westwood—what I have to ask is—do you love her?” “If ever a man loved a woman, Ned,” was his answer, “I do her; but if you—” “Have you any chance, then?” I broke out. “Ay, true—true enough, you have the best of chances—your way is as clear as could be, Westwood, if you knew it! Only I must know if she is willing—does she—” “I got leave to write to her in London,” answered Westwood, “and I did so pretty often, you may be sure; but I only had one short little note in answer to the last, I think it was—which I had in my breast that morning on Southsea beach, when I expected the bullet would come through it!” Here Westwood stooped down to his trunk, and took out a rose-coloured note wrapped in a bit of paper; I standing the while fixed to the deck, not able to speak, till he was handing it to me. “No, no!” said I, turning from him angrily, and like to choke, “that’s too much, Mr Westwood—pray keep your own love-letters for your own reading!” “There’s nothing particular in it, Ned,” answered he, flushing a little, “only there’s a few words in it I’d like you to see—don’t look at it just now, but tell me afterwards what you think—you ought to see it, as the matter seems to depend on you, Ned; and if you object, you may be sure, so far as I’m concerned, ’tis all over!” Somehow or other, the look of the little folded piece of paper, with the touch and the scent of it, as Westwood slipped it into my hand, made it stick to me. I caught one glance of the address on the back, written as if fairy fingers had done it, and I suppose I slipped it into my coat as I went out of the berth, meaning to go aloft in the foretop and sicken over the thought at my leisure, of Violet Hyde’s having ever favoured another man so far, and that man Tom Westwood. The strangeness of the whole affair, as I took it, never once struck me; all that I minded was the wretched feeling I had in me, as I wished I could put the Atlantic betwixt me and them all; in fact a hundred things before we sailed, and during the passage, seemed all at once to agree with what I’d just heard; and I’d have given thousands that moment it had been some one else than Westwood, just that I might wait the voyage out coolly, for the satisfaction of meeting him at twelve paces the first morning ashore.

On the larboard side of the berth-gangway, opposite our door, I saw the old planter’s standing half open, and Mr Rollock himself with his shirt and trousers on, taking in his boots. “Hallo, Collins, my boy,” he sang out eagerly, “come here a moment, I’ve got something to show you!” “Look,” said he, standing on tiptoe to see better through the half-port, “there’s something new been put in my picture-frame here overnight, I think—ha! ha!” The first thing that caught my eye, accordingly, was the gleam of a sail rising from over the swell to windward, far away off our larboard quarter; seemingly rolling before the south-easter; while the Indiaman hove her big side steadily out of water, with her head across the other’s course, and gave us a sight of the strange sail swinging to the fair wind, every time we rose on the surge. “What is it, eh?” said the planter turning to me, “back or face, Collins? for, bless me, if I can distinguish tub from bucket, with all this bobbing about—great deal of capital indigo wasted hereabouts, my dear fellow!” “Why, you may make out the two breasts of her royals,” said I—“a brig, I think, sir.” “Not that abominable schooner in her first shape again, I hope!” exclaimed he, “perhaps bringing back the Yankee.” “Too square-shouldered for that, Mr Rollock,” I said; “in fact she seems to be signalling us; yes, by Jove! there’s the long pennant at her fore-royal mast-head—she’s a brig of war. They’re surely asleep, on deck, and we shall have a shot directly, if they don’t look sharp!” “You’d better say nothing about the Yankee’s absence, Collins,” put in the planter, “till we’re fairly away. For my part, I really have no notion of waiting for any one—particularly a fellow who must have some go-ahead scheme in his noddle, which we Indians don’t want. Quietly speaking, my dear fellow, I shall be glad if we’re rid of him!” On my mentioning what sort of “notions” were found in Mr Snout’s berth, and the drowning of his heathen images, the worthy planter went into perfect convulsions, till I thought I should have to slap him on the back to give him breath. “What the deuce!” said he at last; “Daniel must really have something worth his while to expect, before he’d fail to look after such a treasure!” “Ah,” said I, not attending to him, as I heard a stir on deck, “there we go at last, cluing up the topsails, I suppose.” “Seriously, now,” continued Mr Rollock, “I can not fathom that vessel and her designs; but I bless my stars at getting clear off from the company of that tall Frenchman with his mustache—can’t bear a mustache, Collins—always reminds me of those cursed Mahrattas that burnt my factory once. Couldn’t the man shave like a Christian, I wonder? I defy you to enjoy Mulligatawny soup and not make a beast of yourself, with ever so much hair over your mouth. By the way, Collins,” added he, eyeing me, “since I saw you last, you’ve let your whiskers grow, and look more like one of your nauticals than Ford himself!—should scarce have known you! Any of it owing to the fair one up yonder, eh?” And the jolly old chap, whose own huge white whiskers gave him the cut of a royal Bengal tiger, pointed with his thumb over his shoulder towards the roundhouse above, with a wink of his funny round eye, that looked at you like a bird’s. “What do you suppose the Frenchman to be then, sir?” asked I, gloomily. “Oh, either a madman, a spy, or something worse! Just guess what he asked me suddenly one morning,—why, if I weren’t a distinguished savant, and wouldn’t like to study the botany of some island! ‘No, Monsieur, not at all,’ replied I, in fearfully bad French. ‘The geology, then?’ persisted he, with a curious gleam in his fierce black eyes—‘does the research of Monsieur lie in that direction?’ ‘Why no,’ I answered carelessly, ‘I don’t care a sacre about stones, or anything of the kind, indeed; indigo is my particular line, which may be called botany, in a way—I’m perhaps prejudiced in favour of it, Monsieur!’ The Frenchman leant his tufted chin on his hand,” continued Mr Rollock, “meditated a bit, then glanced at me again, as if he didn’t care though I were studying sea-weed in the depths of the ocean rolling round us, and stalked down stairs. Then he took to Mrs Brady again, and lastly to the Yankee, whose conversations with him, I fancy, had a twang of both commerce and politics.” “What do you think of it all, Mr Rollock?” inquired I, rather listlessly. “It didn’t strike me at the time,” said the planter, “but now, I just ask you, Collins, if there ain’t a certain great personage studying geology at present in a certain island, not very far away, I suppose, where there’s plenty of it, and deuced little botany, too, I imagine?” To this question of the old gentleman’s I gave nothing but a half stupid sort of stare, thinking as I was at the same time of something else I cared more about.

“By Jupiter! though,” cried I on a sudden, “instead of heaving the ship to, I do believe we’ve set topmast-stu’nsails, judging from the way she pitches into the water; there’s the brig nearing the wind a point or two in chase, too;—why, the fellow that has charge of the deck must be mad, sir!” Next minute the fire out of one of her bow-chasers flashed out behind the blue back of a swell, and the sudden thud of it came rolling down to leeward over the space betwixt us, angrily, so to speak; as the brig’s fore-course mounted with a wave, the sun shining clear on the seams and reef-points, till you caught sight of the anchor hanging from one bow, and the men running in her lee stu’nsail-booms upon the yardarms. The planter and I went on deck at once, where we found a fine breeze blowing, far out of sight of land, the Indiaman rushing ahead stately enough; while our young fourth officer appeared to have just woke up, and the watch were still rubbing their eyes, as if every man had been “caulking it,” after last night’s work. Even Mr Finch, when he came hastily up, seemed rather doubtful what to do, till the salt old third-mate assured him the brig was a British sloop-of-war, as any one accustomed to reckoning sticks and canvass at sea could tell by this time; upon which our topsails were clued up, stu’nsails boom-ended, and the ship hove into the wind to wait for the brig.

When the brig’s mainyard swung aback within fifty fathoms of our weather-quarter, hailing us as she brought to, I had plenty to think of, for my part. There she was, as square-countered and flat-breasted a ten-gun model as ever ran her nose under salt water, or turned the turtle in a Bahama squall; though pleasant enough she looked, dipping as we rose, and prancing up opposite us again with a curtsey, the brine dripping from her bright copper sheathing, the epaulets and gold bands glancing above her black bulwark, topped by the white hammock-cloth; marines in her waist, the men clustering forward to see us, and squinting sharp up at our top-hamper. It made one ashamed, to take in the taunt, lightsome set her spars had, tall and white, with a rake in them, and every rope running clean to its place; not a spot about her, hull or rig, but all English and ship-shape, to the very gather of her courses and top-gallant sails in the lines, and the snowy hollow her two broad topsails made for the wind, as they brought it in betwixt them to keep her steady on the spot. “His Britannic Majesty’s sloop Podargus!” came back in exchange for our mate’s answer; and though ’twas curious to me to think of meeting the uniform again in five minutes, I saw plainly this was one of the nice points that Westwood and I might have to weather. Your brig-cruisers are the very sharpest fellows alive, so far as regards boarding a merchant craft; if they find the least smell of a rat, they’ll overhaul your hold to the very dunnage about the keelson; and I knew that, if they made out Westwood, they’d be sure to have me too; so you may fancy that, during the short time her boat took to drop and pull under our quarter, I was making up my mind as to the course. In fact, I was almost resolved to leave the ship at any rate, feeling as I did after what I’d heard; but while most of the passengers were running about and calling below for their shoes, and what not, the Judge and his daughter came out of the roundhouse, and I caught a single glance from her for a moment, as she turned to look at the brig, that held me at the instant like an anchor in a strong tideway. I kept my breath as the lieutenant’s hand laid hold of the manrope at the head of the side-ladder, expecting his first question; while he swung himself actively on deck, looking round for a second, and followed by another; the wide-awake-looking young middy in the boat folding his arms, and squinting up sideways at the ladies with an air as knowing as if he’d lived fifty years in the world, instead of perhaps thirteen.

The younger of the lieutenants took off his cap most politely, eyeing the fair passengers with as much respect as he gave cool indifference to the cadets; the other, who was a careful-like, working first luff, said directly to Mr Finch—“Well, sir, you seemed inclined to lead us a bit of a chase—but I don’t think,” added he, smiling from the Indiaman to the brig, “you’d have cost us much trouble after all!” Here Finch hurried out his explanation, in a half-sulky way, when the naval man cut him short by saying that “Captain Wallis desired to know” if we had touched at St Helena. “May I ask, sir,” went on the officer, finding we had preferred the Cape, “if you command this vessel—or is the master not on deck—Captain—Captain Wilson, I think you said?” The mate said something in a lower voice, and the lieutenant bared his head more respectfully than before, seeing the Company’s ensign, which had been lowered half-apeak while the boat was under our side; after which Finch drew him to the capstan, telling him, as I guessed, the whole affair of the schooner, by way of a great exploit, with hints of her being a pirate or suchlike. The brig’s officer, however, was evidently too busy a man, and seemingly in too great a hurry to get back, for listening much to such a rigmarole, as he no doubt thought it; they had been at the Cape, and were bound for St Helena again, where she was one of the cruisers on guard; so that what with Finch’s story, and what with the crowd round the second lieutenant, all anxious to get the news, I saw it wouldn’t cost Westwood and me great pains to keep clear of notice. There were some riots in London, and three men hanged for a horrid murder, the Duke of Northumberland’s death, not to speak of a child born with two heads, or something—all since we left England. Then there was Lord Exmouth come home from Algiers, and Fort Hattrass, I think it was, taken in India, which made every cadet prick up his ears; Admiral Plampin was arrived at the Cape of Good Hope, too, in the Conqueror, seventy-four, and on his way steering for St Helena, to take Sir Pulteney Malcolm’s place. All of a sudden, I heard the young luff begin to mention a captain of a frigate’s having been shot two months ago, by his own first lieutenant, on Southsea Beach, and the lieutenant being supposed to have gone off in some outward-bound ship. “By the bye,” said the officer to Mr Rollock, “you must have left about that time—did you touch at Portsmouth?” “Why, yes,” answered the planter, “we did. What were the parties’ names?” I edged over to Westwood near the head of the companion, and whispered to him to go below to our berth, in case of their happening to attend to us more particularly; and the farther apart we two kept, the better, I thought. The officer at once gave Captain Duncombe’s name, but didn’t remember the other, on which he turned to his first lieutenant with, “I say, Mr Aldridge, d’you recollect the man’s name that shot the captain of the N’Oreste, as they called her?” “What, that bad business?” said the other; “no, Mr Moore, I really don’t—I hope he’s far enough off by this time!” My breath came again at this, for it had just come into my mind that Finch, who was close by, had got hold of the name, although he fancied it mine. I was sauntering down the stair, thinking how much may hang at times on a man’s good memory, when I heard the first lieutenant say, “By the bye, though, now I recollect, wasn’t it Westwood?” “Yes, yes, Westwood it was!” said the other; then came an exclamation from Finch, and shortly after he and the first lieutenant stepped down together, talking privately of the matter, I suppose; to the cuddy, where I had gone myself. The lieutenant looked up at me seriously once or twice, then went on deck, and a few minutes afterwards the brig’s boat was pulling towards her again, while the passengers flocked below to breakfast. I saw the thing was settled; the mate could scarce keep in his triumph, as he eyed me betwixt surprise and dislike, though rather more respectfully than before. As for Westwood, he sat down with the rest, quite ignorant of what had turned up; notwithstanding he threw an uneasy look or two through the cuddy port at the brig, still curveting to windward of us, with her mainyard aback: for my part, I made up my mind, in the meanwhile, to bear the brunt of it.

’Twas no matter to me now where I went; whereas, with Westwood, it was but a toss-up betwixt a rope and a prison, if they sent him back to England. No fear of my being tried in his place, of course; but if there had been, why, to get away both from him and her, I’d have run the chance! There was a bitter sort of a pleasure, even, in the thought of taking one’s-self out of the way—to some purpose, too, if I saved a fellow like my old schoolmate from a court-martial sentence, and a man far worthier to win the heart of such a creature than myself; while the worst of it was, I was afraid I’d have come to hate Tom Westwood, if we had staid near each other much longer. Accordingly, I no sooner heard the dip of the gig’s oars coming alongside again, than one of the stewards brought me a quiet message from Mr Finch, that he wanted to see me on deck; upon which I rose off my chair just as quietly, and walked up the companion. The fact was—as the fellow could scarce have ventured to look his passengers in the face again after a low piece of work like this—’twas his cue to keep all underhand, and probably lay it to the score of my actions aboard, or something; however, he couldn’t throw any dust of the kind in the second lieutenant’s eyes, who gave him a cold glance as he stepped on deck, and, picking me out at once where I stood, inquired if I were the person. The first mate nodded, whereupon the brig’s officer walked towards me, with a gentlemanly enough bow, and, “I regret to have to state, sir,” said he, “that Captain Wallis desires to see you, particularly, aboard the brig.” “Indeed, sir,” answered I, showing very little surprise, I daresay, gloomy as I felt; “then the sooner the better, I suppose.” “Why, yes,” said the lieutenant, seemingly confused lest he should meet my eye, “we’re anxious to make use of this breeze, you—you know, sir.” “Hadn’t Mr Collins—this gentleman—better take his traps with him, Lieutenant Moore?” said Finch, free and easy wise. “No, sir,” said the young officer, sternly, “we can spare time to send for them, if necessary; of course you will keep the Indiaman in the wind, sir, till the brig squares her mainyard.” I gave Finch a single look of sheer contempt, and swung myself down by the manropes from the gangway into the boat; the lieutenant followed me, and next minute we were pulling for the brig’s quarter. The moment I found myself out of the Seringapatam, however, my heart nigh-hand failed me, more especially at sight of the quarter-gallery window I had seen the light from, on the smooth of the swell, that first night we got to sea. I even began to think if there weren’t some way of passing myself clear off, without hauling in Westwood; but it wouldn’t do. Before I well knew, we were on board, and the lieutenant showing me down the after hatchway to the captain’s cabin.

The captain was sitting with one foot upon the carronade in his outer cabin, looking through the port at the heavy Indiaman, as she slued about and plunged in the blue surge, with all sorts of ugly ropes hanging from her bows, dirty pairs of trousers towing clear of the water when she lifted, and rusty stains at her hawse-holes. A stout-built, hard-featured man he was, with bushy black eyebrows, and grizzled black hair and whiskers, not to speak of a queer, anxious, uneasy look in the keen of his eyes when he turned to me. However, he got half up on my coming in, and I saw he was lame a little of one foot, while he overhauled me all over with his eye. “I’m sorry to have to send for you in this way, sir,” said he, rather surprised at my rig, apparently—“curst sorry, sir, and no more about it; but I can’t help it, confound me—must do my duty.” “Certainly, sir,” I said. “In fact,” said Captain Wallis, “the Admiral ordered us to see after you—him, that’s to say—at the Cape, you know.” “Ay, ay, sir,” said I, watching the Indiaman’s poop-nettings through the port over his head, as he sat down. “Pooh, pooh,” continued he, “you can’t be the man—just say you don’t belong to the service—confound it, I’ll pass you!” “Why, sir,” said I, “I can’t exactly say that.” “I hear you’re Westwood of the Orestes, though,” said he; “now I don’t ask you to say no, sir—but everybody knew the Orestes, and I don’t like the thing, I must say—so perhaps you’re able to swear he is not aboard the Indiaman—just now, you know, sir, just now, eh?” This tack of his rather dumfoundered me, seeing the captain of the brig meant it well; but deuced unlucky kindness it was, since I couldn’t swear to the very thing he fancied so safe, and his glance was as quick as lightning, so he caught the sense of my blank look in a moment; as I fancied, at least. “The fact is, sir,” added he, “the surgeon told me just now he knows Lieutenant Westwood well enough by sight, so they locked him up! You see we could have made you out at any rate, sir—however, we’ll let the doctor stay till we’re clear of the Indiaman, I think!” “Then you take me for the gentleman you speak of, Captain Wallis?” asked I faintly; for at the same moment I could see a light-coloured dress and a white ribbon fluttering on the Seringapatam’s poop, the look of which sent the blood about my heart. ’Twas hard to settle betwixt a feeling of the kind, and fear for Westwood; it struck me Captain Wallis wasn’t very eager in the affair, and ’twas on my lips to assure him I wasn’t the man. “Harkee,” broke in he, with almost a wink, and a smile ready to break out on his mouth, “the short and the long of it is, I’ll take you! We must have somebody to show in the case; though now I remember, there was some one else said to’ve gone off with you—but we won’t trouble him! If we’ve brought away the wrong man, why, hang it, so much the better! If you’re Westwood, I can tell you, they’ll run ye up to a yardarm, sir! Much more comfortable than ten years or so in a jail, too, as—as no one knows better than I do myself.” Here the captain’s face darkened, his eye gleamed, and he rose with a limp to ring a hand-bell on the table. “White,” said he to the marine that put his head in at the door, with his hand up to it, “Desire the first lieutenant, from me, to send a boat aboard for this gentleman’s things.” “I’m afraid, sir,” continued he gravely to me, “you’ll have to reckon yourself under arrest,—but you’ll find the gentlemen in the gun-room good company, I hope, for a day or two, till we make St Helena.” I saw the captain’s mind was made up, and for the life of me I didn’t know what to say against it; but speak I could not, so with a stiff bow and a sick sort of a smile I turned out of the door, and walked along to the gun-room, which was empty. I could see the boat soon after under the ship’s side, dipping and rising as they handed down my couple of portmanteaus to the man-o’-war’s-men; the young reefer came down again as nimble as a monkey, with some letters in his hand, took off his cap to some ladies above, and sang out to give way; five or six flashing feathers of the oars in the sunlight, and they were coming round the brig’s stern. The brig was just squaring away her mainyard at the whistle from the boatswain’s mates, when the whole run of the Indiaman’s bulwarks was crowded with the passengers’ and men’s faces, watching the brig gather way to pass ahead; I could hear the officers on deck hail the India mates, wishing them a good voyage; the ladies bowing and waving their handkerchiefs to the British union-jack. Some sort of confusion seemed to get up, however, about the ship’s taffrail, where Rollock, Ford, and some others were standing together; the planter jumped up all at once on the quarter-mouldings nearest the brig, then jumped down again, and his straw hat could be seen hurrying toward the quarterdeck. Next I caught a bright glimpse of Violet Hyde’s face, as the sun shot on it free of the awnings—her eyes wandering with the brig’s motion, I fancied, along the deck above me; till suddenly she seemed to start, and Westwood appeared behind her. The next thing I saw was the black-faced figure-head of the Seringapatam rising below her bowsprit, about sixty yards from the gun-room port where I was, and down she went again with a heavy plash, as Tom Westwood himself leapt up between the knight-heads at the bow, hailing the brig’s deck with a voice like a trumpet, “Ahoy!—the Podargus ahoy!—for mercy’s sake heave to again, sir!” he sung out; “I’m the man you want!” “The Indiaman ahoy!” I heard Captain Wallis himself hail back, “what d’ye say?” The creak of our yards, with the flap of the jib, and the men’s feet, drowned Westwood’s second hail, as it came sharp up to windward; the sailors in the Indiaman’s bows were grinning at him behind, while the first lieutenant of the brig shouted gruffly that she had no time to wait for more letters; and I heard the gun-room steward say to the marine, on going out with the dirty breakfast cloth, he wondered if “that parson cove thought the Pedarkis vanted a chapling!” or was only “vun of these fellers that’s so troublesome to see the French Hemperor!” “Well,” said the marine, “’twas pretty queer if he took the Pedarkis for the ship to carry him there! I don’t think the captain would let a rat into the island, if he could help it!” “Not he,” said the steward; “plenty of ’em in already, Vite, my man—I do think they used to swim off on board here, by the way the cheese vent!” All this time I never stirred from the port, watching with my chin on the muzzle of the gun till the Indiaman was half a mile to windward of us, her big hull still rising and falling on the same swells, topped with clusters of heads; her topsails lowered in honour of the flag, the ensign blowing out half-mast high for the death of Captain Williamson: a long wash of the water ran outside the brig’s timbers, surge after surge, and the plunge at her bows showed how fast she began to run nor’-westward before the wind. You may well fancy my state, after all I’d done for weeks; in fact, one scarce knew the extent of what he’d felt, what he’d looked forward to, till he found himself fairly adrift from it: ’twould even have been nothing, after all, could I just have thought of Violet Hyde as I’d done two hours ago, on waking, with last night in the river on my mind. As it was, ’twould have taken little to make me jump out of the port into the sweep of blue water swelling toward the brig’s counter; the Seringapatam being by this time astern. I couldn’t even see her, or aught save the horizon, to windward; but at this moment the young second lieutenant came below, and, seeing me, he began in a polite enough way, with a kindly manner about it, trying to raise my spirits. “I suppose, sir,” said I, rather sulkily, I daresay, “I can have a berth just now?” “Oh, certainly,” said he, “the steward has orders to see to it at once. Will you come on deck a minute or two, in the meantime, sir?”

I looked back from the ship astern to the brig-of-war’s clean white decks, flush fore and aft, with the men all forward at their stations, neatly dressed in regular man-o’-war style, every one alike—a sight that would have done me good at another time, small as she was by comparison; but the very thought of the Indiaman’s lumbering poop and galleries was too much for me—’twas as if you’d knocked out those two roundhouse doors of hers, and let in a gush of bare sky instead. The ship-shape man-o’-war cut of things was nothing, I fancied, to the snug spot under those top-gallant bulwarks of hers, and the breezy poop all a-flutter with muslin of an evening, where you found books and little basket affairs stuck into the coils of rope: I thought the old Seringapatam never looked so well, as she commenced trimming sail on a wind, beginning to go drive ahead, with a white foam at her bows, and her whole length broadside-on to us. All at once we saw her clue up courses and to’-gallant sails, till she was standing slowly off under the three topsails and jib; the two lieutenants couldn’t understand what she was about, and the captain put the glass to his eye, after which he said something to the second lieutenant, who went forward directly. The next thing I saw was the Indiaman coming up in the wind again for about a minute; she had her stern nearly to us, when the moment after, as she rose upon a long sea, you saw something flash white off her lee-gangway in the sunlight, that dropped against it into the hollow of a wave. The next minute she fell off again with her topsails full, and the first shower of spray was rising across her forefoot, when the flash of a gun broke out of her side, and the sound came down to us; then a second and a third. The brig gave her the same number in answer, and as soon as the smoke betwixt us had cleared away, the ship could be seen under full sail to the south-westward by west. “That’s her poor skipper’s hammock dropped alongside, gentlemen!” said Captain Wallis to his officers; “God be with him!” “Amen!” said the first lieutenant, and we put our caps on again. “Set stu’nsails, Mr Aldridge,” said the captain, limping down the hatchway: as for me, I leant I don’t know how long over the brig’s taffrail, watching the ship’s canvass grow in one, through the width of air betwixt us; my heart full, as may be supposed, not to say what notions came into my head of what might happen to her under Finch’s charge, ere she reached Bombay. No one belonging to the brig spoke to me, out of kindness, no doubt; and the ship was hull-down on the horizon, to my fancy with somewhat of a figure like hers, when she stood with the Cashmere shawl over her head in the dusk. Then I went gloomily down to my berth, where I kept close by myself till I fell asleep, though the gun-room steward was sent more than once to ask me to join the officers.

It wasn’t till the next day, in fact, when I went on the quarterdeck at noon, wearied for a fresher gulp of air, that I saw any of them; and the breeze having fallen lighter that morning, they were too busy trimming sail and humouring her to give me much notice. I must say I had seldom seen a commander seem more impatient about the sailing of his craft, in time of peace, than the captain of the Podargus appeared to be; walking the starboard side as fast as the halt in his gait would let him, and the anxious turn of his eyes plainer than before, while he looked from the brig’s spread of stu’nsails to the horizon, through the glass, which, I may say, he never once laid down. From where the brig spoke the Indiamen, to St Helena, would be about two or three days’ sail with a fair wind, at the ordinary strength of the south-east trade; though, at this rate, it might cost us twice the time. I noticed the men on the forecastle look to each other now and then knowingly, at some fresh sign of the captain’s impatience; and the second lieutenant told me in a low voice, with his head over the side near mine, Captain Wallis had been out of sorts ever since they lost sight of the island. “You’d suppose, sir,” said he, laughing, “that old Nap was his sweetheart, by the way he watches over him; and now, I fancy, he’s afraid St Helena may be sunk in blue water while we were away! In fact, Mr Westwood,” added he, “it looks devilish like as if it had come up from Davy Jones, all standing; so I don’t see why it shouldn’t go down to him again some day; I can tell you it’s tiresome work cruising to windward there, though, and we aren’t idle at all!” “Did you ever see the French Emperor yourself, sir?” asked I—for I must say the thought of nearing the prison such a man was in made me a little curious. “Never, sir, except at a mile’s distance,” said the second lieutenant; “indeed, it’s hard to get a pass, unless you know the governor. But I’ve a notion,” continued he, “the governor’s carefulness is nothing to our skipper’s! Indeed, they tell a queer story of how Sir Hudson Lowe was gulled for months together, when he was governor of Capri island, in the Mediterranean. As for the captain, again, you’d seek a long time ere you found a better seaman—he’s as wide awake, too, as Nelson himself—while the curious thing is, I believe, he never once clapped eyes on Bonaparte in his life! But good cause he has to hate him, you know, Mr Westwood!” “Indeed,” said I, taking a moment’s interest in the thing; and I was just going to ask the reason, when the first lieutenant came over to say. Captain Wallis would be glad if I would dine with him in the cabin.

At dinner-time, accordingly, I put on a coat, for the first time, less like those the cadets in the Seringapatam wore, and went aft, where I found the first lieutenant and a midshipman with the captain. He did his best to soften my case, as I saw by his whole manner during dinner; after which, no sooner had the reefer had his one glass of wine, than he was sent on deck to look out to windward. “Well, sir,” said Captain Wallis thereupon, turning from his first luff to me, “I’m sorry for this disagreeable business! I believe you deny being the person at all, though?” “Why, sir,” said I, “I am certainly no more the first lieutenant of the Orestes than yourself, Captain Wallis! ’Twas all owing to a mistake of that India mate, who owed me a grudge.” “Oh, oh, I see!” replied he, beginning to smile, “the whole matter’s as plain as a handspike, Mr Aldridge! But I couldn’t do less, on the information!” “However, sir,” put in the first lieutenant, “there’s no doubt the real man must have been in the ship, or the mistake could not have happened, sir!” “Well—you look at things too square, Aldridge,” said the captain. “All you’ve got to do, I hope, sir, is just to prove you’re not Westwood; and if you want still to go out to the East Indies, why, I daresay you won’t be long of finding some outward-bound ship or other off James Town. Only, I’d advise you, sir, to have your case over with Sir Pulteney, before Admiral Plampin comes in—as I fear he would send you to England.” “It matters little to me, sir,” I answered; “seeing the reason I had for going out happens to be done with.” Here I couldn’t help the blood rising in my face; while Captain Wallis’s steady eye turned off me, and I heard him say in a lower key to the lieutenant, he didn’t think it was a matter for a court-martial at all. “Pooh, Aldridge!” said he, “some pretty girl amongst the passengers in the case, I wager!” “Why,” returned Aldridge, carelessly, “I heard Mr Moore say some of the ladies were pretty enough, especially one—some India judge or other’s young daughter—I believe he was in raptures about, sir.” This sort of thing, as you may suppose, was like touching one on the raw with a marlin-spike; when the captain asked me, partly to smooth it over, maybe,—“By the bye, sir, Mr Aldridge tells me there was something about a pirate schooner, or slaver, or some craft of the kind, that frightened your mates—that’s all stuff, I daresay—but what I want to know is, in what quarter you lost sight of her, if you recollect?” “About nor’west by north from where we were at the time, sir,” said I. “A fast-looking craft was she?” asked he. “A thorough-built smooth-going clipper, if ever there was one,” I said. At this the captain mused for a little, till at last he said to his lieutenant—“They daren’t risk it; I don’t think there’s the Frenchman born, man enough to try such a thing by water, Aldridge?” “Help him out, you mean, sir?” said the luff; “why, if he ever got as far as the water’s edge, I’d believe in witchcraft, sir!” “Give a man time, Mr Aldridge,” answered the captain, “and he’ll get out of anything where soldiers are concerned—every year he’s boxed up, sharpens him till his very mind turns like a knife, man! It makes one mad on every point beside, I tell you, sir—whereas after he’s free, perhaps, it’s just on that only his brain has a twist in it!” “No doubt, Captain Wallis,” said Aldridge, glancing over to me, as his commander got up and began walking about the cabin, spite of his halt. “D’ye know,” continued he, “I’ve thought at times what I should like best would be to have him ahead of the brig, in some craft or other, and we hard in chase—I’d go after that man to the North Pole, sir, and bring him back! Without once going aboard to know he was there, I’d send word it was Jack Wallis had him in tow!” “What is Bonaparte like, then, after all, sir?” I asked, just to fill up the break. “I never saw him, nor he me,” replied Captain Wallis, stopping in his walk, “but every day he may have a sight of the brig cruising to windward; and as for the island, we see plenty of it, I think, Aldridge?” “Ay, ay, sir,” said Aldridge, “that we do! For my part, I can’t get the ugly stone steeples of it out of my head!” “Well,” continued the captain, “at times, when we’re beating round St Helena of a night, I’ll be hanged if I haven’t thought it began to loom as if the French Emperor stood on the top of it, like a shadow looking out to sea the other way,—and I’ve gone below lest he’d turn round till I saw his face. I’ve a notion, Mr Aldridge, if I once saw his face I’d lose what I feel against him,—just as I used always to fancy, the first five years in the Temple, if he were only to see me, he would let me out! But they say he’s got a wonderful way of coming over every one, if he likes!” After this, Captain Wallis sat down and passed the decanters, the first lieutenant observing he supposed Bonaparte was a great man in his way, but nothing to Nelson. “Don’t tack them together, Aldridge!” said his commander, quickly; “Nelson was a man all over,—he’d got the feelings of a man, and his faults—but I call him, yonder, a perfect demon let loose upon the world! To my mind all the blood those republicans shed, with their murdered king’s at bottom of it, got somehow into him, till he thought no more of human beings, or aught concerning ’em, than I do of so many cockroaches! But the terrible thing was, sir, his infernal schemes, and his cunning—why, he’d twist you one country against another, and get hold of both, like a man bending stun-sail halliards—there were men grew up round him quick as mushrooms, fit to carry out everything he wanted; so one could’nt wonder at him enough, Mr Aldridge, if it was only natural! I can’t tell you anything like what I felt,” he went on, “when I was in Sir Sidney Smith’s ship, cruising down Channel, and we used to see the gunboats and flat-bottoms he got together for crossing the straits—or one night, with poor Captain Wright, that we stood in near enough to get a shot sent at us off the heights—the whole shore about Boulogne was one twinkle of lights and camp-fires, and you heard the sound of the hammers on planks and iron, with the carts and gun-carriages creaking—not to speak of a hum from soldiers enough, you’d have thought, to eat old England up! And where are they now?” “I don’t know, sir, indeed,” said the first lieutenant gravely, supposing by the captain’s look, no doubt, that it was a question. “What, Captain Wallis!” exclaimed I, “were you with Captain Wright, then, sir?” Of course, like every one in the service, I had heard Captain Wright’s story often, with ever so many versions; there was a mystery about his sad fate that made me curious to hear more, of what gave the whole navy, I may say, a hatred to Bonaparte not at all the same you regard a fair enemy with.

“With him, say you, sir?” repeated the captain of the Podargus, “ay was I! I was his first lieutenant, and good cause I had to feel for the end he came to,—as I’ll let you hear. One night Captain Wright went ashore, as he’d often done, into the town of Beville, dressed like a smuggler; for the fact was the French winked at the smuggling, only I must say we used to land men instead of goods. I didn’t like the thing that night, and advised him not to go, as they’d begun to suspect something of late; however, the captain by that time was foolhardy, owing to having run so many risks, and he was bent on going in before we left the coast; though, after all, I believe it was only to get a letter that any fisherman could have brought off. The boat was lying off and on behind a rocky point, and we waited and waited, hearing nothing but the sound of the tide making about the big weedy stones, in the shadow from the lights of the town; when at last the French landlord of the little tavern he put up at, came down upon the shingle and whistled to us. He gave me a message from Captain Wright, with the private word we had between us, saying he wanted me to come up to the town on a particular business. Accordingly, I told the men to shove out again, and away I went with the fellow. No sooner did I open the door of the room, however, than three or four gens-d’-armes had hold of me, and I was a prisoner: as for Captain Weight, I never saw him more. The morning broke as they brought me up on horseback in the middle of them, along the road to Paris, from whence I could make out the cutter heeling to the breeze a mile or two off the land, with two or three gunboats hard in chase.”

“Well, sir, at Paris they clapped me into a long gloomy-like piece of mason-work called the Temple, close alongside of the river, where plenty of our countrymen were; Captain Wright and Sir Sidney Smith himself among the rest, as I found out afterwards. The treatment wasn’t so bad at first; but when you climbed up to the windows, there was nothing to be seen but the top of a wall, and roofs of houses all round, save where you’d a glimpse of the dirty river and some pig-trough of a boat. One day I got a letter from Captain Wright—how they let me have it I don’t well know—saying he was allowed a good deal of comfort in the mean time, but he suspected some devilish scheme in it, to make him betray the British government, or something of the kind; that he’d heard one of the French royalist generals had choked himself in his prison, but never to believe he’d do the same thing, though every night he woke up thinking he heard the key turn in the door. The next thing I heard of was that Captain Wright had made away with himself, sir!” Here Captain Wallis got up again, walking across the cabin, seemingly much moved. “Well, after that I slept with the dinner-knife in my breast, till the jailer took it away; for I thought at the time that poor Wright had been murdered, though I found cause to change my mind when I knew what loneliness does with a man, not to speak of the notion being put before him to take his own life. For a while, too, Captain Shaw was in the same cell; by which time we had such bad food, and so little of it, that one day when a pigeon lighted on the window, which used to come there for a crumb or two every afternoon, right along with the gold gleam of the sun as it shot over the dark houses to that window—I jumped up and caught it. Shaw and I actually tore it in bits, and eat it raw on the spot; though ’twas long ere I could get rid of the notion of the poor bird fluttering and cooing against the bars, and looking at me with its round little soft eye as it pecked off the slab. But what was that to the thought of my old father that had hurt himself to keep me in the navy, and me able, now, to make his last days comfortable—or the innocent young girl I had married the moment I got my commission of first lieutenant, expecting to be flush of prize-money! It even came into my head often, when I sat by myself in the cell they afterwards put me into, alone,—how that little blue pigeon might have carried a letter to England for me—at any rate it was the only thing like a chance, or a friend, I ever saw the whole time I was there,—and foolish as the notion may look, why the window was too high in a smooth wall, for me once to reach it. I heard all Paris humming round the thick of the stone, every day, and sometimes the sound of thousands of soldiers tramping past below, over the next bridge, with music and suchlike—no doubt when the First Consul, as they called him, went off to some campaign or other: then I’d dream I felt the deck under me in a fresh breeze at night, till the soul sickened in me to wake up and find the stones as still as before, and now and then hear the sentries challenging on their rounds.

“Well, one day a fellow in a cloak, with a slouch hat over his forehead, was let in to try, as I thought, if there was anything to be got out of me, as they tried two or three times at first; some spy he was, belonging to that police devil, Fouché. What did he offer me, d’ye think, after beating about the bush for half an hour, but the command of a French seventy-four under the Emperor, as he was by that time, and, if I would take it, I was free! On this I pretended to be thinking of it, when the police-fellow sidled near me, to show a commission signed with the Emperor’s name at the foot.

“In place of taking hold of it, however, I jumped up and seized the villain’s nose and chin before he saw my purpose, stuffed the parchment into his mouth by way of a gag, and made him dance round the cell, with his cloak over his head and his sword dangling alongside of him, to keep his stern clear of my foot; till the turnkey heard the noise, and he made bolt out as soon as the door was opened. You’d wonder how long that small matter served me to laugh over, for my spirit wasn’t broken yet, you see; but even then, in the very midst of it, I would all of a sudden turn sick at heart, and sit wondering when the exchange of prisoners would be made, that I looked for. The worst of it was, at times a horrid notion would come into my head of the French seventy-four being at sea at the moment, and me almost wishing they’d give me the offer over again—I fancied I felt the very creak of her, straining in the trough of a sea, and saw the canvass of her topsails over me, standing on her poop with a glass in my hand,—till she rose on a crest, and there were the Agamemnon’s lighted ports bearing down to leeward upon us, till I heard Nelson’s terrible voice sing out, “Give it to ’em, my lads!” when the flash of her broadside showed me his white face under the cocked hat, and it came whizzing over like a thirty-two pound shot right into my breast, as I sunk to the bottom, and found myself awake in the prison.

“I don’t know how long it was after, but they moved me to another berth, where a man had shot himself through the head, for we actually met his body being carried along the passage; and more than that, sir, they hadn’t taken the trouble to wash his brains off the wall they were scattered on! There I sat one day after another, watching the spot marked by them turn dry, guessing at everything that had gone through them as long as he was alive in the place, till my own got perfectly stupid; I was as helpless as a child, and used to cry at other times when the jailer didn’t bring me my food in time. I fancied they’d forget all about me in England; and as for time, I never counted it, except by the notion I had been two or three years in. At last the turnkey got so used to me, thinking me no doubt such a harmless sort of a poor man, that he would sit by and talk to me, giving accounts of the Emperor’s battles and victories, and such matters. I must say I began to feel as if he was some sort of a God upon earth there was no use to strive against, just as the turnkey seemed to do, more especially when I heard of Nelson’s death; so when he told me, one time, it wouldn’t do for Fouché or the Emperor to let me out yet, I said nothing more. “Will the Emperor not let me out now?” asked I, a long time after. “Diable!” said the man, “do you think his Majesty has time to think of such a poor fellow as you, amongst such great matters? No, no, pauvr’ homme!” continued he; “you’re comfortable here, and wouldn’t know what to do if you were out! No fear of your doing as your Capitaine Ourite did, since you’ve lived here so long, monsieur!” “How long is it, now, good Pierre?” asked I, with a sigh, as he was going out at the door; and the turnkey counted on his fingers. “Ulm—Austerlitz—Jena,” said he slowly; “oui, oui—I scarcely thought it so much—it wants only six or seven months of ten years!” and he shut to the door. I sprang up off the bed I was sitting on, wild at the thought—I may say, for a day or two I was mad—ten years! ten years!—and all this time where was my poor innocent Mary, and the child she expected to bear, when I left Exeter—where was my old father? But I couldn’t bear to dwell on it. Yes, Aldridge, by the God above, they had kept me actually ten years there, in that cursed Temple, while he was going on all the time with his victories, and his shows, and his high-flown bulletins! Yet he wasn’t too high, it seems, to stoop to give out, through his tools, how Wright and I had both killed ourselves for fear of bringing in the British government—nor to offer me a seventy-four in a dungeon—me, a man used to wind and water, that loved a breeze at sea like life! ’Twas the very devil’s temptation, sir; but I’ll tell you what, both Captain Wright and myself had been with Sir Sidney Smith at Acre, when he was baffled for the first time in his days—that was the thing, I believe from my soul, that he hated us for! I had a right to be exchanged ten times over, though he might have called Wright a spy; but what was my poor wife and her newborn baby, or my old father’s grey hairs, to him, and his damnable ambition to make everything his own—and when the very thought of me in my hole at the Temple would strike him in the midst of his victories, where he hadn’t time, forsooth, to trouble himself about a poor man like me! The fact was, I could tell how he offered a British seaman, that had had a finger in nettling him, the command of one of his seventy-fours, which he had nobody fit to manage—and that in a prison where I’d be glad even of fresh air!

“’Twas then, in fact, the purpose rose firmer and firmer in me, out of the fury that was like to drive me mad, how I’d get out of his clutches, and spend my life against the very pitch of his power I knew so well about. Till that time I used to look through the bars of the window at the Seine, without ever fancying escape, low down as it was, compared with my last cell. There was a mark in the stone floor with my walking back and forward, since they put me in; and by this time I had the cunning of a beast, let alone its strength, in regard of anything I took into my head: often I used to think I saw the end of my finger, or the corner of a stone, more like the way a fly sees them, than a man. The turnkey, Pierre, would never let me have a knife to eat my food with, lest I should do as he said all we English were apt to do—kill myself—which, by the way, is a lie; and I think that fiend of an Emperor yonder must have taught them to blame us with their own crime! However, latterly he let me have a fork for half an hour at dinner; and for a quarter of an hour every day, except those when he staid to talk to me as I ate it, did I climb up and work with that fork at the top and bottom of one of the window-bars, taking care not to break the fork, and jumping down, always, in time to finish the meal. It took me four whole months, sir, to loosen them! Such deadly fear as I was in, too, lest he’d find it out, or lest they moved me to another cell—you’d have thought I was fond of the walls round the place, where hundreds of men before me had scrawled their last words; and the one that shot himself had written, “Liberté—anéantissement! Liberty—annihilation!” just over where the spatter of his brains had stuck when he laid his head to the spot! If Pierre had noticed what I’d been about, my mind was made up to kill him, and then make the trial before they missed him; but that I had a horror of, after all, seeing the man had taken a sort of liking to me, and I knew he had a wife.

“Well, at last, one day I had the thing finished; when midnight came I trembled like a leaf, till I began to fear I couldn’t carry it through: I tore my shirt and the blanket in strips, to twist into a line, got out the bar by main force, squeezed through, and let myself down. The line was just long enough to let me swing against the cold wall, over a sentry’s head going round the parapet below; as soon as he was past I dropped on the edge of the wall, and fell along it, my fingers scraping the smooth stone to no purpose, till I was sliding off into the dark, with the river I didn’t know how far below me, though I heard it lapping against some boats at the other side. For a few moments I was quite senseless, from the fall into the water; the splash roused the sentinels, and three or four bullets whizzed into it about me, as I struck out for the shore. Still the night was thick enough to help me clear off among the dark lanes in the city;—and the upshot of it was, that I found out some royalists, who supplied me with a pedlar’s dress; till, in the end, after I can’t tell you how many ticklish chances, where my luck hung upon a hair, I reached the coast, and was taken off to a British frigate. At home, sir—at home, I found I’d been given up long ago for a dead man in Bonaparte’s prisons, and—and—the old man had been buried seven years, Aldridge—but not so long as my—wife. The news of my taking my own life in the Temple saved her the rest—’twas too much for her at the time, Aldridge—both she and her little one had lain in the mould nine years, when I stood looking at the grass under Exeter Cathedral! I was a young man almost, still; but my hair was as grizzled when I got out of the Temple in 1813, as you see it now, and I’ll never walk the deck fairly again. Aldridge,” added the captain of the Podargus, turning round and standing still, with a low sort of a deep whisper, “’tis a strange thing, the Almighty’s way of working—but I never thought—in the Temple yonder, longing for a heave of the water under me—I little thought John Wallis would ever come to keep guard over his Majesty, the Emperor Napoleon!”

When Captain Wallis stopped, the long send of the sea lifting the brig below us, with a wild, yearning kind of ripple from her bows back to her counter, and weltering away astern,—one felt it, I may say, somewhat like an answer to him, for the breeze had begun to freshen: it had got all of a sudden nearly quite dark, too, as is the case inside the tropics, without the moon. “Let’s go on deck, gentlemen,” said the captain, coming to himself; “now clap on those other topmost stuns’ls, Mr Aldridge, and make her walk, sir!” “No saying,” I heard him mutter, as he let us go up before him—“no saying what the want of the Podargus might do, off the island, these dark nights—with water alongside, one can’t be sure—I warrant me if that man’s dreams came true, as mine did, he would be at the head of his thousands again, ruining the whole world, with men rotting out of sight in dungeons while the wind blows! Ay, dreams, young gentleman!” said he to me as we stood on deck; “I’ll never get rid of that prison, in my head, nor the way that dead man’s brain seemed to come into mine, off the wall! But for my part, off St Helena, ’tis Napoleon Bonaparte’s dreams that enter into my head. If you’ll believe it, sir, I’ve heard them as it were creeping and tingling round the black heights of the island at dead of night, like men in millions ready to break out in war music, as I used to hear them go over the bridge near the Temple—or in shrieks and groans; we all the time forging slowly ahead, and the surf breaking in at the foot of the rocks. I know then, who’s asleep at the time up in Longwood!”

The brig-of-war was taking long sweeps and plunges before the wind; the Southern Cross right away on her larboard quarter, and the very same stars spread all out aloft, that I’d watched a couple of nights before, close by Violet Hyde. The whole of what I’d just heard was nothing to me in a single minute, matched with the notion of never seeing her more. Everything I’d thought of since we left England was gone, even one’s heart for the service; and what to do now, I didn’t know. I scarce noticed it commence to rain, till a bit of a squall had come on, and they were hauling down stu’nsails; the dark swells only to be seen rising with the foam on them, and a heavier cover of dull cloud risen off the brig’s beam, as well as ahead; so that you merely saw her canvass lift before you against the thick of the sky, and dive into it again. ’Twas just cleared pretty bright off the stars astern of us, however, wind rather lighter than before the squall, when the captain thought he made out a sail near about the starboard beam, where the clouds came on the water-line; a minute or two after she was plain enough in the clear, though looming nearly end-on, so that one couldn’t well know her rig. Thinking at first sight it might be the schooner, Captain Wallis was for bracing up, to stand in chase and overhaul her; but shortly after she seemed either to yaw a little, or fall off again before the wind like ourselves, at any rate showing three sticks on the horizon with square canvass spread, and evidently a small ship. “Some homeward-bound craft meaning to touch at the island!” said Captain Wallis, telling the first lieutenant to keep all fast; by which time she was lost in the dusk again, and I wasn’t long of going below. A fancy had got hold of me for the moment, I can’t deny, of its being the Seringapatam after us, on Westwood’s owning himself; whereupon I persuaded myself Captain Wallis might perhaps take the risk on him of letting us both go. For my part, I felt by this time as if I’d rather be in the same ship with her, hopeless though it was, than steer this way for the other side of the Line; and I went down with a chill at my heart like the air about an iceberg.

Not being asleep, however, a sudden stir on deck, an hour or two after that, brought me out of my cot, to look through the scuttle in the side. The brig had hauled her wind from aft onto her starboard quarter, making less way than before it, of course; I heard the captain’s voice near the after-hatchway, too; so accordingly I slipped on my clothes, and went quietly up. The Podargus was running through the long broad swells usual thereabouts, with her head somewhere toward north-east; the officers all up, the whole of the crew in both watches clustered beyond the brig’s fore-course, and the captain evidently roused, as well as impatient; though I couldn’t at first make out the reason of her being off her course. As soon as she fell off a little, however, to my great horror I could see a light far ahead of us, right in the gloom of the clouds, which for a moment you’d have supposed was the moon rising red and bloody, till the heave of the sea betwixt us and it showed how both of us were dipping: and now and then it gave a flaring glimmer fair out from the breast of the fog-bank, while the breeze was sending a brown puff of smoke from it now and then to leeward against the clouds; through which you made a spar or two licking up the flame, and a rag of canvass fluttering across on the yard. ’Twas neither more nor less than a ship on fire—no doubt the vessel seen abeam of us that evening—a sight at which Captain Wallis seemingly forgot his hurry to make St Helena, in the eagerness shown by all aboard to save the poor fellows. Suddenly there was another wild gleam from the burning craft, and we thought it was over altogether, when up shot a wreath of fire and smoke again, then a fierce flash with a blue burst of flame, full of sparks and all sorts of black spots and broken things, as if she had blown up while she heaved the last time on the swell. Everything was pitch dark next minute in her place, as if a big blot of ink had come instead; the brig-of-war herself rolling with a flap of her headsails up against the long heavy bank of cloud that blocked the horizon. “Keep her away, sirrah!” shouted Captain Wallis, and the Podargus surged ahead as before, all of us standing too breathless to speak, but counting the heads of the waves as they flickered past her weather beam. “God’s sake!” exclaimed the captain at last, “this is terrible, Aldridge. If I had only overhauled her, as I meant at first, we might have helped them in time; for no doubt the fire must have been commenced when we noticed her yawing yonder a couple of hours ago, sir.” “I think not, sir,” said his lieutenant, “we were against the clear; and if they’d been in danger then, she’d have fired a distress-gun. There couldn’t have been much powder aboard, sir—more likely rum, I think!”

“For heaven’s sake!” continued the captain, “let’s look about—she must surely have had boats out, or something, Mr Aldridge? The best thing we can do is to fire a few times as we bear down—see that bow-gun cleared away, Mr Moore, and do it!”

We might have been about a mile, as was guessed, from where she was last seen, when the brig fired a gun to windward, still standing on under everything. At the second flash that lighted up the belly of the clouds, with the black glitter of the swells below them, I fancied I caught a moment’s glimpse of something two or three miles away. It was too short to say, however; and soon after the twinkle of a light, seemingly hoisted on a spar, was seen little more than half a mile upon the brig’s lee-bow, dipping and going out of sight at times, but plain enough when it rose. Down went the Podargus for the spot, sending the foam off her cut-water; and it was no long time before a wild hail from several voices could be made out almost close aboard. Ten minutes after she was brought to the wind, heaving a rope to the men on a loose raft of casks and spars, as it pitched alongside of her, with the sail hauled down on a spar they had stuck up, and a lantern at the head of it; after which the raft was cast off, and the poor fellows were safe on board.

Two of them seemed to be half-drowned, the one wrapped up in a wet pilot-coat, his face looking white and frightened enough by the glimmer of the lanterns; the other darker a good deal, so far as I could make him out for the crowd about him, and he didn’t seem able to speak; accordingly, both of them were taken at once below to the surgeon. The rest were four half-naked blacks, and a little chap with ear-rings and a seaman’s dress, who was the spokesman on the quarterdeck to the captain’s questions—plainly American by his snuffling sort of drawl. “Are there no more of you afloat?” was the first thing asked, to which the Yankee sailor shook his head. She was an American bark, he said, from a voyage of discovery round the two Capes; he was mate himself, and the skipper, being addicted to his cups, had set a cask of rum on fire; so, finding they couldn’t get it under, besides being wearied at the pumps, on account of an old leak, the men broke into the spirit-room and got dead drunk. He and the blacks had patched up a raft in a hurry for bare life, barely saving the passenger and his servant who had jumped overboard: the passenger was a learned sort of a man, he said, and his servant was a Mexican. Most of this I found next day, from the gun-room officers: however, I heard the mate of the burnt barque inquire of the captain whereabouts they were, as the skipper was the only man who could use a chronometer or quadrant, and the last gale had driven them out of their reckonings a long way. “Somehow south of the Line, I guess?” said he; but, on being told, the fellow gave a bewildered glance round him, seemingly, and a cunning kind of squint after it, as I fancied. “Well,” said he, “I guess we’re considerable unlucky—but I consider to turn in, if agreeable!” The man had a way, in fact, half free-and-easy, half awkward, that struck me; especially when he said, as he went below, he supposed “this was a war-brig,” and hoped there “wasn’t war between the States and the old country?” “No, my man,” said the captain, “you may set your mind at ease on that point—but I’m afraid, nevertheless, we’ll have to land you at St Helena!” “What, mister?” said the American, starting, “that’s where you’ve got Boneyparty locked up? Well now, if you give me a good berth for a few, mister, I guess I’ll rayther ship aboard you, till I get a better! What’s your wage just now, if I may ask, captain?” “Well, well,” said the captain, laughing, “we’ll see to-morrow, my man!”—and the American went below. “Set stu’nsails again, Mr Aldridge,” continued Captain Wallis, “and square yards. Why, rather than have such a fellow in the ship’s company, Aldridge, I’d land him without Sir Hudson’s leave!”

“For my own part, next day, I should have given more notice to our new shipmates while the brig steered fair before the wind—the blacks and the mate leaning about her forecastle, and the other two being expected by the surgeon to come pretty well round before night, though the captain had gone to see them below; but a thing turned up all at once that threw me once more full into the thought of Violet Hyde, till I was perfectly beside myself with the helpless case I was in. The note Tom Westwood had shown me was still in the pocket of my griffin’s coat, though I hadn’t observed it till now; and what did I feel at finding out, that, instead of one from her to Westwood, it was a few words from my own sister, little Jane, saying in a pretty, bashful sort of a way, that her brother Ned must come home before she could engage to anything! You may fancy how I cursed myself for being so blind; but a fellow never thinks his own sister charming at all—and what else could I have done at any rate? All I hoped for was to get aboard of some Indiaman at St Helena, and there was nothing else I wearied to see the island again for. I may say I walked the brig’s lee quarterdeck till daybreak; but anyhow the look-out from the foreyard had scarce sung out “St Helena on the weather-bow!” when I was up, making out the round blue cloud in the midst of the horizon, with a white streak across it, like a bird afloat in the hazy blue, with the clear gleam from eastward off our starboard quarter running round to it.”

CANADIAN LOYALTY.
AN ODE.

[Written at Sunrise on New Year’s Morning of 1850, at the head of Lake Ontario, in Western Canada.]

As gleams the sunrise on the deep,
And on yon cliffs where eagles sweep,
And on the circling forests deep,
This morn, which owns the New Year’s birth,—
Is there no gratulating strain
To hail the advent of thy reign,
Thou latest link of Time’s long chain
Let down from heaven to this our earth?

Of Britain be that strain;—for she,
Stretching her empire o’er the sea,
Exalts the lowly, and sets free
From thraldom’s bonds the fettered slave;
For ever may her children share
The smiles of her maternal care;
For ever may her vessels bear
St George’s standard o’er the wave!

Droop not! Although dark tempests may
Obscure awhile the potent ray
That to these o’er-sea realms brought day,
And Treason walk secure the scene;
A second morning o’er the deep
Shall call us jubilee to keep,
And to old strains each heart shall leap—
“God save Britannia’s noble Queen!”

“God save Britannia’s noble Queen!”—
Shout it aloud! that strain hath been
From east to west, in every scene,
Heard by the nations, like a hymn
Wafted along from clime to clime,
To succour truth, to startle crime,
And, with an influence all sublime,
To brighten what before was dim.

Hark! ’tis Britannia’s morning gun
Heralding thee, thou glorious sun;
And, if it peal when daylight’s done,
Doth she not well that honour claim?
For wheresoe’er thy beams light earth,
Thou seest her wisdom and her worth;
Glories that own to her their birth,
And Trophies of her deathless fame!

From Zembla’s snows to India’s sun,
To her the faint, the feeble run,
They who Oppression’s grasp would shun,
Or Superstition’s horrors blind:
There exiles find a country—there
Monarchs and serfs alike repair,
And, underneath her guardian care,
A sure and safe asylum find!

Then think not, demagogues! on whom
Strike these first rays which now illume
Our land, that, with this year, in gloom
Shall Britain’s power eclipsed be seen.
No! if she wills it, hearts are here
That glory in her high career,
That from her side will sunder ne’er,
But proudly own one common Queen!

Methinks there glows in Britain yet
A feeling, that would grieve to let
Thee, sun! upon her empire set,
While shouts of rival nations rose:—
Our fathers were her sons, and we
Are but her offspring o’er the sea;
Aye undivided let us be—
We scorn to link us with her foes!

Methinks her subjects, side by side,
Will long her burdens just divide,—
Will long maintain, in matchless pride,
Her flag, which aye hath honoured been:—
And many a great deed yet be done,
And many a glorious field be won,
Ere of her empire set the sun.
“God save Britannia’s noble Queen.”

AGRICULTURE, COMMERCE, AND MANUFACTURES:
OPENING OF THE SESSION.

It rarely happens that the proceedings which occur in parliament, immediately after its reassembling, are so intrinsically important as to sustain the interest invariably excited in the public mind by the approach of the legislative season. Such at least is the case whenever men can predict, almost with certainty, what topics will be alluded to and what avoided in the royal address; what policy Ministers are determined to pursue; and what amount of support they may confidently count on receiving from political friends and auxiliaries. From the opening of the session of 1850 little novelty was to be augured. The Free-traders, having had everything their own way, could not be expected to express any misgiving as to the working of a system which they had so deliberately adopted. The cry of distress from without, loud and general as it was, had not shaken the equanimity of the secret divan of Downing Street; nor perhaps was the complaint deemed as yet articulate enough to require more than a casual notice. The storm might be brewing, but it was not at its height, and there would be time enough to meet it hereafter. What her Majesty’s Ministers had to do was to make out a fair case of prosperity for the present, and to hold out a still brighter prospect for the future. They had plausible materials for doing so. Bullion was plentiful in the vaults of the Bank of England; the exports for the past year had increased largely in amount; the revenue was in no bad condition. Abroad, there was a lull in those hostilities which for the last two years have frightened Europe from its propriety; and, though the victory had not declared itself on the side of those whom the Whigs favoured with their approbation, still tranquillity was something. It gave an augmented market to our manufacturers, and removed those hindrances which threatened to become serious interruptions to commerce. With such materials at command, no one but a most sorry artificer could have failed in constructing a plausible prosperity address. The state of the home market was evidently a subject for future discussion.

Notwithstanding various rumours as to meditated organic changes, it was pretty evident that Ministers had no intention to undertake the conduct of a new Reform bill. Of all the men who ever attempted to ape the character of Peter the Hermit, Sir Joshua Walmsley is at once the dullest and the most self-sufficient. Any crusade, under the auspices of such a preacher, could not be otherwise than abortive: indeed, he failed signally in the first and easiest quality of an agitator—that of enlisting a considerable share of popular sympathy on his side. Nor was finance reform likely to be seriously taken up by the Whigs, inasmuch as one of the earliest effects of such a scheme would necessarily be the reduction of their official salaries. That is a point, however, which they cannot long hope to evade; and it will be forced upon them, sorely against their will, as the inevitable consequence of low prices. They must prepare themselves to submit to a reduction similar to that which has been practised upon the officials of the Great Western Railway, who are put upon a short allowance in consequence of “the reduced prices of the necessaries of life.” The rule admits of general application, and doubtless will be rigidly carried out in the highest as in the lowest places. At present we shall not discuss that matter: we merely refer to it as a sufficiently intelligible reason why financial reform formed no part of the programme of her Majesty’s Ministers. No man expected that it would do so.

Apart from such topics as these, there was little to be looked for in the speech: and accordingly, when it appeared, the speech was as meagre and unsuggestive as such documents usually are. Nor should we have thought it necessary to make it the subject of comment, save for one passage, which may be said to contain its kernel, in so far as the prospects of the home population are concerned:—

“Her Majesty has great satisfaction in congratulating you on the improved condition of commerce and manufactures. It is with regret that her Majesty has observed the complaints which, in many parts of the kingdom, have proceeded from the owners and occupiers of land. Her Majesty greatly laments that any portion of her subjects should be suffering distress; but it is a source of sincere gratification to her Majesty to witness the increased enjoyment of the necessaries and comforts of life which cheapness and plenty have bestowed upon the great body of her people.”

Here there is no distinct admission of agricultural distress. Such distress may or may not exist: all that is known on the subject is, that complaints are made. But, supposing these complaints to be well founded, the great body of the people is reaping the benefit of that cheapness which is the cause of the distress of others. That is the language of the speech.

We think it is much to be regretted that, on an occasion like this, Ministers should have avoided the open and manly course. If they do not believe in the actual existence of such distress, but are of opinion that the great agitation which at present is spread over England, is either an unfounded panic or a factious clamour, it would have been well to have met the statements of their adversaries with a broad and unequivocal denial. If, on the contrary, they are convinced that distress actually does exist, and that it is likely to prove permanent, they have placed themselves in a strange and unprecedented position with regard to the class so complaining. For, in that view, the terms of the speech will hardly admit of any other interpretation, than that it is matter of congratulation to find, that one section of the British public is prospering upon the ruin of another. We do not, of course, believe that the Ministry intended to lay down any such principle; for, if once adopted and carried out, it must lead to the entire disorganisation of society. We think that their peculiar position affords us the true key to their language. On the one hand, they cannot deny that distress actually does exist: on the other, they cannot, in the face of the commercial principles which they have adopted, and the precarious nature of their majority, venture to suggest a remedy. Her Majesty is not even allowed to express sympathy, because sympathy implies suffering—and that admission Ministers are by no means, as yet, prepared to make.

Turning from the speech itself to the addresses, and the reported subsequent debates, we find this view of the matter sufficiently borne out. The Earl of Essex, the mover of the address in the House of Peers, expressed himself in the following terms:—

“Her Majesty had also expressed her deep sympathy with the distress stated to exist in many of our agricultural districts. No man could regret the existence of that distress more than he did; but, in expressing that regret, he must also state his conviction—a conviction which was shared by many wealthy merchants, and by many, he would not say a majority, of landlords—that that distress was not of a permanent, but of a temporary character.”

Lord Methuen, the seconder, took nearly the same view. The Earl of Carlisle said:—

“The degree of his alarm would be somewhat proportioned to the apprehended nature of the distress. If it were temporary, and produced by special and exceptional causes, not liable continually to prevail or constantly to recur, then it would be plain that agriculture was only subject to that variation which every other pursuit, every other profession and branch of industry, every source of emolument, seemed, by a law of the universe, to undergo—that change from which agriculture, in a marked degree, whether protected or unprotected, had never been exempt.”

And again:—

“What he contended was, that, with so very circumscribed limits for the experiment, and with such a marked interference of special and exceptional causes, during the progress of the experiment, it would be altogether preposterous to assume that the experiment had been tested, that it was exhausted, and that a change in the policy of the country ought to be considered, and forthwith entered upon. Neither could he think they were in a situation to pronounce what were the permanent fruits of the great experiment they had agreed to make. It would be impossible to say at what cost corn could be permanently grown in this country, or whether the same amount of foreign importations would always prevail. His own feeling was not one of despondency or despair on the subject. He had no right, on these points, to palm his own opinion on their lordships. All he contended was, that they were not in a condition to determine the questions he had indicated. He could not honestly stop there, however; he could not confine himself to these ambiguous and hypothetical limits: he was bound to tell their lordships that, even if he were convinced that the average price of corn could never ascend higher, still he was not prepared to reverse the policy they had entered upon.”

Finally, the Marquis of Lansdowne said:—

“Adverting to the subject of the amendment, regret must be felt when distress affected any large class of her Majesty’s subjects. When the noble lord (Stanley) went on to say he was convinced the distress, which to a certain degree affected the owners and occupiers of land, was shared by the agricultural community at large, including the labourers, he met the noble lord distinctly with the assertion that, throughout England, the condition of the labourers was generally better.”

Lord Lansdowne then went on to state facts regarding the importation of foreign corn; from which, we presume, he wished his hearers to infer that such importation was on the wane.

“With respect to the importation of foreign corn, it had diminished almost to nothing at present. In the last three months of last year, ending January 5th, the importation was reduced considerably below the importation of the corresponding period in the previous year. He had a return of the importation for the first four weeks of January. In the first four weeks of last year, the importation of all sorts was 1,118,653; for the last four weeks of this year, ending January 28th, only 336,895 quarters had been imported.”

A valuable addition to the above statistics would have been a note of the range of the thermometer during the periods referred to, especially at the Baltic ports. In conclusion, Lord Lansdowne, whilst maintaining the impossibility of any recurrence to the protective system, remarked:—

“He considered the experiment as finally made; but, if he were to see a quantity of acres thrown out of cultivation, and a number of labourers without employment, he would not hesitate to confess himself in the wrong, and he hoped others would not hesitate to do the same. He was not now, however, prepared to go back to their past policy, and to uphold what he believed to be a delusion, or to lay a foundation for that ill feeling and acrimony which had distinguished the discussion of the question out of doors.”

These extracts, from the debate in the House of Lords on the first night of the session, deserve to be recorded for the sake of fixture reference. Every one of the speakers on the Ministerial side proceeded on the assumption that agricultural distress, if it existed, was only temporary, and not permanent, in its character—and, such being the case, that there was no room, or, at all events, no occasion for a remedy.

Turning to the debate in the House of Commons, we find a bolder tone assumed. In their selection of the gentleman who had the honour of moving the address to her Majesty, Ministers gave a very strong indication of their deliberate views. Amongst those who annually renewed the motion for the repeal of the corn laws in the House of Commons, there was one who, with more candour or more discrimination than the rest, had the courage to acknowledge that the result of such a measure must be the “annihilation” of the small farmers. That gentleman, Mr Villiers, was selected as the fittest person to reciprocate to the royal message. We are far from reflecting upon the taste and feeling which suggested such a choice—indeed, we are not sure whether a better one could have been made; for, if the agriculturists are to understand that under no possible circumstances can our recent policy be changed, that assurance could hardly be conveyed more authoritatively than from the lips of the honourable member for Wolverhampton; and accordingly Mr Villiers does not mince the matter. He speaks out loud and bold, and tells the farmers that no amount of distress will make him withdraw one inch from his original position.

“He did not deny that distress existed among the occupiers of the land, and he deeply regretted it; but they were not precluded from retiring from that pursuit with which they were not satisfied. He thought it was some consolation to know that land now fetched as high a value in the market as it ever had brought in the history of this country; that there never was a farm vacant but there were numerous candidates for the tenancy; and that the agricultural labourers, instead of being worse off, were much better off than usual. If ‘the worst come to the worst,’ and the landed proprietor and the occupier should be obliged to proceed in the same business-like way in conducting their pursuits as persons in other businesses in this country, they would have this consolation, that there was no advantage possessed over them by other countries in the raising agricultural produce. The only thing that he (Mr Villiers) could discover, distinguishing the agriculturist here from those of other countries—and that was one which he had under his own control—was the price of land. It certainly was higher here than on the Continent. But in many respects his advantages were great; and the inferiority, where it existed, could be counteracted.”

Statements of this kind carry with them an antidote as well as a bane. We are not sorry to find the foremost champion of the League, and the mover of the address, thus openly setting at defiance physical fact, common sense, and the results of practical experience. He tells the British agriculturist that he is in every respect, except in the price of land, on an equality with the foreign producer. So, then, his climate is as constant, his soil is as rich, the labour he employs is as cheap, his direct burdens are as low, his luxuries are as moderately taxed! He is exposed to no restrictions; there is no malt-tax; he may have his bricks at prime cost; he may grow his own tobacco; he may distil his own spirits; he is not chargeable with income-tax, irrespective of his drawing one shilling of profit from his farm! So says Mr Villiers: and, if this be true, not one of us has a right to complain. But is it true? We shall not insult the intelligence of our readers by entering on a deliberate refutation.

Let us next hear the Chancellor of the Exchequer:—

“He admitted that in some respects, and in several parts of the country, the agricultural interest had suffered; but it was all a question of degree. He did not deny that the degree was considerable, but he did not think it existed to anything approaching the extent that had been represented; and he denied, therefore, that they ought to retrace the steps of their policy; for, though distress existed, he relied on the industry and the energy of the British farmer.”

Then come general opinions, almost amounting to assertions, that the present low price of corn cannot be permanent; and these opinions are fortified by a comparison of the importations in January 1849 with those in January 1850, no notice being taken of any difference between the seasons! Sir Charles Wood next put forth an authority, to which we crave attention:—

“The Mark-Lane Express stated that the price of corn in the Baltic was so high that it would not pay to send it to this country; and the only country from which corn was at present sent to us was France, which, in ordinary years, was not an exporting country. There was good reason to suppose, therefore, that the permanent price of wheat in this country would not range so low as at the present time. Prices were not at present remunerative to the importer, and importation had received a most signal check. The farmer need not, therefore, apprehend that ruin from the operation of free trade which he at present anticipated from prices under 40s. a quarter. What the future price of corn in this country would be, it would be wrong in him (the Chancellor of the Exchequer) to attempt to state, after the mistakes that the most practical and wisest men had fallen into with regard to the importation of corn. But it was worth observing, that at present no importation could take place from those countries from which importation had been most feared, and that the greatest quantities of corn recently received had come from those countries from which no one had anticipated any importation whatever. An honourable member had expressed an opinion that 44s. a quarter was the average price that might be expected to prevail for wheat. Now, he could not agree with those who held the opinion that the agriculturist would be ruined by such a price.”

Here there are two distinct propositions, with regard to which we have a word to say. 1st, Sir Charles Wood, on the authority of the Mark-Lane Express, an authority which he afterwards admits will not be disputed, says that the importations are checked, and will be checked, on account of the high price of corn in the Baltic, and, therefore, that the price of wheat in this country will rise. 2d, He thinks that the home agriculturist can carry on production with wheat at 44s. per quarter.

Well, then, let us see what has since been told us on the authority of the Mark-Lane Express, so lately as 11th February:—

“The value of wheat having receded, without a check, from week to week since the commencement of the year, has fallen to a point at which growers are very unwilling to sell; and within the last eight days the deliveries have fallen off more or less, which circumstance, and the probability of short supplies during the time farmers shall be engaged preparing the land for the reception of the spring crops, appear to have led to the belief that quotations will not for the present undergo any farther reduction. That a temporary rally may take place is not improbable; but we are by no means sanguine on the subject, and regard any improvement of moment as wholly out of the question. Whatever may be said to the contrary, we maintain that prices of wheat are at present higher on the continent of Europe than is warranted by the result of the last harvest. With average crops, such as those secured in 1849 in most of the large grain-growing countries of Europe, a very considerable surplus must have been produced for export; and as there appears to be no chance of France, Holland, or Belgium requiring supplies from the Baltic, and as our markets hold out little encouragement for calculating on higher prices, the value of the article must, we think, inevitably come down in Russia, Poland, and Germany. Any argument founded on what has occurred in bygone times is no longer applicable, the alteration in our corn laws placing the matter in an entirely new position. For the past to be serviceable in affording materials to form a judgment of the probable future, it is necessary to have a parallel instance; and all calculations founded on what prices have been in years when a different order of things existed, are more likely to mislead than instruct. It is not probable that prices will fall to so low a point as they have done on former occasions, when England has required comparatively small supplies, the removal of our import duties and the repeal of the Navigation Laws being greatly in favour of the foreign grower; but, on the other hand, it may be easily foreseen that with wheat at 35s. per quarter in many of our home markets, British merchants will not purchase abroad on such terms as have been hitherto asked for spring delivery. Speculation may for a time support prices at Dantzic, Rostock, &c., but the value must ultimately be regulated by prices here; and we feel perfectly satisfied that supplies on a much larger scale than we are likely to want will reach us from the Baltic, Black Sea, &c., later in the year.”

Nowhere can be discerned any symptom which might justify us in believing that prices are likely, for any length of time, to take an upward tendency. The importations of last year principally consisted of the yield of an inferior Continental crop—that of 1848. The large crop of 1849 is preparing for us; and how is it possible to suppose that this will be kept back unless an augmented price is given for it? Even the frozen state of the Baltic ports has had no effect in raising prices at home. On the contrary, they are still declining. The average of wheat in the Haddington market of 8th February, was 34s. 1d. The Berks correspondent of Bell’s Weekly Messenger writes thus on the 4th:—“The corn markets are gradually getting lower, and, taking all the sorts of grain together, they are now lower than they have been since the memorable year 1822; and there is, we are sure, less money in circulation in the country than there has been for many years. The occupiers of the soil seem to be the first class doomed to be ruined; but it must be recollected that the farmers will not be the only class.”

But it is of little use for us at present to discuss a point which the experience of a few months must necessarily solve. Sir Charles Wood’s statement, if intended to influence the division, has already served its purpose. Inasmuch, therefore, as the prospects of importation are concerned, we need not speculate farther.

But when Sir Charles assumes a price of 44s. as remunerative for the grower of wheat, he takes his position on other ground. We shall not reiterate our own opinions on this subject, or those of any writer who may be supposed to be favourable to protection. The evidence of adversaries may be more valuable; and the first whom we shall cite is Sir Robert Peel. In 1842, the late Premier indicated his opinion that the remunerative price ranged from 54s. to 58s., and he never wished to see it lower than the former sum. Sir Charles Wood, however, courageously fixes his estimate 10s. beneath that of Sir Robert Peel; and we doubt not that, if the fall should still continue, we shall find him averring hereafter that 34s. per quarter is a price amply remunerative to the British grower.

Our next witness is a gentleman whose testimony must be valuable in the eyes of political economists. We quote from a work originally published in 1839, entitled, Influences of the Corn Laws, by James Wilson, Esq. now M.P. for Westbury, and Secretary of the Board of Control. It is a treatise on which we set so much store, that we propose, in an early number of Maga, to subject it to a deliberate review, for the purpose of pointing out the singularly felicitous realisation of the leading prophecies therein contained, and the intimate knowledge displayed by the writer of the subject with which he was dealing. At present we shall confine ourselves strictly to one point.

“This may therefore be called the rate which is fixed by our own internal competition and resources; 52s. 2d. per quarter may be called the prime cost of wheat to the consumer, and that sum, reduced by the charges enumerated, may be called the remunerating price to the landed interest to the exact extent to which they have been remunerated.”—p. 53.

Again:—

“As we shall afterwards show, we take 52s. 2d. to be the proper price for wheat, at which an exactly sufficient amount of production would be kept up, it having been the average price for the last seven years; we therefore take it as the standard price at which wheat can be sold to the consumer. It must be clear that whatever average annual price the farmer receives in any year above that price, he obtains so much profit beyond the average rate; and that whatever average annual price he receives in any year less than that standard price, he makes so much distinct loss; and therefore the difference between the profit derived from the higher prices and the loss from the lower prices must show the balance in favour or against the home grower.”—p. 41.

Mr Wilson’s argument we leave for the present untouched; we merely found upon his statement that 52s. 2d. is the proper standard price for British wheat, and that any lower rate of price must entail a loss on the grower. So far, therefore, his views are utterly irreconcilable with those of the Chancellor of the Exchequer.

Lord John Russell, who addressed the House last, on the Ministerial side, was not very distinct in his admission as to the existence of distress. If there was any, he seemed to think it was caused by corn speculation, and he rang the changes on the old topic of periods of transition and depression. The division was in entire accordance with the debate, for it resulted in the rejection of the amendment on the address, proposed in the following terms, “But humbly to represent to her Majesty that, in many parts of the United Kingdom, and especially in Ireland, the various classes of her Majesty’s subjects connected with the cultivation of the soil are labouring under severe distress, mainly attributable, in our opinion, to recent legislative enactments, the operation of which is aggravated by the severe pressure of local taxation.”

That such an amendment was called for on the part of those who are opposed to the free-trade policy, we think will be generally admitted. It was but right and reasonable that the case of the agriculturist should be brought under the notice of parliament at the very earliest opportunity; not with the view of forcing on an immediate reversal of the national policy, but to obtain, if possible, a distinct acknowledgment of the position in which the most important section of the community is placed. That acknowledgment has not been given. It would almost seem as if the Free-traders, in the intoxication of their headlong career, already considered the great agricultural interest as completely prostrated as the colonies, with regard to which no notice whatever was vouchsafed in the royal speech. Mr Cobden is perfectly furious that the point should be again mooted. He considered protection as defunct, and the ghost of it laid in the Dead Sea; and now, when it starts up before him, a living, thriving, and withal a formidable reality, he has recourse to language unmeet for the mouth of any respectable conjuror. Lord John Russell can do little more than utter a feeble and wholly inapplicable descant upon the advantages of the station of an English gentleman—forgetting all the while that such a station implies the performance of certain duties, of which not the meanest are the advocacy of the rights of the British labourer, and the maintenance of the British constitution. The amendment, as every one anticipated, was rejected; but, notwithstanding, it has served its purpose. It has elicited opinions, a commentary on which will be valuable before the present session is over; it has shown the agricultural interest how little they have to expect from the present Parliament; it has laid the foundation for distinct propositions regarding the equalising and proper adjustment of taxation, which no doubt will be brought forward seriatim, and submitted to the consideration of the Commons. If these are rejected, as they probably will be, and if every measure of relief is met by a direct or a virtual negative, it will then be time for the defenders of British interests to lay their complaint at the foot of the throne, and to ask for a dissolution of the present Parliament, in order that the constituencies of Great Britain may have an opportunity of recording their votes for or against the continuance of the present policy.

We shall, of course, be told that the point has been already settled. What is settled? Have not our fiscal regulations been altered year after year; and was there not a settlement disturbed by the repeal of the Corn Laws, at least as deliberate as that which is now assumed to be inviolable? How long is it since “the experiment,” to which we were entreated to give a fair trial, lost its experimental character, and became a law, fenced against repeal as closely as a statute of Darius? Is there a single free-trade prophet who can hold up his head and say that his vaticinations have been fulfilled? Mr M’Gregor prophesied that the nation would become richer, at the ratio of two millions a-week. Mr Economist Wilson prophesied augmented prices to the agriculturist, adding this ingenuous commentary,—“that there is no better evidence of a prosperous community or country, than the existence of a high average price of provisions, when the condition of the labourer, as is the case in this country, is relatively better than in other countries; and that, on the contrary, there is no stronger evidence of a miserable and impoverished country, than the existence of low prices of provisions, where the condition of the labourer is comparatively and infinitely worse than in other countries where prices are higher.” Mr Cobden prophesied thus in 1843 and 1844, not once but many times,—“The landlords will (with free trade) have better rents.” “Give us a free trade, and land will be as valuable as it is now.” “I believe that land would be more valuable in this country if you had at once an entire abolition of the Corn Laws.” We could cite similar testimony, uttered by a host of prophets as numerous as those of Baal, but we think the above instances may suffice; and it is on the faith of such vaticinations that we are peremptorily desired to consider the late ruinous measures as fixed and unalterable! The railway and the free-trade delusion reached their highest point in one and the self-same year. We have seen the quacks, impostors, and swindlers of the one system, scouted by the unanimous voice of public reprobation already; the leading partisans of the other cannot long hope to escape the infliction of a similar doom.

It has been said, in various quarters, that we have taken too gloomy a view of the future agricultural prospects of Great Britain. It may be so; but, at all events, we are borne out, and even exceeded, by Mr Villiers. If any man has doubts as to the depression of the agricultural interest, let him peruse carefully the following statement of the mover of the address:—

“He (Mr Villiers) had made a calculation of the saving effected by the people of this country, in consequence of the present reduced price of food. He found that the average price of wheat in 1847 was 69s. 5d.; on the 29th of December 1849, it was 39s. 4d.; the average price of barley in 1847 was 43s., and, in 1849, 25s.; of oats, in 1847, 28s., and in 1849, 15s.; and there had been a corresponding reduction in beans and peas. The usual calculation was, that our population of 30,000,000 consumed one quarter of corn to each person annually; but, taking a low estimate of consumption, and calculating that the population annually consumed 20,000,000 quarters of each of these descriptions of grain, he found that the saving effected by the difference of prices between 1847 and 1849, amounted to £61,000,000. He had also estimated, on the same moderate scale, the saving effected by the difference in the prices of meat, butter, cheese, potatoes, and other articles, in 1847 and 1849, and he found that it amounted to £30,000,000 more; so that there had been a total saving in the expenditure of the people upon food of £91,000,000 between 1847 and 1849. This was the result of free trade in the very first year of its operation. And when so large an amount was saved for expenditure on other articles than food, he thought it was no matter of astonishment that the general condition of the people had improved, and that the country was in a flourishing condition.”

We shall not investigate the accuracy of this calculation, nor shall we discuss the soundness of the conclusions. It is enough for us that Mr Villiers holds it to be matter of congratulation that, in one year, “the very first year of the operation of free trade,” agricultural produce has been depreciated to the amount of £91,000,000. This is worth a little consideration. Messrs Cobden, Bright, & Co., have taken much pains of late to impress upon the farmers that the present struggle is “a mere landlord’s question;” that the tenantry have nothing earthly to do with it; and that their sole object ought to be a speedy lowering of the rents. Our statistics, published in the Magazine, although certified by a large body of the leading agriculturists in nearly every district of Scotland, have been designated as “cooked,” by Cockneys who never saw a blade of wheat grow except on a Sunday excursion to Thames Ditton, and by pseudo-political economists, who, when detected in deliberate falsification, have not even the grace to tender a lame apology. The gravity of an insult depends upon the respectability of those who utter it. Foul language from the mouth of a cabman does not excite any rancorous feeling in the bosom of the man who is favoured with the abuse of Jehu; and, therefore, our correspondents, in number more than thirty—gentlemen of the highest respectability and character in Scotland—need not be disturbed by any imputations emanating from the quarters which we are reluctantly compelled to notice. But, since our opponents affect to disbelieve the accuracy of our views and calculations, let them deal with those of Mr Villiers. He puts down the amount of saving in food at £91,000,000, for a single year. The net rental of Great Britain and Ireland is £58,753,615:[9] and it therefore follows, that supposing no rent whatever to have been paid, the tenantry must have suffered loss or diminution of profits to the extent of £22,246,385! These are the free-trade calculations—not ours. We do not wonder that the Times did not lose a day in casting discredit upon a statement which, though cheered on the Ministerial side of the house, was, in reality, a more damnatory exposition of free trade than the most ingenious Protectionist could have devised. For our part, we shall not venture to say whether Mr Villiers was right or wrong. A calculation, of this extended nature, might tax the powers of the ablest actuary; but, if it be correct, surely we stand acquitted of all exaggeration; and, what is of far greater importance, no one can henceforth venture to assert that this is a mere “landlord’s question;” since, if all rent were abandoned, the loss to the tenantry, in a single year, would be twenty-two and a quarter millions!

But let us pass in the meantime from the agricultural case, and see what real ground exists for the self-gratulations of ministers on the general prosperous state of the country at the opening of the present session. We quote the paragraph from the royal speech:—“Her Majesty has great satisfaction in congratulating you on the improved condition of commerce and manufactures.” We shall consider the two interests separately.

First, as to commerce, and its main branch, the shipping and shipbuilding interest. The repeal of the Navigation Laws having been effected in the course of last year, it might be premature to form a decided judgment on the working of the new system. Most certainly we have not done so; and we think it would have been only decent had her Majesty’s Ministers exercised a similar discretion. But in order to make out a case of prosperity, the commerce of the country could not be overlooked; and facts, (when they are facts,) however slight, are too valuable to be dispensed with on such an occasion as this. Accordingly, we are told that the shipping interest never was in a state of greater activity and prosperity than now. Mr Villiers opened thus:—

“It was rather early, perhaps, to express any opinions of what would be the general results of that great change; but there was reason to believe that all the anticipations of its advocates would be infinitely more than realised, and that all the fearful predictions of its opponents would be falsified. The interest most affected by these changes had not been for some years in such a state of activity as it presented at this moment. In the Thames and Tyne, in the Wear and Clyde, the business of the shipbuilder or shipowner exhibited a more cheering aspect. From all our dockyards the reports were equally satisfactory; and many of the gentlemen who had been most prominent in foretelling ruin and destruction from the change, admitted the advantages they were deriving from it.”

The Chancellor of the Exchequer entirely acquiesced in this statement:

“At the present moment no one could find fault with the change which had taken place in the Navigation Laws, if he took the trouble to look at the state of the great shipbuilding ports of this commercial country. He might mention one port, which, above all others, should be regarded as indicating the condition of the shipbuilding interest throughout the seaports of England, namely, Sunderland; but he might also mention Liverpool and the Scotch ports, where the shipbuilding in the year 1849 went on with more rapidity than in any former period; and not only was the quantity of shipping built at these places greater than in any former year, but a better class of vessels was built, vessels calculated and fitted for the long voyage.”

Mr Labouchere, the President of the Board of Trade, was even stronger in his averments:

“He confidently appealed to every member of that house who had considered the subject, and, above all, to the representatives of the great shipping ports of this country, whether it was true to say that the industry of the dockyards had been paralysed by the measure of last session. On the contrary—and this was a subject on which he naturally felt the greatest interest, and which he had looked into with the utmost care—he had never made an assertion in that house with greater confidence, and he challenged contradiction on the part of any mercantile man or gentleman interested in shipping, than when he stated his belief that the industry of shipbuilding, that the confidence of the mercantile public in shipowning, that the whole business of the country connected with shipbuilding and shipowning, were in a state most satisfactory and most encouraging to those who did not believe that they were paralysing that important branch of industry by the measures of last session. He believed the fact to be that there were at least as many ships building at this moment as at any period within the last twenty years in this country.”

In the face of such unqualified averments and challenges, on a point necessarily statistical, and in opposition to the President of the Board of Trade, who, from his official position, was the man of all others most likely to be furnished with full and accurate information, it would have been rash in any individual member to have hazarded a flat contradiction. But a question of such vital importance as this is sure to be thoroughly investigated; and we are indebted to that excellent paper, the Shipping and Mercantile Gazette, for an elaborate and complete refutation of the whole case so ostentatiously paraded by Government. Our contemporary, we are sure, will not quarrel with us if we transfer into our columns a good deal of the valuable information obtained by so much industry and perseverance, for which the thanks of the whole community are justly due.

“We are prepared,” says the editor of the Shipping and Mercantile Gazette, in his leading article of the 31st January, “to prove that the depression in our shipping—in building as well as in freights—has not been so great for years as it is at the present time; in short, that it is depression, and not improvement, which is UNIVERSAL, with scarcely ‘the exception of a few ports.’

“With regard to shipbuilding, it is necessary to bear in mind that shipbuilders cannot stop their business all at once; they have yards on lease—materials on hand—and apprentices to maintain; therefore they must be doing a little at almost any risk.

“With a view to obtain correct information upon the subject, we have procured authenticated returns from accredited correspondents at all the ports, which we shall proceed to lay before our readers; merely premising that, as the foreign and colonial trade diminishes in profit, it drives ships into the coasting trade, which, as it will be seen, is suffering severely from the depreciating effects.”

The following are a few of the returns, inserted alphabetically:—

“Aberdeen, Feb. 2, 1850.

“It is vain to try to conceal the very depressed state of the shipping interest at this port at present, everything around us having a dreary and most discouraging aspect. Our docks are full of vessels of every class and size, and nothing for them to do. Freights offering (and they are very few indeed) are not, by any means, at remunerative rates: 30s. to 33s. per load timber from Quebec, or 67s. 6d. per ton guano from Peru, will never pay the shipowner, while he pays the present rate of wages, and gives the usual rations to his seamen. If freights are to be kept down by foreign competition, the British sailor must be brought down to the level of the foreigner; but such a state of things, we hope, will still, by some means or other, be averted.

“Notwithstanding the justly high character our shipbuilders here have attained in the construction of their ships, and the great perfection they have come to in the construction of vessels with the clipper-bow, and which are now making such unparalleled rapid voyages, we believe they have few, if any, orders on hand; and in the absence of such have been building on speculation, and have at this moment a few vessels on the stocks for sale, superb specimens of naval architecture, and no immediate prospect of purchasers. One of our local papers was holding out to us the other day that we need not fear foreign competition, having vessels of such great sailing and carrying qualities. This would be all very well, if guaranteed to this country alone; but it will soon be found that foreigners will get improved vessels as well as we, and, most probably, get our carpenters to go from this country to build them.

“The number of seamen at this port is about 2330, of which at present there are about 280 unemployed. Vessels laid up, 45—a greater number than was ever known in any previous year.”

“Boston, Jan. 26, 1850.

“Our harbour-master here, who has been upwards of forty years master of vessels out of this port, states that HE NEVER KNEW THE SHIPPING INTEREST AT SO LOW AN EBB AS AT THE PRESENT TIME; and he firmly believes the future prospects are very discouraging. The majority of our vessels are now worked by the masters at thirds, and many of them have lost money during the past year—that is, have not made the former wages of £5 per month; in fact, many of them have not made mate’s wages—viz., £3, 5s. per month, who have not reduced their pay more than 5s. per month, and ordinary seamen at the same rate.”

“Caernarvon, Jan. 29, 1850.

“Ours is nearly altogether a coasting trade, engaged principally in the export of slates, which averages about 91,000 tons per annum. During the year 1849 the export declined to 79,000 tons, and at present there are no prospects of its revival. The shipping belonging to the port is in a most depressed condition; freights are very difficult to be had; and when they are offered, the rate is ruinously low—say 9s. per ton to London, 4s. and 5s. to Liverpool, and so on in proportion. Masters of our coasters are remunerated out of the profits of the vessels they command; and so small have been their earnings of late, that some are giving up the command, and shipping as able seamen, inasmuch as they earn better wages in the latter capacity! Shipbuilding is almost at an end here; no one will invest capital in coasting vessels now, so depressed are freights, and so clouded is the future.”

“Cork, Jan. 29, 1850.

“I subjoin a statement of freights, &c., at this port:—

| | | | Per load timber.
Freights, | | Quebec, | 1847 | 40s.
„ | | „ | 1848 | 32s.
„ | | „ | 1849 | 30s.
| | | | per ton.
„ | W. C. | So. America | 1848 | £4 5 0
„ | „ | beginning of | 1849 | 3 17 6
„ | „ | end of | 1849 | 3 7 6

“The other freights are in the same proportion.

“The wages of shipmasters have been reduced one-third. A few years back we generally had six or eight vessels on the stocks at this port, AT PRESENT ONLY ONE, and that is an iron screw-steamer, building for the Cork Steam-ship Company. The great majority of the vessels now belonging to this port are colonial built.

“Shipmasters have been obliged to accept of reduced wages in order to obtain employment to enable them to support their families. Several of them who were fortunate in having a little money saved, have commenced tailoring, rope-making, acting as coasting pilots, &c. &c.”

“Drogheda, Feb. 1, 1850.

“There are no ships building here, although we have a good dockyard; nor are there any repairing, although we have an excellent patent slip: there are four or five ships laying up, which the owners will not repair. They would willingly sell, but no person can be got to purchase: in fact, were it not for the purpose of giving employment to the masters and crews, I do think that our vessels would be laid up, for they are not earning one shilling for their owners. It is also my firm belief that, in seven years, one half of our ships will drop away, and what was once a nursery for our navy, will not be so, for in a little time the coasting trade will almost cease to exist, as we have to contend with railways, steamboats, and foreigners driven into our trade by the late change in the law.

“As regards our sailors, they are to be seen every day walking about our quays, anxious to procure employment, but, from the complete annihilation of our trade, they are unable to procure any; consequently they and their families are in a most wretched condition.”

“Liverpool, Jan. 29, 1850.

“The shipping trade is exceedingly depressed here, and freights are wholly unremunerative. A Manchester house has just chartered an American ship from Calcutta, at £2, 15s. 6d.

“Freights are at least 15 per cent lower, on the average, than they were last year.”

“Maryport, Jan. 29, 1850.

“Cumberland has long been famed for its celebrity in shipbuilding, its vessels being known to, and appreciated by, the merchants in every region of the globe; but I am sorry to observe that, at the present moment, owing to the unwise repeal of the Navigation Laws, the several shipbuilders at Maryport, Workington, and Whitehaven are without any contracts—a circumstance strangely at variance with the account which lately appeared in some of the Free-trade journals at Manchester. It was then stated that several eminent merchants of that locality were desirous of building a large amount of tonnage in England; but, owing to the several builders being so full of contracts, they were necessarily obliged to go abroad to build their vessels. It would, however, seem that these gentlemen had entirely forgotten the geographical position of Cumberland, or else we must suppose that they would have deemed it their interest to have made contracts there; unless, indeed, they found, as I strongly suspect they did, that the Continental builder could build cheaper.”

“Plymouth, Feb. 2, 1850.

“The shipping interest of this port is in a very depressed state, many vessels being laid up; and, consequently, their crews are out of employment, and our quays quite deserted by shipping. The vessels in actual service are principally employed in the coal trade, and by the owners only, at very reduced freights—at from 5s. to 5s. 6d. from Wales, and from 6s. to 6s. 6d. from the north; others sailing out of other ports at anything but remunerating freights. There are nine shipwrights’ yards in this port, in one of which only one vessel is building for a shipowner; and one sold from another. Two vessels have been for sale for many months past. In each of the others, vessels, varying from 100 to 300 tons, are being built on speculation, but progress very slowly. From a want of that enterprising spirit evinced in times past, there are not half the shipwrights kept in the yards now, and a reduction has already taken place in the wages. Many masters and sailors are also walking the quays unemployed; but we are told, by those who use the old adage of the pinching shoe, that a man may get as much for 10d. now as he could have got for double that sum some time since. Where is the use of things being so very cheap, when the poor man is deprived of the means of employment? Our exports are very trifling: manganese at about 6s. to 10s. to Liverpool and Scotland; lead and copper ores 3s. to 7s. per ton! Our imports—principally timber from Quebec, hemp, tar, fruit, &c. The former was 30s. to 32s. per load last year; what it will be this it is impossible to tell, now the foreigner goes into the trade. Six of our vessels (Quebec ships) are gone to Sierra Leone, thereby leaving the trade open to the foreigner. The average wages are from 30s. to 40s. for seamen in the coasting trade, 40s. foreign; £4 to £8 for masters, £2, 10s. to £3 mates, at per month, which are much lower.”

“Runcorn, Feb. 1, 1850.

“The number of vessels belonging to the port of Runcorn is about 70, of the total burthen of about 6500 tons, most of them engaged in the coasting trade. Freights to and from this port are very scarce, and when any are offered they are at a miserably low rate. We should say that freights are, at the least, 25 per cent less than they were in the years 1845, 1846, and 1847. Nearly all the vessels belonging to this port are sailed by the shares—that is, the master takes one half the freight after all port charges are deducted from it, and he has to pay out of his share seamen’s wages, and also to find victuals; the owner has the remaining half, out of which he has to pay all expenses for wear and tear. But the present rates of freight are so very low that the masters cannot keep out of debt, let alone earn anything for themselves, and the owner’s share is not sufficient to keep the vessel in efficient working order. The shipbuilding trade here is in a manner deserted: there are only two vessels on the stocks; one has been partially finished for the last twelve months, and the other for the last six months. There is not the slightest inducement for persons to lay out their capital in shipping, there being no certainty of the smallest return.”

“Sunderland, Feb. 1, 1850.

“Various statements having lately been published relative to the state of shipbuilding at this port, it is desirable that those interested in knowing how far the statements alluded to are correct, should be made acquainted with the real facts. It is true that at the close of last year there were about 92 ships on the stocks at this port; since that time several of them have been launched: many of them were larger than the average of ships built here, and about two-thirds of them were sold from the builders. Be it, however, understood that of the two-thirds sold, say 60 out of 92, upwards of 30 were purchased by outfitters, or ship-jobbers, who purchase the hulls of ships in order to have the outfit; they are therefore still in the market. Many of the shipbuilders, and also outfitters, had great stocks of timber and other materials on hand twelve months ago, previous to the ships in question being put on the stocks. It was then the opinion of the shipbuilders that the project to repeal the Navigation Laws, and grant foreign-built ships British registers, would not be carried, from the general manifestation of feeling against that measure evinced by practical men generally, who best understood the subject. Shipbuilders’ stocks were therefore kept up, and in many instances increased, and remunerating prices for ships were maintained. Since the act was passed which repealed the Navigation Laws, prices have been gradually on the decline. Within the last two years the average price for a ship, A 1 eight years classed, was from £10, 10s. to £11 per ton; now the price for a ship of that character, is from £8, 10s. to £9 per ton. The most respectable shipbuilders of this port freely declare that their trade appears fast hastening to the destructive state of agriculture; and that, if the present line of policy is pursued, all who are engaged in their trade must be great sufferers.”

Letters to the same effect are given by the editor of The Shipping Gazette, from correspondents at Aldborough, Bude, Dundalk, Kinsale, Maldon, Padstow, Pwllheli, Strangford, Torquay, Westport, and Woodbridge; so that from the ports all round the British Islands, the cry of distress, caused by the crushing effect of free trade upon the body of British industry, is arising. And this is what our Whig rulers call unexampled prosperity!

From the leading Plymouth journal of 31st Jan. we extract the following letter, which we would venture to recommend to the earnest attention of Mr Labouchere. It contains some statements of a very different complexion from those which appear to have passed through the hands of the officials of the Board of Trade.

“To the Editor of the West of England Conservative.

“Sir,—My attention having been called to a paragraph in your journal, which states that the shipwrights in one of the principal firms in Plymouth had struck for wages, I have to inform you that the firm is mine.

For several years past I have paid my men 18s. per week on new work, and 21s. per week on old work; and they never lost any time, but by their own fault.

For some time past I have had complaints from many shipowners, that, as their returns were greatly reduced by freights constantly lowering, we, the shipbuilders, must reduce our charges, or they would be compelled to take their ships to other ports. Added to this, a friend of mine, Captain Shapcott, for whom I built a ship two years since, and with which he was so much pleased that he wished me to give him a price for another, of about 230 tons burthen. I accordingly did so; she was to be a first-class vessel, and entitled to class A 1 twelve years, at Lloyd’s. My proposals were sent to a merchant in London, whom Captain Shapcott wished should be the principal owner. This gentleman (Mr Brooking) replied, that as everything was coming down, wages, and materials for shipbuilding, must come down also; and that, unless I would engage to build for £10 per ton, and find a very large number of articles more than I had for the former vessel, he would not contract at all. He also said, that he had been in treaty for a ship to be built for him in Prussia, which he found he could do for £3 per ton cheaper than he could have one in England. I was obliged to decline engaging to build on such terms, as would have occasioned me a loss of some hundreds of pounds.

On Friday, the 18th January, on paying my men, I gave them a memorandum, stating these particulars, and that I imagined they must have been expecting, for some time, that wages would be reduced, not only from what they must know themselves, but also from the great reduction in the price of provisions and clothing. I, at the same time, offered them 17s. per week on new work, and 19s. per week on old work, telling them that, as their labour was their own property, if they could do better, I should have no objection whatever. They all, 29 in number, refused to work; and, I believe, the greater part of them have not been employed since, as I have seen them walking the streets.

Not pretending to be a politician, I can only give my own opinion of the acts of the Legislature; and, from the first, I believed that the abrogation of the Navigation Laws must have the effect of depriving thousands of Englishmen of employment.

Put this case to myself. I have employed more than 100 persons in building and fitting ships; every other class, such as rope-makers, sail-makers, block-makers, boat-builders, coopers, painters, glaziers, chain and anchor makers, provision merchants, and others engaged in putting a ship to sea, have all employ here. A merchant goes abroad and builds (which he will do) at, it may be, a less price, and see the consequence—the foreigner is employed, and our artisans must be idle; it is the natural result. As to the bugbear of Free trade, it will ruin England,—can I compete with a foreigner? He has his timber, his labour, and materials for fitting out his ship infinitely cheaper than I have; he is not oppressed by heavy Government and local taxation; and when his ship comes to England, she has all the privileges of a ship of the first class, which it is in my power to build; and further, by the manner in which Lloyd’s class ships, she will fully stand A 1 with mine.

I contend that it is the duty of Government so to legislate that their artisans should have employment, and any act which deprives them of it, must be detrimental to the nation. That is my firm belief. I must apologise for occupying your columns, but, as you first mentioned the circumstance of my workmen, I thought it right to state the reasons. I am, sir, yours,

Wm. Moore, Shipbuilder.”

There is more than this. Messrs. Lindsay & Co. have published a table of freights for the last four years, which exhibits an average decline ranging from thirty-five to fifty per cent. The following are a few notable instances:—

| s. d. | s. d.
Singapore, | from 105 0 | to 60 0
Calcutta, | 117 6 | 77 6
Hong Kong, | 105 0 | 55 0
(last quotation from there)
Bombay, | 95 0 | 60 0
Ceylon, | 95 0 | 70 0
Mauritius, | 84 0 | 60 0
Callao, | 95 0 | 63 0
Havannah, | 85 0 | 47 6
Odessa, | 95 0 | 42 6
Alexandria, | 12 0 | 5 6
Cronstadt, | 32 6 | 19 0
Quebec, | 47 6 | 32 0

This decline of freights deeply concerns the agriculturist, since it unsettles even those loose and incorrect calculations, which were brought forward by the Free-traders for the purpose of proving that high freights must necessarily act as a powerful check to the importation of foreign corn, in the event of the abolition of the duties.

The challenge so confidently made has been accepted in another quarter. At the great Wiltshire meeting held at Swindon on the 6th February, Mr George Frederick Young spoke as follows:—

“Another point which has been taken as a kind of cheval de bataille—a sort of hobby-horse which the Ministers were determined to ride—I am somewhat familiarly acquainted with; I allude to the shipping interest. As they have brought that interest so prominently before parliament, I may, perhaps, be allowed to correct their statements when they are at fault. What were we told about the shipping interest in the House of Lords? I thought that they might have managed to get up returns, to answer the purpose of the occasion, of a somewhat specious character, extending over a large surface, before they asked the house to come to a conclusion. But what did they do? They said that the shipbuilding interest is in a most prosperous state; and that it is prosperous, they deduced from the fact that there were 90 ships building in the port of Sunderland on the 31st of December last. It is the truth that that was the case at that time, but it is not the whole truth; and the whole truth is, that though there were 90 ships building in that great shipbuilding port, 24 of them only were sold, whilst 66 were standing, 31 of them being ready to launch, but could not get purchasers. I find also, that out of 251 ships which were building at the several shipbuilding ports at that date, there were but 66 sold, making nearly 200 out of the 250 that could not obtain purchasers, (hear, hear.) Is that fair? (cries of ‘no,’ and cheers.) Is that the way in which a great public question is to be supported by the Ministers of the Crown? Yet these gentlemen have not thought it to be beneath them to stoop to such paltry prevarication for the purpose of misleading the parliament, (great cheering.) But I will give you yet another instance, which is even more pregnant still. In the course of the debate on the Address in the House of Commons, Mr Labouchere made use of these words in reference to the shipping interest:—‘This was a subject in which he naturally felt the greatest interest, and which he had looked into with the utmost care. He had never made an assertion in that house with greater confidence, and he challenged contradiction’—most unusual on the part of a Minister of the Crown—‘on the part of any mercantile man, or gentleman interested in shipping, when he stated his belief that the industry of shipbuilding—that the confidence of the mercantile public in shipowning—that the whole business of the country connected with shipbuilding and shipowning, was in a state the most satisfactory and encouraging to those who did not believe that they were paralysing that important branch of industry by the measures of last session.’ I will not affect to conceal the part which I took upon reading these words. I viewed the statement with indignation. I knew that it was not a fact; and on Saturday morning, the instant I had seen it in the paper, I drew up this declaration, which was advertised in all the daily journals of London on Monday morning:—

“‘We the undersigned shipowners and others connected with the building and equipment of ships in the port of London, having observed with much surprise that in the debate on the Address in the House of Commons on the 1st inst., the right hon. the President of the Board of Trade confidently stated, and ‘challenged contradiction on the part of any gentleman interested in shipping, that the whole business of the country connected with shipbuilding and shipowning was in a state the most satisfactory and encouraging,’ consider it a duty to declare our conviction that the statement of the right honourable gentleman must have proceeded from misinformation, and is entirely erroneous. We declare that the shipping interest is, on the contrary, at this moment in a state of great depression, no employment being obtained for British ships offering any reasonable prospect of remuneration for the capital embarked and the expenses to be incurred; that the accounts from all the great shipping ports of the world announce a superabundance of tonnage and extremely low rates of freight, rendering the prospect for the present year most discouraging, and that the various trades connected with shipping consequently and necessarily participate in the general depression; and we make this declaration without any party or political motive, and entirely without reference to the causes that have produced the depression we describe, in the desire alone that the legislature and the public should be truly informed as to the real facts of this important question, which appear to be misunderstood by her Majesty’s Government.’

“I will tell you the result. That declaration was advertised to lie at the London Tavern on Monday, Tuesday, and to-day; and upon the very first day it received the signatures of several hundreds of the most eminent men connected with this branch of our national industry, and from among whom I will undertake to say I can pick out twelve names of men who are owners of not less than 100,000 tons of British shipping (cheers.) That the President of the Board of Trade should venture to make such a statement, and challenge contradiction from any one, is, I think, most extraordinary. Is it not calculated to produce this effect—that statements made by the Ministers of the Crown, with whatever confidence, will be received with a little doubt and distrust, and that though they come even from so upright and honourable a man as Mr Labouchere, it will be necessary to substantiate them by something better than mere assertions of belief?”

We are sorry that Mr Labouchere should have committed himself so far. His personal character is beyond suspicion; and we do nothing more than express the universal feeling of his political opponents when we say, that no one will prefer against him the charge of having made a wilful misrepresentation of this nature. But it is the curse of men high in office, that they are surrounded by subordinates, whose share of honourable scruple is of the most convenient elasticity, and who sometimes have a substantial interest in the verification of their hazarded opinions. To this kind of influence Mr Labouchere is peculiarly subjected. The returns on which he founded, with so rash a confidence, had evidently passed through the hands of some veteran statist and figure-monger, and been adapted to suit an immediate purpose, rather than to conform to the actual truth. On no other hypothesis can we account for so strange a perversion of fact; for we believe that, after the evidence cited above, no man, whatever may be his political opinions, will hold that the commerce of the nation is not materially depressed, instead of being, as Ministers represented it, flourishing beyond all precedent.

We next come to the manufacturing interest, which assuredly ought to be in a most prosperous condition. In the course of the bygone year, tranquillity was restored on the Continent, and the interrupted markets were opened with every prospect of a fair demand. Notwithstanding the fall of prices, it might have been supposed that agricultural depression had hardly time to react upon the home market; and food was cheaper than perhaps it has been in Britain within the memory of man. Yet, with all these advantages, it is by no means certain that our manufactures are in a sound condition. The official tables indeed exhibit a large increase of exports, but these tables are quite useless as exponents of actual value. No later than last session, Sir Robert Peel gave a decided testimony on this point.

“Let me observe,” said he, “that nothing can be more unsafe than any inference drawn from the returns which give the declared value of manufactures imported. Owing to the manner in which the accounts of imports and exports are prepared, arguments drawn from that source must be exceedingly fallacious.”

The Liverpool Standard, applying itself to the statistics of the cotton trade, has done good service in exposing the nature of the export returns. According to the official statement, there would appear to be an increase of nearly £4,210,000 in the exports of cotton manufactures and yarn; but the Standard, going to the fountainhead, has shown that the increase in the entire quantity of cotton spun in Great Britain in 1849, was only a little over one-twelfth of the previous year’s consumption. The conclusions of our contemporary are very forcible:—

“We place no confidence whatever now in these customs reports. Since the abolition of the half per cent duty on exports, there is nothing in the world to prevent goods being entered at any prices the shipper pleases. A bale of cotton and other goods may be valued at £5 or £500, without incurring a farthing of increased charges at our ports; and, without imputing to any party the wish to do a moral wrong, and to make out a favourable case in behalf of a particular policy, it is enough to throw discredit upon returns, thus left unprotected against error, to know that extensive malversation can be carried on.”

When we turn for information to the manufacturing districts, we find some mills working on short time, and less employment generally diffused than might be expected in an average year. We hear of nothing but the most gloomy anticipations, contrasting very strangely, indeed, with the triumphant language of Ministers. The depression is not confined to the remoter towns; it exists in Manchester itself, as will be seen from the following statement—the last which has reached us—from the great manufacturing capital:—

(From the Manchester Guardian.)

“Manchester, Tuesday, Feb. 12.—We have had a spiritless and rather drooping market. The merchants have shown a growing indisposition for business; looking upon prices as, for the most part, too high to warrant further exports in the present state of supplies in foreign markets. The letters received this morning from Germany give quotations of prices which afford no encouragement for the immediate resumption of operations. There has been some inquiry from the Greeks, but with little result. As to the home dealers, seldom have they been so little seen in the warehouses of the manufacturers. There is evidently a diminished confidence among all classes of buyers as to the maintenance of prices; and a determination to proceed cautiously, buying only for the supply of the most pressing wants, is become general. The business of the day has, consequently, fallen in amount below that of any Tuesday for some time back. Under these circumstances, those spinners and manufacturers whose contracts are drawing to a close have shown a willingness to make some concession in price rather than suffer an offer to pass by them. Water twist may be quoted ⅛d. to ¼d. lower; and in mule yarn the buyer has some advantage in price, except as to fine counts, from No. 60’s upwards. In printing cloths, there is a giving way of about 1½d. per piece, and 3d. in shirting. There is a difference in point of firmness, however, among spinners and manufacturers, and a corresponding irregularity is observable in the quotations. The spinners of water twist, and the manufacturers of domestics, T’s, and some other stout cloths, are so much discouraged by the little prospect there is of an improvement in the unfavourable trade they have so long experienced, that many of them are seriously intending to diminish their production. One or two establishments in Manchester have either stopped altogether or resorted to short time, and an attempt is being made to induce a general adoption of the latter measure in these branches of manufacture. At Rochdale two or three mills have taken one or other of the above courses; and we have before us the names of seven firms at Heywood who have limited the hours of work in their mills.

“State of Trade.—Manchester, Thursday.—We have no improvement since Tuesday. The demand, whether for cloth or yarn, is not equal to the production, and prices, consequently, tend still in favour of the buyer. Indeed, no considerable sales could be effected without material concessions in price.”

Reading such an account as this, we feel perplexed as to the meaning which the Ministry attach to their favourite term prosperity. We are almost tempted to suppose that they consider want of employment the greatest possible blessing which can befall the labouring man.

This account, it will be observed, is dated posterior to the opening of Parliament. We may therefore be told that the depression had no existence at the time when the royal speech was framed. Such was not the case. The depression was felt much earlier, as appears by the following extract taken from a favourite organ of the Free-traders. On 1st December last, the Economist thus spoke of the cotton trade—

“At the beginning of this year, great expectations were entertained of our home demand. It was argued, and with good reason, that we never yet had a year of general employment and low prices of provisions combined, which was not also a year of very large domestic consumption of manufactured fabrics. This year labour has been in very brisk request, and food has never been so cheap and plentiful since 1836. Yet our expectations from these facts have not been fully answered. The sellers of printing-cloths and medium shirtings report that their home demand has, on the whole, been good; the sellers of domestics report, on the contrary, a decidedly dull business, worse than that of last year; but we believe that all agree that the anticipations with which they began the year have by no means been realised. We suspect the cause to be this:—The depreciation in railway property, the effects of the Irish famine, and the commercial crash in 1847, have impoverished all classes of the community to a much greater extent than has been allowed for in the calculations of our tradesmen. We question whether ‘the power of purchase,’ on the part of the British community, is nearly equal to what it was in 1845.”

We here perfectly coincide in opinion with the Economist. The power of purchase, on the part of the British community, is not nearly what it was in 1845; and for that diminution of power, he may thank the operation of the free-trade system. If the calculations of Mr Villiers are correct—if agricultural produce has depreciated to the extent of £91,000,000—there is no necessity whatever for recurring to Irish famine, railway losses, or commercial embarrassment, for an explanation of the unhealthy state of the home market. If we divide the population of the British islands, between agriculture and manufactures, in proportion to the ascertained number of those employed in either pursuit, we shall find that rather more than 18,700,000 are dependent on agriculture; whilst the number of those directly and indirectly drawing their livelihood from manufactures is short of 8,100,000.[10] Any blow levelled at the larger interest must perforce materially affect the lesser; and our decided conviction is, that the manufacturers have yet to learn, through adversity, a wholesome lesson. They have been taught to look to the foreign, or exporting trade, as their chief source of gain; and, in doing so, they have had to face a competition with other countries, which, in the course of a few years, has lowered their profits fully 50 per cent. They are still willing to go on, in the pure reckless spirit of gambling, caring nothing what social mischief they occasion, so long as they can deluge the markets of the world with their bales of calico and cotton. For this end, by an unholy and unprincipled combination, they have contrived to substitute foreign in place of British agricultural labour, whilst, with unparalleled selfishness, they reject all proposals for an equitable distribution of taxation.

The annual amount of the manufacturing productions of this country is estimated at £178,000,000; and it is said that last year we have exported £58,000,000. If this be the case, there remain goods to the value of £120,000,000, to be consumed at home; and the amount of the actual consumption mainly depends upon the consumers’ power of purchase. Mr Villiers tells us that £91,000,000 have been lost to the agricultural classes—for depreciation is neither more nor less than direct loss. It is an obvious fallacy to assume, as Mr Muntz does, that this sum is merely to be considered as transferred from one pocket of the community to another, as a note for five pounds might be. In the latter case, the capital represented by the note is not destroyed; in the former, the agricultural produce having been purchased and consumed at two-thirds of its productive cost, there is clearly a direct loss to the producing party. The annual amount of agricultural produce in this country was estimated, according to former average prices, at £250,000,000; and if this be accepted as true, or even an approximation to the truth, the estimate of Mr Villiers will show a depreciation of more than a third of the value. To that extent, therefore, the power of purchase in the home market is lessened; for if £120,000,000 of manufactures are made to be consumed at home, and the means of the consumers are reduced by £91,000,000, how is it possible that trade can remain in a prosperous condition?

If the dependence of the prosperity of manufactures on the amount of the demand existing in the home market is admitted—and no man yet has attempted to deny that intimate relationship between the agricultural and the manufacturing classes—it will follow, as a clear deduction, that to curtail the means of the consumer is tantamount to limiting the demand. No body of men understood this more clearly than the leading agitators of the League. They knew perfectly well, that agricultural distress must react fearfully upon that numerous section of the manufacturers, who look solely to the home market for the regular consumption of their produce, and who supply the greater number of the retail dealers and shopkeepers, whose means of livelihood depend on their intervention between the makers of the fabric and the buyers. Those leading agitators were independent of the home trade. Their interest lay in pushing exports to the utmost, and in maintaining their hold of the foreign and distant markets, in spite of a fierce competition with France, Germany, and America. That competition had latterly become so serious and formidable, that, in order to maintain their ground, they found it necessary to devise some means whereby operative labour, already brought down to the lowest point of monetary wage, might be stimulated and sustained; and the only scheme available to them was the breaking up of the corn laws, which, in this highly-taxed country, with the accumulated burdens of more than a century and a half pressing upon it, afforded a necessary protection to the British agricultural labourer. For no one can deny that the producers of corn are, like all others, subject to taxation; and all taxation, whether direct or indirect, must be added to the price of the fruits of labour. This was just what the corn laws effected. The consumer paid for the taxation when he purchased the article; and in no branch of industry or trade is another rule recognised. There is a natural price, and an artificial price. The natural price of corn is that for which it can be grown in this country, deducting labour and the grower’s profit, but without any burdens of taxation at all. The artificial price is that which is charged for the produce to the consumer, when the taxation falling upon the land, for state purposes, is added to the natural price. By the repeal of the corn laws, the consumer escaped this taxation, and the whole burden was thrown on the producer and the labourer, who, in consequence of superior natural advantages possessed by the foreigner, can be undersold by him even at the natural price, and who yet are called upon to bear the whole of the artificial cost.

Such a scheme as this—one so manifestly unjust, not only to the agriculturists, but to the manufacturers and the shopkeepers, whose whole dependence was on the home consumers—would never have been carried into execution, had its inevitable results been honestly laid before the public. But there was no honesty in these men. They were fighting a desperate game, without regard to the general interest of the country, so that they could be the individual gainers; and they fought it, as gamblers will do, unscrupulously, falsely, and dishonestly. They durst not have hinted that the immediate effect of the repeal of the corn laws would be a large and permanent depreciation of the value of agricultural produce. Had they done so, the tradesmen and retail dealers whom they chiefly aimed to dupe—because the electoral influence of that class is immensely large—would at once have seen, that, by limiting the general power of their customers to purchase, they were, in fact, depriving themselves of so much of their former profit. Shopkeepers and tradesmen do not live by the export trade: they maintain themselves and their families by distributing the products of labour among the community; and their gains, as well as those of the artisan, are measured by the amount of custom which they receive. Any legislative change, therefore, which could have the effect of diminishing that custom in a serious degree, would necessarily be most detrimental to the interests of this class—a proposition so clear, that no effort of political jesuitry could disguise it. The corn-law repealers knew this, and accordingly they rested their case on different grounds. They maintained that the abolition of the duties on corn would not, and could not, have the effect of curtailing the means or the revenue of the producer. They professed that their sole object was to prevent extravagant fluctuations in price; and they were quite as touching and lachrymose in the pictures which they drew of the evils certain to arise from a range of low prices, as in those descriptive of the opposite extreme. Let us again refresh ourselves with a few sentences from the work of Mr James Wilson—sentences which afford good ground for hope that, upon the next agricultural division, we may find the member for Westbury using his best endeavour to repair some of the mischief which recent legislation has inflicted. The reader will bear in mind that Mr Wilson distinctly enunciated 52s. 2d. to be the proper price for wheat, at which an exactly sufficient amount of production would be kept up.

“It never can be advantageous for the community at large that they should consume the produce of any one party below the cost of production; for a period is not very far distant when the consequences must react, and infallibly produce high prices and great scarcity; and we will show that the evils of the reaction are far greater than any advantage derived from the low prices.”—Influences of the Corn Laws, p. 28.

Again:

“Our belief is, that the whole of these generally received opinions are erroneous; that if we had had a free trade in corn since 1815, the average price of the whole period, actually received by the British grower, would have been higher than it has been; that little or no more foreign grain would have been imported; and that if, for the next twenty years, the whole protective system shall be abandoned, the average price of wheat will be higher than it has been for the last seven years, (52s. 2d.,) or than it would be in the future with a continuance of the present system; but with this great difference, that prices would be nearly uniform and unaltering from year to year; that the disastrous fluctuations would be greatly avoided, which we have shown in the first proposition to be so ruinous under the present system.”—P. 56.

Perhaps we cannot better illustrate this part of our subject, than by transcribing the second “proposition” laid down by the present Secretary of the Board of Control. It is so unambiguous in its terms that we are saved the necessity of a commentary. Mark, and perpend!

“Proposition the Second.—That the agricultural interest has derived no benefit, but great injury, from the existing laws; and that the fears and apprehensions of the ruinous consequences which would result to this interest by the adoption of a free and liberal policy with respect to the trade in corn, are without any foundation: That the value of this property, instead of being depreciated, on the aggregate would be rather enhanced, and the general interests of the owners most decidedly benefited thereby.”

We presume that we need go no further in illustration of the line of argument adopted by the exporting manufacturers and their adherents, for the purpose of persuading the tradesmen and artisans that the repeal of the corn laws could not in any way affect the consumers’ power of purchase.

In dealing with the state of the manufacturing interest, we must never lose sight of the fact, that enlarged exports furnish no proof whatever of the prosperity of the home trade. We shall not go the length of adopting a hypothesis, plausibly enough put forward, that increased exports are a natural result of deficiency in the home demand; that where any sudden stimulus is given to a market abroad, goods originally intended for British consumption, but not taken out of stock, are shipped on speculation, and thus augment the declared value of the exports. We shall not make any averment of the kind, however probable it may be—simply because it is not in our power, or that of any man in the country, to prove such an allegation as the general rule. But so far as we can gather, from the voice of the public press, there would appear to be little room for exultation in the present prospects of manufactures. The agricultural depression is yet recent, and its reaction on manufactures, though it began in 1849, will probably not be felt in its real intensity until the present year is well advanced. In estimating the prosperity of manufactures, what we must look to are the wages and the condition of the labourer. The individual profits of the masters are secondary to this consideration; and we shall now proceed to examine whether cheap food has fulfilled its chief recommendation in bettering the condition of the operatives.

In a single number of the Birmingham Mercury for 2d February, now lying before us, we find four separate letters upon this important subject. The first is from the operatives’ committee of the glass-trade, in which they state that “never was there more flint glass manufactured than there is at the present time, and never did the operatives receive less than they do at present for the quantity of work made.” The second is from a person engaged in the pin-trades, also complaining of low wages. The third is an indignant remonstrance from an operative against recent prosperity-statements, in which he says, “the condition of the workmen is such at the present time, that it is important to them to have their condition truly represented, devoid of that colouring which, while it would please some manufacturers, would to the workmen possess no charm whatever. Where a writer’s heart is, there also will his leaning be; and I feel convinced that no operative in this town could fail to see which way these articles incline. Obtaining information from masters about men, and publishing it like accounts from a house proprietor about his houses, or from a farmer about his cows, does not suit those workmen who think, and feel, and wish to be treated in a manner due to their position as producers of articles ministering to the comforts and conveniences of mankind at large.” The fourth proceeds from the committee of the gun-trade, stating that “the year 1849 has perhaps been unparalleled in the history of our trade; for the general depression of our prices, and the suffering of the working men, with the shortness of work, and the very low price at which that work has been done, have reduced us to the most pitiable condition which working and industrious men could be brought to.” Surely these letters are inconsistent with the statement of Mr Villiers, that “when he looked to the working classes, he was gratified to find that both manufacturing and agricultural labourers were either receiving a higher rate of wages, or were able to command a better supply of the comforts of life with their former wages.” Within ten days after that speech was made, an operative strike began at Nottingham. The following letter, addressed to, but not published in, the Times, appeared lately in the Morning Herald, and remains, so far as we know, uncontradicted:—

“To the Editor of The Times.

“Sir,—I have read with great interest your able exposures of the butchers and other tradesmen of the metropolis. Will you, with your usual impartiality, give the following facts for free-traders a corner in your journal:—The wages paid in the factory of Messrs Marshal, at Shrewsbury, before and after free trade came into operation, are as follows:—

| 1846. | 1849.
| Protection. | Free Trade.
Mechanics, | £1 5 0 | £0 18 0
Overlookers, | 1 0 0 | 0 14 0
Thread-polishers, | 0 12 0 | 0 8 0
Boys, | 0 8 0 | 0 6 0
Female reelers, | 0 6 0 | 0 4 8

“Messrs Marshal are among the most extensive manufacturers in the kingdom, and this may be taken as a fair specimen of what has been generally done. I should be sorry to make one comment on these facts, but leave it to the judgment of the public to decide whether the operatives of this country, or the manufacturers who employ them, have reaped the benefit of that cheap bread which they promised to the labouring population; and whether what they gave with one hand in the shape of bread, they do not more than take with the other by so large a reduction of wages.—I am, Sir, your obedient Servant,

John Phillips.

“Winsley, near Shrewsbury, Jan 22.”

As to the condition of the agricultural labourers, it would really appear to be needless to enter upon that point. The cry of suffering and distress is universal throughout the length and breadth of the land. How can it be otherwise, when every cargo of foreign grain sent to our shores is in effect so much untaxed foreign labour introduced to beat down the wages of the working man? Mr Bonnar Maurice, at a late meeting at Welshpool, thus described the present condition of the agricultural labourers of England:—

“But there was another class—from their numbers a very important class—and if they took (as they might fairly do) the well or ill doing of that class as an indication of the prosperity or otherwise of the country generally, it was indeed a most important class—he meant the labouring class. They were promised that free trade was to bring within their reach comforts and luxuries which they had not even dreamt of. How was it now with them? Take first the agricultural labourer. A short time ago he was earning 9s. or 10s., or in some counties 12s. a-week; his wife could earn 5s. or 6s., and his boy (if he had one eleven or twelve years of age) about the same. Now numbers are without employment at all; numbers can obtain only occasional employment; and those who are in constant work must be satisfied with 7s. or 8s., and in some places with not more than 6s. a-week, and with little or no aid from their wives and families. With other labourers the case is no better—their employment is becoming more and more scarce; the effects of an unfair competition are reducing the means of giving employment; and those who are suffering from such effects are accordingly lessening the number of their labourers, and reducing their establishments. Thus, scarcity of employment, combined with reduction of wages, is the blessing which free trade brings to the labourer. And so it must be; for what is the real principle of free trade but the unfair encouragement of the foreigner at the expense of the British labourer, the taking away employment from the labourers of our own country, and the giving that employment to the foreigner?”

In Scotland matters are no better. We have many instances of proprietors compelled by the decline of rents to abandon the improvement of their estates, and to relax that employment which was formerly given to labour. This is a great calamity; since it must inevitably tend to swell the poor-rate, already augmenting alarmingly. In the western districts the labour of Irish emigrants, forced from their own country by the same cause, and willing to work at the lowest possible rate of wage which will suffice to sustain existence, is supplanting that of our Scottish peasantry; and as the farmers are nearly driven to the wall by the unprecedented decline in the value of both corn and cattle, they cannot be blamed for putting into practice the noxious free-trade dogma, and availing themselves of labour at the cheapest rate. If this state of matters is to continue, the results may be terrible indeed. The legislature is bound to look to it in time; and, for the general safety, to take heed that the power of labour of the working man, which is his sole capital, is not tampered with too far. We cannot refrain from making another extract from the pages of Mr Wilson, who deprecates agricultural depression upon the express ground of its pernicious effect upon the condition and morals of the labourer. Any fall below 52s. 2d. per quarter of wheat, Mr Wilson estimates as depression. The present averages are under 40s., with no prospect of a rise:—

“It must be obvious that the tendencies experienced by the farmer must immediately influence the labourers he employs. In his successful or advancing years, a good demand exists for labour, and either attracts or retains more to this pursuit than on an average it is capable of maintaining; and thus we find, when the period of diminished cultivation arrives, the strongest evidences of surplus labour, as of surplus stock—distress to a painful degree becomes the lot of the hard-working tiller of the ground, whose only desire is for ‘leave to toil;’ but, like his master, he had already toiled too much, and too unprofitably. Ignorant of the real causes of his distress, driven to pinch and want, he becomes too readily the victim of vicious and designing men, and has recourse to many acts of violence and injustice, which, instead of mending his case, can only tend to make it still worse.

“No one can have forgot the terror and dismay which, from this cause, spread through our usually quiet and peaceful rural districts a few years ago, when the agricultural interest was severely depressed; the awful and mysterious midnight fires, which frequently lighted up a whole district at the same moment, consuming the very means of subsistence; anonymous letters followed up by all their threatenings; secret societies to fan and inflame the worst passions; highway robberies and personal attacks; outrages of every description; and all perpetrated by men whose ignorance and misery (from causes over which they had no control) were really much more apt to excite our pity than our blame. But how insensibly all these evidences have vanished with a return to prosperity, although it is impossible that they have not left behind a population of a lower and more debased standard of morals! They are now as quiet as ever, but the return of distress to their employers will not fail to reduce them once more to a similar condition.

“It should also be remarked, that this distress cannot fail naturally to increase the poor-rates, and the charges of maintaining good order, which must act as a distinct cause of reducing the rents and income of farmer and landlord. In some instances these charges have pressed so heavily at particular times, as to consume the whole rent, and to render land of little or no value, which would otherwise have let at a fair average rate.”

We also learn from Mr Wilson, that extreme cheapness is the reverse of a benefit to the manufacturing operative, inasmuch as it induces habits of luxury which are by no means suited to his welfare. It is not impossible that this view may have led to that salutary reduction of wages, which seems, at the present moment, to be taking place throughout the manufacturing districts of England, and that the diminished supply of money is intended to check that inordinate appetite for cheap loaves and bacon, which is naturally enough engendered by the foreign untaxed supplies pouring in to supersede the production of the home labourer, and to drive him gradually to the workhouse. The member for Westbury says:—

“With the manufacturing labouring classes similar effects occur at opposite periods, when the necessaries of life are pressed to the highest point: they are introduced, in the years of ruinous cheapness, to habits of comparative luxury and consumption which their labour cannot, on an average, command; and they, therefore, feel much more the want occasioned by extreme high prices, when they cannot command so much as their labour should produce to them. So the effect is, that in cheap years his labour commands too much agricultural labour, and he thus anticipates a part of what should be the consumption of a future day; and in dear years his labour commands too little agricultural labour, and he is obliged to receive proportionably as much too little as before he received too much.”

We are decidedly of opinion that there is much sound sense in the above extract. We never have known a year so characterised by ruinous cheapness of all kinds of provisions as that which has just gone by; the present year holds out no prospect of improvement, but rather indicates a farther decline; and therefore we are not without hope that this important point may be worked out at greater length in the columns of the Economist.

The question of wages has led us into a slight digression. Our immediate topic was the dependence of the manufacturers, or at least a large section of them, upon the purchase power of the community; and we have already shown, by the evidence of our opponents, that, in so far as the agriculturists are concerned, their aggregate produce, which constitutes their means, has been diminished by one-third. Now, it must be remembered that the cost of production falls to be deducted altogether from the remaining two-thirds; and that, in the lost third was contained the greater part of the surplusage or profit, which afforded the means of commanding luxuries and superfluities. Of course any diminished power of purchase must tell against the manufacturers, by keeping up their stocks in hand, and lessening the necessity for production. But many of them, failing the home trade, have the chance of a market, though it may be a less profitable one, elsewhere. They can export on consignation if not on order; and late accounts from San Francisco, where bales of British goods are stated to be lying unwarehoused, and exposed to the weather without finding purchasers, show that the export mania may be carried beyond the verge of average recklessness. But the shopkeepers and tradesmen have no such alternative resource. They depend solely upon the consumers of Britain, and any material lowering of the value of home produce reacts upon them in the shape of lessened demand for all articles of luxury in which they deal, and upon the artisan in the form of diminished employment. It may be useful to lay before our readers Mr Spackman’s estimate of the total productions of this country, calculated on the most authentic data before the commencement of the depression.

ANNUAL PRODUCTION OF THE UNITED KINGDOM.
Annual value of agricultural productions, | | £250,000,000
Annual value of manufacturing productions, | £177,184,292 |
From which deduct value of raw material, | 50,000,000 |

127,184,292

Annual value of product of mining interest, | | 36,121,000
Annual value of profits of shipping interest, | | 3,637,231
Annual income from Colonies, about | | 15,000,000
Annual income from foreign trade, | | 15,000,000
Annual income from fisheries, about | | 3,000,000

Total, | | £449,942,523

This constitutes the whole product of our national wealth. It is the substance of Britain, and from one or other of the above sources does every individual in the land derive his means of support. Out of these all taxation is paid: from these, all professional men, tradesmen, artisans, and dealers, derive their profit and their means. Hitherto, by all wise legislators, the interests of the two leading classes of producers have been considered indissolubly united. The agriculturist supplied the manufacturer with food, and to a considerable extent with raw material; and in return he took annually two-thirds of the manufactured productions. Our exports were exchanged for luxuries, or for articles which could not be produced at home, and the balance in our favour constituted the yearly increment of our wealth. What free trade proposes to do, and, indeed, has partially effected, is the dissolution of the dependence of the two great classes on each other. The manufacturer is invited to seek his food and raw material from the cheapest foreign source; the agriculturist to do the same with respect to foreign manufactures. But the two classes are not upon a par. The agriculturist cannot export any considerable portion of his produce, because he is greatly undersold by the cheap growers of the Continent and America. We observe that, last year, the whole of the exports which can be termed agricultural, were as follows:—

Butter, | £210,604
Cheese, | 24,912
Wool, sheep and lambs, | 535,801

| £771,317

This, it will be seen, is an infinitesimally small portion of our whole products. The manufacturer can export, though not to an extent corresponding to his powers of production. Manufactures have been cheapening year by year, in consequence of augmented foreign competition, and that struggle is likely to go on for years as fiercely as ever. To maintain the export trade in a competition which cannot end otherwise than disastrously, we have been called upon to sacrifice everything. This is the true secret of the lowered tariffs, of the unnatural policy which we have pursued towards our colonies, of the clamour for financial reform which has been so industriously raised. Without speculating as to future operations, which probably will include a direct attack upon the Monarchy and the National Debt, we shall simply draw the attention of our readers to this fact, that, for the sake of increasing the bulk of our exports by the annual value of three, four, or ten millions, (which we have not achieved, our exports last year being lower than those of 1845,) we have lowered the annual value of our home productions by ninety-one millions! And the men who have done this call themselves statesmen, and congratulate each other on the results of their singular sagacity!

But, let the manufacturers do what they can, two-thirds of their produce, in round numbers £120,000,000, must still be consumed at home. The shopkeepers are the brokers of this amount of produce. And how is it to be consumed, if the great agricultural interest is to be broken up? No Free-trader alive can answer that question. We perfectly understand the virulence of their organs, and their wrath and rage at the unanswerable case which we have laid before the public in former papers; but no rage or wrath will extricate the Free-traders from their dilemma. They must now explain to the tradesmen and artisans the profitable nature of their scheme. They may take credit, if they please, for increased exportations to the amount of ten millions—let them debit themselves per contra with ninety-one millions of decrease in the power of the home consumers to purchase, and then account to us for the defalcation. We have a high authority behind whom we shall retire for shelter, if again assailed. That redoubted political economist, Mr James Wilson, must in common consistency put forth his ægis before us, and defend, lion-like, his original proposition, “that individuals, communities, or countries, can only be prosperous in proportion to the prosperity of the whole.”

There are other considerations connected with the permanent depreciation of landed property in Great Britain, which are personal to almost every man belonging to the higher and middle classes of society. It has been far too hastily assumed that this is a mere proprietor’s question, or at least one in which the mercantile and professional classes have no direct interest. We propose, towards the conclusion of this article, to examine that matter minutely: in the mean time we shall direct our attention to the official tables of the exports and imports for the last year, which have been thought so favourable to free trade, as almost to justify the celebration of a national jubilee.

In 1848, our exports were short of forty-nine millions; this year they exceed fifty-eight. Such is their declared value; and though we must still hold with Sir Robert Peel, that these tables cannot be entirely relied on for accuracy, we shall consider them simply as they are given us.

In order to estimate the real advantage which the country has derived from the adoption of free trade, it is necessary to revert to the condition in which we stood before the Corn and Navigation Laws were repealed. No one, who reflects upon the state of the Continent in 1848, can be surprised that our exports have been augmented materially by the restoration of tranquillity. That augmentation has nothing whatever to do with free trade. The question which we must now consider is this—have we been materially benefited, or benefited at all, or the reverse, by the substitution of free trade instead of our former system? In order to ascertain that, we must institute a comparison between our situation anterior to free trade, and that which is now made the ground of Ministerial triumph. We shall, therefore, compare the exports and imports of the year 1845, the last protection year, with those of 1849. The fairness of this comparison will not, we presume, be disputed. And first, as to the exports:

From Mr Porter’s Tables, (page 358 of the new edition,) we learn that the real or declared value of British and Irish produce and manufactures, exported in 1845, was £60,111,081. The Government tables, just published, give us the total declared value of the exports for 1849 at £58,848,042. There is, therefore, a deficit of £1,263,039 in 1849, as compared with 1845. Mr M’Gregor, it will be remembered, told us that we were to have an increase of two millions a-week: the Government tables show us that we have a decrease of a million and a quarter a-year, comparing the one year with the other! We understand that the whole of the exports are included in the statement just issued. We can form no other conclusion from the large increase of the items inserted, and the small amount of some of them—for example, stockings—which are estimated at £1494 in 1849, in comparison with £39 in 1848; indeed, the words “total declared value,” admit of no other construction. So, then, our exports in the aggregate have not increased, but, on the contrary, have fallen off. We find the declared value of our principal textile exports to be as follows:—

| 1845. | 1849.
Cotton manufactures, | £19,172,564 | £18,834,601
—— yarn, | 6,962,626 | 6,701,920
Linen manufactures, | 3,062,006 | 3,073,903
—— yarn, | 1,051,303 | 737,650
Woollen manufactures, | 7,674,672 | 7,330,475
—— yarn, | 1,067,056 | 1,089,867

| £38,990,227 | £37,768,416

The imports, however, are more valuable for our consideration. No idea of their comparative value can be formed from the tables; but the amount is set forth in bulk and number, and we believe our readers will feel astonished at the results. We shall first enumerate those articles which have been brought in to displace British produce.

Animals living, viz.— | 1845. | 1849.
| Oxen and bulls, | 9,782 | 21,751
| Cows, | 6,502 | 17,921
| Calves, | 586 | 13,645
| Sheep, | 15,846 | 126,247
| Lambs, | 112 | 3,018
| Swine and hogs, | 1,598 | 2,653

Total animals, | 34,426 | 185,235
Bacon, cwt., | 64 | 384,325
Beef, salted, not corned, | 3,540 | 144,638
— fresh, or slightly salted, | 651 | 5,279
Pork, salted, | 1,461 | 347,352
— fresh, | 133 | 924
Hams, | 2,603 | 9,460

Total of meats, cwt., | 8,452 | 891,978

Butter, cwt., | 240,118 | 279,462
Cheese, | 258,246 | 390,978
Eggs, number, | 75,669,843 | 97,884,557

Corn— | |
| Wheat, qrs. | 135,670 | 4,509,626
| Barley, | 299,314 | 1,554,860
| Oats, | 585,793 | 1,368,673
| Rye, | 23 | 256,308
| Peas, | 82,556 | 285,487
| Beans, | 197,919 | 483,430
| Indian corn or maize, | 42,295 | 2,249,571
| Buckwheat, | 1,105 | 308
| Beer or bigg, | | 1,749

Total grain, qrs., | 1,344,675 | 10,710,012

Wheat meal or flour, cwt., | 630,255 | 3,937,219
Barley meal, | | 224
Oatmeal, | 2,224 | 40,055
Rye meal, | | 24,031
Pea meal, | | 300
Bean meal, | | 2
Indian corn meal, | | 102,181
Buckwheat meal, | | 1,095

Total flour and meal, cwts., | 632,479 | 4,105,107

These are the free-trade importations which are ruining the British agriculturist. This is the kind of competition which he is called upon to face, with a heavier load of taxation pressing upon him than is known in any other country in the world.

We shall probably be told, however, that this enormous supply of cheap food has enabled the people to extend their consumption of articles of luxury to a large extent. Let us see how that matter stands. We select the common luxuries, which are next to necessaries, for illustration,—and we also add another column, showing the quantities entered for consumption in 1848. By this our readers will be enabled to ascertain the increasing rate of demand for these articles.

| 1845. | 1848. | 1849.
Coffee, lb., | 34,318,095 | 37,107,279 | 34,431,074
Tea, | 44,183,135 | 48,735,696 | 50,024,688
Tobacco and snuff, | 26,323,944 | 27,305,134 | 27,685,687
Wine, gallons, | 6,986,846 | 6,369,785 | 6,487,689

It will be observed, that of these articles there is no great additional consumption. We have excepted sugar from the above list, on account of the alteration of the duties since 1845. There was, however, less entered for home consumption in 1849 than in 1848, by 240,067 cwt.

There appears to be nothing else in these tables which calls for special remark. They establish the fact that, under the operation of free trade, we have not yet been able to export as large an amount of manufactures as left this country in the last year of protection; a fact very suggestive, when we regard the enormous increase of the imports. The foreigner is supplanting our agricultural industry, without taking in return an augmented quantity of the produce of our manufacturers.

We cannot, therefore, see that these returns afford us any ground for congratulation. We can draw no good augury for the future from the figures which appear on the import side of the account: on the contrary, they appear to us ominous of calamity and disaster.

The large amount of bullion contained in the vaults of the Bank of England has been triumphantly referred to by the Free-traders as a proof, almost conclusive in itself, that the country is flourishing under the system of unrestricted importations; and the Protectionists have been taunted with the failure of their prediction, that a large import of foreign grain would drain the gold from Britain. These assumptions rest upon a most superficial view of the causes which have combined to restore bullion to the Bank during the last two years; and they argue a total forgetfulness of the calamitous monetary panic of 1847, occasioned by the demand for gold to meet the large importations of foreign grain consequent upon the famine. The ruinous effects of the adverse state of the foreign exchanges upon our commercial and manufacturing classes, in 1847 and 1848, are matters of history; and the unprecedented advice given by the Government to the Bank, to charge eight per cent on its advances, as well as the virtual abrogation of the Bank Act of 1844, are incidents in our mercantile annals too startling to be soon forgotten. It is not difficult, if we keep these things steadily in view, and also take into account the disturbed state of Europe for the last two years, to understand the reason why the returns of bullion have been so great.

The principal sources of the steady accumulation of gold during the last two years, in the face of continued large imports of grain and provisions, may be enumerated as follows:—

1st, The sale of foreign investments by parties in this country, and the stringent enforcement of all moneys due to them abroad.

2d, Forced sales and consignments of British goods at prices ruinously low to the producers.

3d, A considerable reduction in the stock of raw material.

4th, A diminution in the quantity of gold coin required to carry on the internal trade and domestic expenditure of the country. This diminution has been caused by the fall of prices, whereby the same quantity of commodities is represented by less money—by the sudden limitation of the employment of labour—and by the reduced means of the people for ordinary expenditure.

5th, Remittances from foreign countries, caused by the revolutionary movements in most of the Continental states.

6th, The return of the absentees from abroad, whose expenditure has been estimated as high as £20,000,000. Allowing this to be a great exaggeration, and estimating it even at a third of the amount, the result becomes most important.

7th, By other minor causes, amongst which we may particularise the return of sovereigns to this country from Belgium, in consequence of the alteration in the law which regulates the currency there.

When we look to the operation of these causes, some of them being, from their nature, mere temporary expedients, and others arising from political movements over which we had no control, the existence of a large balance of bullion in the coffers of the Bank of England ceases to be an index of the legitimate operations of trade. It is, in fact, nothing more than a balance. Without accurate data as to the quantities of the gold which have been sent into and again exported from this country during the last two years—data which our opponents have no wish whatever to see produced—it would be fallacious to assume that our increased imports of commodities have been met by our extended exports. Indeed, the Government accounts distinctly demonstrate that such is not the case. They prove that our imports are augmenting at a ratio to which the exports bear no manner of proportion; and no man, who will take the pains of considering dispassionately the foregoing tables, can doubt this. How, then, is the balance paid? Not certainly in goods; and if not in goods, in what other shape than money?

The maintenance of the stock of bullion in the Bank depends solely upon the continuance or the recurrence of such unusual accidents as we have enumerated above. We have been large sellers of foreign funds and investments; and we have received from other countries, for the sake of security, important remittances of the precious metals. But until we can restore the balance of trade by raising our exports to the level of the imports, or by restricting the latter, which we are bound to do in every case where large branches of native industry can be affected, we cannot hope permanently to retain the treasure, except at a frightful sacrifice. Further sales and further deposits may combine to keep it here, even for a considerable period; but so soon as confidence is restored abroad, we must look for a steady drain. If our imports shall constantly exceed our exports, which is the tendency of our recent legislation, we shall be forced to correct the balance of trade by drawing upon the accumulations of our more prudent ancestors, who acted on different principles; and so long as the foreign investments of their wealth last us, we may be enabled to continue our spendthrift course, consuming more than we produce. But this must evidently have an end; and, long before that period, the annual diminution of our national means would be felt by all classes of society, and the war between the great bulk of the community and the money power would commence in terrible earnest.

There are, we know, many people who, in spite of all the testimony which has been adduced, and the solemn declaration of the farmers that they cannot carry on cultivation at present prices, refuse to believe that the agricultural interest is virtually doomed to extinction. They say that the farmers are habitual grumblers, and they insinuate that this may be a false alarm. Now, as to grumbling, we suspect it would be impossible to find any body of men, who are exposed to constant fluctuations in the value of their produce, exempt from such a propensity; and we have heard, ere now, something worse than grumbling proceed from the throats of the manufacturers. But we ask those gentlemen whether, supposing America were to carry her avowed purpose into execution, and to stimulate her own population by converting the raw material of cotton into fabrics, instead of sending it four thousand miles across the Atlantic to be spun in Manchester,—and supposing that, in consequence, American calicoes could be offered in the British market at a price lower than the cost of the production of a similar article would be to Mr Cobden or Mr Bright—they imagine that the machinery of Manchester, Rochdale, and Staley Bridge, would still continue in motion? Does not common sense—does not all experience tell us, that a losing trade must be abandoned? And in order to show that agriculture is a losing trade, we need have recourse neither to farmers’ statistics nor to pamphlets, however valuable. We prove it out of the mouths of our adversaries. Here they are:—

Sir Robert Peel, in February 1842, estimated the proper remunerative price of wheat in this country, “allowing for natural oscillations,” as between 54s. and 58s.—on the average, 56s.; and stated, that he, “for one, would never wish to see it vary beyond these two specified values.”

Mr James Wilson, M.P. for Westbury, writing in 1839, stated it as his opinion, that the proper price of wheat was 52s. 2d.; and that, whatever average annual price the farmer received in any year less than that standard price, he made “so much distinct loss.”

Sir Charles Wood, Chancellor of the Exchequer, stated in January 1850, that he did not think “the agriculturist would be ruined with wheat at 44s. a quarter.”

The average price of wheat at the Haddington market, on 8th February, was 34s. 1d.

We know, moreover, that sales of good wheat have been made in Scotland, since that time, at even lower prices.

But is this state of things to continue? We say it must. It is a simple labour and taxation question. You expect the British labourer, who, in every commodity he consumes, pays taxes to Government, to compete with foreign serfs, who pay no taxes at all. You expect the British farmers and landowners to work a worse soil, in a more variable climate, to as much advantage as the foreign grower; and, moreover, to discharge a great portion of the public burdens of the state, to pay their full share of the interest arising from the expenses of every war in which Britain has been engaged since the Revolution of 1688; to support the national church, and to pay an undue proportion for the maintenance of the poor. The cost of cultivating 100 acres of British soil, in Hertfordshire, is estimated at £545—£1 per acre being allowed for rent. The cost of cultivating the same area, in Denmark or the northern states of Germany, is £324, 3s. 4d.—being £220, 16s. 8d., or 40 per cent, cheaper than in England. In this way, if we assume 50s. as the productive cost of British wheat, on an expenditure of £545, for the average here assumed, it will be seen that the expenditure of £324, 3s. 4d. gives 29s. 8d. as the productive cost of German wheat; that the difference in the price of barley between the countries will be as 30s. to 18s.; and of oats, as 20s. to 12s.[11]

This comparison is favourable to our opponents, because, in estimating the cost of British cultivation, a remarkably low rent is assumed; whilst, on the other hand, the wages of labour and other charges are greatly higher in Denmark and North Germany than in Russia, Poland, Wallachia, or Moldavia, from which countries we draw large supplies of grain. What hope is there of a rise of prices? Corn has been brought to its present low ebb by the importation, last year, of enormous supplies from the deficient Continental harvest of 1848. This year we are about to receive the discharge of a cornucopia filled to the very brim, in consequence of an unusually luxuriant crop. We have had experience of a bad year, and we are about to have experience of a good year, heralded by the following significant fact:—“Bell’s Weekly Messenger states, on unquestionable authority, that, a few days ago, one of the principal City houses chartered several vessels at a freight of 6s. per qr., to load wheat at Odessa at 24s. per qr., free on board.” How long is this to go on? Is it proposed, by this precious Ministry of ours, that nothing is to be done until the whole capital of the tenant-farmers is squandered, and the soil has gone out of cultivation? Or are we to understand that nothing whatever will be done, should prices fall lower than now, or even remain at their present level? If the land goes out of cultivation, a large proportion of the whole annual production of Great Britain, giving at present employment to many thousands, must be directly sacrificed; the manufacturers would, in that event, be compelled to close their establishments for the want of a home market; and we should have no revenue left to pay the expenses of the cheapest kind of provisional government, far less the interest of the national debt. Are the Ministry really aware of what they are doing? According to their own admissions—according to the calculations of their supporters—according to the estimates of the leading Free-traders, the tenant-farmers are at this moment cultivating the soil at a prodigious annual loss. No possible reduction of rent can suffice to cure the evil, even if a reduction of rent, which would throw hundreds of thousands out of employment, were no evil in itself. And yet, in this state of matters, the Whigs have thought proper to issue a prosperity address, almost without qualification, in the name of their gracious Sovereign!

We shall now entreat the attention of our readers to a point in which almost every man of ordinary means in this country is vitally interested. For a great many years the benefits to be derived from Life Insurance, as the best means of providing portions for families, have been acknowledged and largely sought. All classes have participated in these Assurances; and we believe that, in Scotland, it would be difficult to find any considerable number of professional persons, or tradesmen, who do not contribute to the funds of some of the numerous societies. We are not exactly aware what may be the method practised in England, but in Scotland by far the greater portion of the accumulated funds of these societies, amounting to many millions sterling, is lent on the security of the land. The value of the land, as every one knows, must in the aggregate depend on its productive power; and, if present prices are to rule, (and why they should not do so, under present legislation, no mortal man can tell us,) great tracts of the land of this country must go out of cultivation, and consequently be depreciated in value. In that case, how will the creditor fare? There is already a disposition shown, in some quarters, to make the creditor participate in the reduced income of the landed debtor. So hints Lord Drumlanrig, and he is not quite singular in his opinion. This is just repudiation; for could the idea be carried into effect, it would be necessary to apply the same rule to the principal as to the interest, and to provide that the lender of £100 under protection, should not be entitled to claim from his debtor more than £67 under the benign, just, and wholesome operation of free trade. Were this view to be adopted, and the adjustment made on the supposition that rents were only lowered by a third, the family of the man who has insured his life for £100, and regularly paid the premium, would lose rather more than £33. But a reduction of the whole rental of Great Britain and Ireland, to the extent of one-third, would amount to little more than £19,500,000,—a sum utterly insufficient to meet the depreciation, if we adopt the figures of Mr Villiers, or even if we make the largest allowance for exaggeration. The merest tyro in political science knows that land incapable of cultivation is comparatively worthless in price: we have a practical instance of that at present before us in Ireland, where estates have been actually abandoned by their owners. Now, if land at present under tillage should go out of cultivation, on account of the sale of the produce being inadequate to its cost—a catastrophe to which our northern districts are fast approaching—it must become, to all intents and purposes, waste; and the creditor who has lent money on its security will find that, instead of grain-bearing acres, he can take possession of nothing save a wilderness of heather and furze.

Every man, therefore, whose life is insured, has a direct interest in the maintenance of the agricultural prosperity of the country. If that is not maintained, the provision which he has prudently made for his family is placed in extreme jeopardy, and free-trade legislation may utterly neutralise his thrift. Nor let him quarrel with the security, for there is none better. If the land goes down, the tenure of the existence of the Funds is worse than precarious. If the imports of foreign corn and provisions shall augment materially during the next two years, and if “the great experiment,” as it has been called, shall be persevered in so long, the fortunes and apparent destiny of this great country must be materially and radically altered. In any case, there must be a change, and a change of an important description. The unprincipled Currency Act of 1819 has yet to undergo a revision. In spite of dilettante arrangements, and financial hocus-pocus, sedulously invented to blind the eyes of the community to the rottenness and peculation of our present monetary system, that matter must be thoroughly probed and examined by the aid of a clearer light than the lamp of the Jew Ricardo. But, for the present, it would be unwise to complicate the immediate question. Our stand is taken upon the broad basis of justice to native industry. We care not in what form or shape that industry is developed—whether it be applied to agriculture, trade, or manufactures—so long as it is industry seeking but its own, and disclaiming the selfish and sordid end of making an individual profit at the expense, and from the ruin, of other classes of the community. Sometimes, in calmly considering the course of our legislation for the last few years, this reflection irresistibly obtrudes itself—whether men have altogether lost the old feeling of patriotism and devotion, which, more than anything else, placed Britain in her proud position in the scale of the European nations? Certainly, when we read the speeches and harangues of the Free-traders, there is no trace of any such sentiment. They are cosmopolitans, not Britons: and, discarding the landmarks of the Almighty, they seem to hope that the laws of nature will be abrogated, and the doom of Babel reversed, by their own miserable efforts. Their sympathy is of a curious kind. They estimate foreign nations upon a scale founded on the consumption of calico; their notions of liberty undergo a material change, whenever raw cotton or cheap sugar become elements of the calculation of profit. They must have slavery abolished in the West Indian colonies: and yet, having ruined the planters, they are ready to take sugar on the cheapest terms which they dare offer from foreign slave-growing states, and to furnish them with clothing and machinery. Their capital, Manchester, and their principal seats of manufacture, depend for their existence on the continuance of Negro slavery in America, and not a man of these cosmopolitans dare raise his voice to denounce it. Why should he? He can gain popularity cheaper, by retailing gross falsehoods against unreciprocating European states, in every instance where Red Republicanism has reared its head, and been, most fortunately, suppressed. The British labourer has none of his sympathy—he cares not for him in his capacity of a fellow-subject. If the labourer is an agriculturist, our generous philanthropist would rather see him and his family condemned to the union-workhouse, than throw any obstacle in the way of increased serfage in Russia or in Poland. If the labourer is a manufacturer, the cosmopolitan spurns the laws enacted by the gentlemen of England for the protection of the women and children; and, availing himself of a verbal error, claims his right to work human beings, by relays, like cattle in his mill! And these are the men who now regulate the movements, and almost dictate the words, of our British statesmen! In the pages of British history, we meet with instances of degradation which we fain would see cancelled. We know that Charles II. was an acquiescent pensioner of the crown of France, and was content to remain so, at the hazard of the national honour. But we shall search history in vain for so mean a pandering as that which we have seen by Ministers to the interests of an upstart oligarchy—founded on the most perishable basis—scarcely disguising their hostility to the religion and the constitution of the land—trampling on the rights of the poor—denying the claims of Native Industry—and doing their utmost to make these great and glorious kingdoms the habitation of only two classes—one of them being the master-manufacturers, and the other, the operatives, whom they may tread at pleasure under their heel.

Printed by William Blackwood and Sons, Edinburgh.

1. A Letter to the Queen on a Late Court-Martial. By Samuel Warren, F.R.S. Barrister-at-Law. “I was constrained to appeal unto Cæsar.”

2. “Captain Douglas delivered his defence, before the court-martial which cashiered him, on his thirtieth birth-day.”

3. In justice to Captain Douglas, we must here state, that he clearly proved before the court-martial, that he withheld his statement for two days before the Court of Inquiry, still under the impression that it might be used to damage him in the proceedings before the civil court. That he was justified in doing so is shown by an order from the Horse Guards, 3d July 1809, expressly acknowledging the “right” of any party, before a court of inquiry, “of declining to answer any question, or to make any statement, which might, in his opinion, have proved prejudicial to him in the course of any ulterior inquiry into his conduct.” On the 28th November last also, we may remark that Sir Charles Napier, in an order to the Indian Army, says, in reference to a Court of Inquiry—“If any person happens to be accused of misconduct, he is called on for his statement of the matter in hand, like any other person: he may either appear or refuse to appear, as he pleases, unless ordered by superior authority; and either answer any questions put to him, or refuse to answer.”

If, in the face of these two orders, an officer is to be arraigned before a court-martial for conduct “unbecoming the character of an officer and a gentleman, in having omitted and neglected to make a statement before a Court of Inquiry” which he thought would injure himself, we must say they are a snare and a delusion for the unwary, and ought to be expunged forthwith from the Order-books of the army.

4. The only article of war, beside this, which could be supposed, for a moment, to embrace the case, is the 108th, which says, that—“All crimes not capital, and all disorders and neglects which officers and soldiers may be guilty of, to the prejudice of good order and military discipline, though not specified in the foregoing cases, or in our Articles of War, shall be taken cognisance of by courts-martial, according to the nature and the degree of the offence.” But it is evident that this article applies to matters of a military nature. If the merely moral delinquency of which Captain Douglas is charged might be described as affecting “good order and military discipline,” there is no act of a man’s life that might not be designated in the same manner.

5. “In the old articles of war the language used was scandalous and infamous conduct, such as is unbecoming the character of an ‘officer and a gentleman.’”

6. Capri.

7. The Pillars of Hercules; or, a Narrative of Travels in Spain and Morocco in 1848. By David Urquhart, Esq. M.P. 2 vols. 8vo. London: 1850.

Le Véloce; ou Tanger, Alger, et Tunis. Par Alexandre Dumas. Vols. I. and II. Paris: 1849.

8. Alison.

9. Spackman’s Tables, p. 185.

10. Spackman’s Occupations of the People. Vide Synoptical Table.

11. We are indebted for these calculations to a pamphlet entitled Observations on the Elements of Taxation, and the Productive Cost of Corn, by S. Sandars, which we strongly recommend to the notice of our readers, as one of the most able treatises on the subject which has yet appeared.

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

- Typos fixed; non-standard spelling and dialect retained.

- Used numbers for footnotes, placing them all at the end of the last chapter.

- Erratum item was corrected.

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BLACKWOOD'S EDINBURGH MAGAZINE, VOL. 67, NO. 413, MARCH, 1850 ***

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Table of Contents

- BLACKWOOD’S EDINBURGH MAGAZINE. No. CCCCXIII. MARCH, 1850. Vol. LXVII.

- CONTENTS.

- ERRATUM.

- CIVIL REVOLUTION IN THE CANADAS.

- (POSTSCRIPT.)

- A LATE CASE OF COURT-MARTIAL.[1]

- A FAREWELL TO NAPLES.

- BARBARIAN RAMBLES.[7]

- GOLDSMITH. PART II.

- TO BURNS’S “HIGHLAND MARY.”

- MY PENINSULAR MEDAL. BY AN OLD PENINSULAR. PART IV.—CHAPTER X.

- THE GREEN HAND. A “SHORT” YARN. PART IX.

- CANADIAN LOYALTY. AN ODE.

- AGRICULTURE, COMMERCE, AND MANUFACTURES: OPENING OF THE SESSION.

- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE