Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Vol. 75, No. 461, March, 1854 by Various (2024)

Compliments are of various kinds.It is not always necessary that theyshould assume a laudatory form—theymay be conveyed quite as powerfullythrough the medium of abuse.Some men there are whose eulogy isin itself a disgrace. Few would havecared to see their characters upheld inthe columns of the Age or the Satirist—fewerstill would like to hear apanegyric on their morals deliveredfrom a hustings by the lips of MrReynolds. If we had to choose betweentotal obscurity, and a reputationfounded only upon the testimonyof Mr Cobden, we should not, for onemoment, hesitate to embrace the firstalternative. To be designated in thepolite circle of a sporting tavern as a“nobby cove,” or a “real swell,” isnot, according to our ideas, a highobject of ambition; and we shouldfeel somewhat dubious of the realcharacter of the individual whosepraise was in the mouths of all thecabmen.

On the contrary, there can be nodoubt that abuse proceeding from certainquarters is in itself a considerablerecommendation, and may even bematter of pride to the party who ismade the subject of it. The justAristides never experienced a thrillof more agreeable complacency thanwhen, at the request of the illiterateAthenian, he wrote his own name onthe ostracising shell. We may relyupon it that Coriolanus felt far moregratified than incensed when the howlingand hooting of the plebeians enabledhim to deliver his stingingdiatribe, and to express the intensityof his scorn. Virgil regarded the lowribaldry of Mævius as a direct acknowledgmentof his literary accomplishments;and Cicero in one of hisspeeches expresses himself as beingunder obligations to a notorious blackguard,who had selected him as theobject of his attacks.

Mr Disraeli, we think, lies undersimilar obligations, though the authorof the book before us is simply anineffable blockhead. Mean, however,as are his abilities, he has certainlycontrived to strike out a literarynovelty; though it may be doubtedwhether his example, if followed bymen of average intellect, would tendto the improvement or increase thedelights of society. In the pages ofa review or the columns of a magazine,considerable freedom is used in discussingthe merits of eminent livingliterary or political characters. Suchcriticisms or sketches are, no doubt,often tinted with party colours—aresometimes rather severe—but arerarely, if ever, scurrilous. But wedo not remember any instance parallelto this, where a writer has selectedfor his subject an eminent living character,and has proceeded with deliberate,though most dull malignity,to rake up every particular of his lifewhich he dared to touch upon, togather every scrap which he eitherhas or is supposed to have writtenfrom the years of his nonage upwards,and then to lay before the public,under the title of a biography, a ponderousvolume of no fewer than 646pages. Should this example be followed,and the practice become general,it appears to us that there will bestrong necessity for revising the lawof libel. We have grave doubtswhether, under any circ*mstances,one man is entitled to take so gross aliberty with another. If each of uswere to sit down and compile biographiesof his living neighbours, thiswould be no world to live in. Eitherthere would be an enormous increaseof actions for defamation, or the cudgel,horse-whip, and pistol, would bebrought into immediate requisition.Let us, however, concede that partyanimosity, personal antipathy, or privatehatred may, either singly or collectively,be held to justify the perpetrationof such an outrage—let ussuppose that there is such an accumulationof black bile and venom in theinterior of the unhappy human reptilethat he must either give vent to it orbe suffocated—he is at least bound toput his name on the title-page, sothat the world may know what mannerof man the deliberate accuser is.For aught we are told to the contrary,this volume may have been written byJack Ketch or one of his subordinateassistants. Evidently it is notwritten by one who possesses theordinary feelings of a gentleman,though it is possible that he maymove in good society, bear a respectablename, and be regarded byveteran red-tapists as a young manof considerable promise. He is thecounterpart of Randal Leslie in MyNovel—cold, selfish, and malignant,without a spark of enthusiasm or agenerous thought in his whole composition.Envy is the grand passionof his mind; and, in this case, hatredco-operates with envy. The object ofthis book is to run down Mr Disraelion all points; to exhibit him as animpostor in politics, a quack in literature,a Maw-worm in religion, anda hypocrite in morals. We defy anyone to peruse twenty pages of thework without being convinced thatsuch was the intention of the authorof Disraeli, a Biography; and yet theskulking creature has not courageenough to show himself openly. Heeven tries to assume a disguise so asto deceive those who might otherwisehave traced him to his hole. “Conscious,”says the co*ckatrice, “of nomotive but the public good, withlittle to hope or fear from any politicalparty, strongly attached to principles,but indulgent to mere opinions,neither Whig nor Tory, but a respecterboth of the sincere Conservativeand the sincere Liberal, I haveno dread of the partisan’s malice.”Mercy on us! who can this verymysterious person be? “No motivebut the public good!”—“little tohope or fear from any political party!”—“neitherWhig nor Tory!”—whatsort of a politician is this? Hebutters Mr Gladstone, he buttersLord John Russell, he butters LordPalmerston, he butters Mr Hume—hisbenevolence to every one exceptMr Disraeli is quite marvellous—butmore especially doth he laud andmagnify the men who are now inpower. “One of the humblest individualsof this great empire hasthought it necessary to enter his protestagainst this new system of morality,which threatens to becomegenerally prevalent!” Humility!—morality!—Bravewords, Mr RandalLeslie—but it really was not worthwhile to add such hypocrisy to yourother sins. We know you a greatdeal better than you suppose; andyour own past history, insignificantthough you are, has been too politicallyprofligate to escape reprobation.You say you are neither Whig norTory, and, for once in your life, youspeak the truth. But you were aTory, and you became a Whig, andyou are now a placeman; and youwould hold that place of yours asreadily under Mr Cobden as underLord Aberdeen. You were once aPeelite, but you had not even thedecency to wait for the fortunes ofyour chiefs. You lusted after office,and took the bribe the instant it wastendered by the Whigs; and in consequenceyou are universally lookedupon and distrusted as the mostvenal, selfish, and unprincipled youngman of your generation. It wouldindeed be absurd in you to entertainany “dread of the partisan’s malice.”You have placed yourself in such aposition that you may defy malice ofany kind. Your career, though obscure,has been so contemptible thatyour bitterest enemy could not makeyou seem worse than you were. Itmust, however, be allowed that youhave materially added to your infamyby the present publication.

We have thought it our duty, atthe outset, to make these stringentremarks, not because this writer hasselected Mr Disraeli as the object ofhis attack, but because we altogetherdisapprove of, and abominate, thisstyle of literary warfare. It is, thankheaven, as yet uncommon among us;and the best way of preventing itsoccurrence is to make an example ofthe caitiff who has introduced it. Theidea, however, is not altogether original.It was engendered in HolywellStreet; from which Paphian locality,as we are given to understand,various works, professing to be “PrivateHistories,” and “Secret Memoirs”of eminent living characters,were formerly issued; and this writer,being no doubt familiar with that sortof literature, has thought proper toextend the range of his license. Wehave, all of us, a decided interest inmaintaining the respectability of controversy.A public career does indeedrender men very amenable tocriticism and comment; and it hardlycan be said that there is anything unfairin contrasting public professionsand public acts. A statesman, oreven a less distinguished politician,must be prepared to hear his formeropinions set against those which henow enunciates, and he may evenconsider it his duty elaborately tovindicate the change. But to compilebiographies of living men—mixingup, as in this case, their mere literaryeffusions with their political lives, andattempting, by distortion and baseinuendo, to render them contemptiblein the eyes of the public—is an outrageon common decency, and mustexcite universal scorn and disgust.

The moral perceptions of the manwho could write a book like thismust, of course, be very weak; nevertheless,it is evident that even hisconscience gave him an occasionaltwinge, by way of reminding him ofthe extreme dastardliness of his conduct.He could not but be awarethat no honourable or chivalrous opponentof Mr Disraeli could read thistissue of malignity without experiencinga sensation of loathing; and,therefore, he has attempted, at thevery outset, to vindicate himself, byrepresenting Mr Disraeli as entitledto no quarter or courtesy, on accountof his addiction to personality andsatire. It may be as well to takedown his own words, because weshall presently have occasion to makea few observations connected withthis charge.

“I admit fully that, if any man beentirely destitute of all claim to indulgence,it is the subject of this biography.Personality is his mighty weapon, whichhe has used like a gladiator whose onlyobject is, at all events, to inflict a deadlywound upon his adversary, and not likea chivalrous knight, who will at anyrisk obey the laws of the tournament.Mr Disraeli has been a true politicalIshmael. His hand has been raisedagainst every one. He has even runamuck, like the wild Indian.

“Who can answer a political novel?Libels the most scandalous may be insinuated,the best and wisest men maybe represented as odious, the purest intentionsand most devoted patriotismmay be maligned, under the outline of afictitious character. The personal satiristis truly the pest of society, and anymethod might be considered justifiableby which he could be hunted down. Itwould, therefore, seem only a kind ofjustice to mete out to Mr Disraeli thesame measure which he has meted out toothers. As he has ever used the daggerand the bowl, why, it may be asked,should not the deadly chalice be presentedback to him, and enforced by thesame pointed weapon? This may beunanswerable; yet I hold that no generousman would encounter an ungenerousone with his own malice.”

Why not, Randal? If what yousay regarding Mr Disraeli be true,you are perfectly entitled to encounterhim with his own weapons. Youcomplain of his having written politicalnovels, in which certain characters,whom you regard as sublime andpure, are represented in a differentlight. Well, then, do you write anovel of the same kind, showing upMr Disraeli under a fictitious name,and we shall review it with all thepleasure in the world. If it is clever,sparkling, and original, you shall notwant laudation. But you know verywell that you could as soon swim theHellespont as compose two readablechapters of a novel—that you havenot enough of invention to devise aplot, or of imagination to shadowforth a character; and, therefore, youare pleased to assume the magnanimous,and to drivel about the daggerand the bowl. No one who readsyour book will believe that you wouldabstain from the use of any weaponwhich you could wield against MrDisraeli—(how should he, when youglide before us as a masked assassin?)—buthe will be at no loss to divinethe reason why you decline an encounterof wit. We are perfectlysincere when we say that your intensedulness ought in some measure to beaccepted as an extenuation for yourmalevolence, for you have not artenough to disguise or conceal thehatred which is rankling in yourbreast.

But let us examine a little morenarrowly into the charge preferredagainst Mr Disraeli. It is said thatpersonality is his weapon, which hehas used like a gladiator; and weunderstand the averment to be thatboth his political speeches and hisliterary works display this tendency.In considering this matter, it will beproper to separate the two characters,and look first to the politician, andafterwards to the novelist.

We shall at once admit that, in theHouse of Commons, Mr Disraeli isfeared as an antagonist. He possessesvast power of satire, a ready wit, andhas a thorough confidence and reliancein his own resources. He has besidesan intense contempt for that kind ofcant in which it formerly was thefashion to indulge—for the solemnairs of pompous mediocrity, and forthe official jargon and conventionalhypocrisies of the Treasury bench.When, in 1846, the late Sir RobertPeel abandoned the cause of thatparty of which he was the accreditedleader, he naturally became the objectof unsparing criticism and attack.But his offence was a very grave one.It fully justified the taunt of Mr Disraeli,which this writer affects to consideras remarkably offensive, that,“like the Turkish admiral who, duringthe war in the Levant, had steeredhis fleet into the port of the enemy,Sir Robert Peel had undertaken tofight for this cause, and now assumedthe right of following his own judgment.”The comparison was certainlynot a flattering one to the PrimeMinister; but it had this recommendationthat it was strictly apposite,and that no man could gainsay it. Itis the height of absurdity to maintainthat personality could be, or ought tohave been, excluded from the discussionsand debates that followed.Why, it was Sir Robert Peel himselfwho, by his extraordinary changeof policy, made this a personal question,and brought it to a direct issuebetween the betrayer and the betrayed.Are we really to be told at the presentday that measures alone should be discussedin the Houses of Parliament,and that all commentary on the conductand previous career of statesmenought to be avoided? Are we to beallowed no latitude of reference toformer speeches—no allusion to formerprotestations? Ought tergiversationto be permitted to pass without noticeor censure—ought duplicity to escapeexposure? If not, we boldly ask inwhat respect Mr Disraeli has sinnedso grievously as to merit the reproachof this Tartuffe? It may be said, indeed,that he pushed his resentmentof the unparalleled betrayal too far;and we daresay, now that years haveintervened, he may himself regret theoccasional acrimony of his remarks.That is the natural feeling of everygenerous-minded man who has beencompelled to take an active share inpublic discussion; for it is impossibleto restrain at all times the excitedpassions, and sometimes the hour forcalm retrospection does not arrive,until the occasion of the originaloffence has passed into matter ofhistory. Mr Macaulay, in the prefaceto the collected edition of hisspeeches, says with reference to thisvery point: “I should not willinglyhave revived, in the quiet times inwhich we are so happy as to live, thememory of those fierce contentions inwhich so many years of my public lifewere passed. Many expressions which,when society was convulsed by politicaldissension, and when the foundationsof government were shaking,were heard by an excited audiencewith sympathy and applause, may,now that the passions of all partieshave subsided, be thought intemperateand acrimonious. It was especiallypainful to me to find myself underthe necessity of recalling to my ownrecollection, and to the recollection ofothers, the keen encounters whichtook place between the late Sir RobertPeel and myself.” So it will ever bewith the generous and high-spirited;but it does not follow therefrom thatthe attacks were not deserved. Ofcourse such cold toads as Mr RandalLeslie cannot be expected to understandor appreciate the feeling eitherof indignation or of regret. Havingno sympathy but for self, and possessingno clear discernment of thedifference between right and wrong,between candour and duplicity—havingbeen trained from their boyhoodupwards to believe that falsehood,trickery, and deceit, are componentand necessary qualities of statesmanship—they,naturally enough, standaghast at the audacity which tore theveil from organised hypocrisies, andhate the exposer with a hatred moreenduring than the love of woman.Hence this cant about personality,which they talk of as if it were a newelement in political discussion. Now,the fact is, that no political discussionever was conducted, or ever will beconducted, without personality. Youcannot separate the idea from theman, the argument from him whouses it. The first orator of antiquity,Demosthenes, was personal to a degreenever yet paralleled, as every one whohas read his Philippics must allow.In this he was imitated by Cicero,whose stinging invectives, as witnessthe speeches against Catilineand Verres, have commanded the admirationof the world. Chatham’s firstspeech in the House of Commons wasa purely personal one, no doubt provokedby his antagonist, but almostwitheringly severe. Canning andBrougham dealt largely both in satireand personality—indeed, it wouldhardly be possible to find a speech ofthe latter orator free from a stronginfusion of that quality which themoral Randal deplores. In our owntime no great question has been discussedwithout personality; and forthis reason, that it would be impossibleto discuss it otherwise. Nodoubt personality may sometimes becarried greatly too far. When LordJohn Russell taunted Lord GeorgeBentinck with his former addictionto the turf, intending to convey therebyan unworthy inuendo, he committeda serious fault, because he violatedgentlemanly decorum. Whenthe late Sir Robert Peel accused MrCobden of a desire to have him assassinated,he was not only ultra-personal,but outrageously and unpardonablyunjust. When the samestatesman could find no better answerto Mr Disraeli, than a charge thatthe latter had at one time been willingto hold office under him, he was,besides being directly personal, guiltyof a breach of confidence. We areaware it is the fashion among thepresent Ministry to protest againstpersonalities. Let us ask whether itwas his administrative talent or hispractice in personal warfare that elevatedMr Bernal Osborne to the postof Secretary to the Admiralty?Ministers are far from objecting to aSpartacus, when they know they mayreckon on his assistance—it is onlywhen a keen weapon is flashing onthe other side that they think itnecessary to make an outcry. Partywarfare we cannot expect to see anend of; but, in the name of commonsense, let us at least eschew humbug.The House of Commons is, even now,a queer assembly, and Lord JohnRussell may make it worse; still, letus believe that the members collectivelyentertain that ordinary sense ofpropriety that they will not permitanything to be uttered within thewalls of St Stephens, which calls fordirect reprobation, without immediatechallenge, and without censure, if anapology is not made for the intemperance.One of the principal dutiesof the Speaker is to repress and checkthe use of unparliamentary language.If any accusation, not falling underthat restriction, is preferred, the membersof the House are the judges ofits propriety, and may be expected,in the aggregate, to enforce the ruleswhich govern the conduct of gentlemen.It is, therefore, most gross impertinencein Mr Randal Leslie tochallenge what Parliament has notchallenged. Mr Disraeli’s presentposition, as the leader of the largestindependent, and most influential sectionof the House of Commons, is thebest answer to the insinuations of thiscontemptible little snake, who, weapprehend, will not receive, from hispolitical superiors, the meed of gratitudewhich he expected for his presentunfortunate attempt. It is the misfortuneof your Randal Leslies, thatthey never can, even by blundering,stumble on the right path. Set themto defend in writing some particularline of policy, and the first six pagesof their lucubrations will convince theimpartial reader that they are advocatingsomething unsound or untrue,by dint of their unnecessary affectationof candour. Set them toattack an opponent, and they fail;because they cannot descry the pointsupon which he is really vulnerable,and because they think indiscriminateabuse is more effective than artisticcriticism, of which latter branch ofaccomplishment they are wholly incapable.This lad has not even thetalent to malign with plausibility.He calls Mr Disraeli “a true politicalIshmael.” What does the blockheadmean? Does he not know that theindividual whom he denominates Ishmael,is at this moment at the headof the most powerful separate partyin the British House of Commons?

In justice to the leading membersof the Coalition Cabinet, we shall stateour opinion, (not altogether unfortifiedby certain rumours which havereached us), that they were unawareof this singularly silly attempt, on thepart of one of their subordinates, toattack an eminent character in opposition,until the fool launched itfrom the press before a disgustedpublic. Ill-judging Randal Leslieconceived that his work would makea grand political sensation; so, afterthe manner of his kind, he kepthis secret to himself, and workedlike a perfect galley-slave, or like athorough scavenger, at his vocation.Whatever Mr Disraeli had said orwritten on politics, or any subjecttrenching upon politics, from theperiod of his first publication downto his last parliamentary speech,Randal had read and noted; and thepoor knave at last concluded that hehad a good case to lay before thepublic. And what does his politicalcase, by his own account, amount to?Simply this: That Mr Disraeli, fromhis very earliest years, has detestedand denounced the tenets of the Whigparty; and that he has always supportedthe cause of the people—notin the democratic, but in the real andtruthful sense of the word—againstthe villanies of organised oppression,and the rapacity of manufacturingdomination. But these things belongrather to his literary than to his politicalcharacter. Randal thought hehad made a great hit in bringing themforward. He must have been verymuch amazed when an elder and moresagacious colleague explained to himthat, instead of throwing dirt uponthe object of his enmity, he had unconsciouslybeen passing upon him ahigh encomium, such as any statesmanmight be proud of for his panegyric;and that his work, if generallyread, would greatly tend to sap thefaith in present political combinations.After all, how stand the facts? Tenyears ago Mr Disraeli, a member ofthe Tory party, but not then greatlydistinguished as a politician, nor possessingthat influence which hereditaryrank and high connection give toothers, had the sagacity to discernthat Sir Robert Peel was not a safeleader, and the courage to make theavowal. Randal quotes his languagein 1844. “He had always acknowledgedthat he was a party man. Itwas the duty of a member of theHouse of Commons to be a partyman. He, however, would only followa leader who was prepared tolead.” No doubt the lips of many aTadpole and Taper curled with derisionat this audacious declaration ofcontempt for constituted authority, onthe part of a young man, the tenor ofwhose speeches they could not rightlyunderstand. He professed himself tobe a Tory, but he often uttered sentimentswhich seemed to them stronglyto savour of Radicalism. He did notscruple to avow his sympathy withthe labouring classes, his desire to seethem elevated and protected, and hiswish for the adoption of a moregenial, considerate, and paternalcourse of legislation. He traced theagitation for the Charter to the establishmentof the supremacy of amiddle-class government in thecountry; and boldly announced hisopinion that this monarchy of themiddle classes might one day shakeour institutions and endanger thethrone. In particular he denouncedcentralisation—a great and growingevil, to which he attributed muchof the existing discontent. Suchviews were of course unintelligible tothe Tadpoles and Tapers—men whoconsidered statesmanship a scienceonly in so far as it could insureascendancy to their party, and placesto themselves. There were then agood many veteran Tadpoles andTapers; and Sir Robert Peel wasdoing his best to educate a new generationof them to supply inevitablevacancies. Naturally enough theyregarded Mr Disraeli as a purevisionary; but there were others uponwhom his argument and example werenot lost. Young men began to considerwhether, after all, they weredoing their duty by blindly submittingthemselves to party domination,as rigid and exacting as the mostautocratic rule. They were desired,under very severe penalties for risingpoliticians, not to venture to think forthemselves, but to do as the ministerordered. They were not to take uptheir time in unravelling social questions—ifthey wanted mental exercise,let them serve on a railway committee.There might be, and doubtless was, acry of distress and a wailing fromwithout—but the minister would seeto that, settle everything by an increaseof the police force, or perhapsa coercion bill; and the Treasurywhip would give them due noticewhen they were expected to vote.In short, young members of Parliamentwere then treated exactly as ifthey had been children, incapable offorming an opinion; and they weretold, in almost as many words, thatif they did not choose to submitthemselves to this dictation, thedoors of the Treasury would remainclosed against them for ever. Theeffect of this insolence—for we cangive it no other name—was thata considerable portion of the youngaristocracy rebelled. They would notsubmit to such preposterous tyranny,and they cared not a rush for any ofthe Ministerial threats. They sawthat, in the country, there was distress—thatdiscontent and disaffectionwere very rife—and that, in the veryheart of England, a large body of theworking population were absolutelyin a state of bondage. They could notfind it in their hearts to greet, withexultation, the announcement of increasedexports, whilst every yearthe condition of the producers seemedto be becoming worse. Looking to thestate, they saw two great parties underautocratic chiefs, bidding against eachother for popularity—that is, power—andfor office to their respective staffs,without any real regard for the interestor improvement of the masses.That was not a spectacle likely to findfavour in the eyes of a young, ardent,and generous-minded man; and accordinglyfrom that time we may datethe formation of another party, stillon the increase, and rapidly augmenting,which, rejecting what was badin the old Toryism, but maintainingits better principle—resolute to preservethe constitution, but cordiallysympathising with the people—is preparingto encounter, and will encounterwith success, the cold-blooded democracyof Manchester, which woulddestroy everything that is venerable,noble, or dear to England, and establishon the ruins a serfdom of Labour,with Capital as the inexorable tyrant.We do not say that Mr Disraeli isto be regarded as the founder ofthat party. Young men professingconservative opinions were beginningabout that time to think independentlyfor themselves, and to doubt theauthenticity and soundness of tradition.The young Whigs, who werekept in much better order by theirseniors, stuck by their old politicalbreviary; but the young Tories wouldnot. They were ready, if occasion required,to maintain to the death theMonarchy, the House of Peers, andthe Church; but they could not, forthe lives of them, understand that itwas not their duty to investigate, andif possible improve, the condition ofthe working-classes. On the contrary,they regarded that as a distinct moralduty, in which they were resolved topersevere, notwithstanding the adviceof their own political Gallios, or theexample of their opponents who werealways ready, when the people askedfor relief, to tender them a stone.Mr Disraeli, however, has this credit,that he was the first, in the House ofCommons, to free himself from a debasingdomination, and to assert hisabsolute independence of the ministerin thought and deed. Of course hewas never forgiven by the autocrat,nor will he be forgiven by the menwho still swear by their idol. But hewent on undauntedly, never fearingto say his thought; and barely twoyears had elapsed before the greatbulk of the Tory party—the Tapersand Tadpoles excepted—had acknowledgedthe justness of his estimate asto the trustworthiness of their formerchief, and ranged themselves in oppositionto the late Sir Robert Peel.

It is not our intention to pronouncea panegyric upon Mr Disraeli. Wesee no occasion for doing so, and wedoubt if he would care to hear one.But we confess that the impudence ofthis young whipper-snapper has somewhatroused our bile. He reminds usof a wretched curtailed messan whomwe once saw introduced into a drawing-room.The creature, which, inmercy to the future canine breed,ought to have been drowned in thedays of its puppydom, went sniffingabout at the furniture, thrusting itsodious nose everywhere, and at lastcommitted sacrilege by lifting its legagainst a magnificent china jar. Ofcourse Nemesis was speedy. We hadthe satisfaction of kicking the curfrom the upper landing to the lobby,by a single pedal application; and,beyond the hint gathered from a doloroushowl, have no cognizance of itsafter fate. Mr Disraeli’s present positionin the House of Commons is thebest possible answer to “one of thehumblest”—for which, read, meanest—“individualsof this great empire.”

Randal, however, does not confinehimself to a review of Mr Disraeli’spolitical career. He must needs—thoughof all men the most unfittedfor the task, for he has no more notionof literature than a Hottentot—attemptto criticise him as an author.Here he evidently thinks that he canmake out a strong case; and accordinglyhe goes over, seriatim, the wholeof the publications to which MrDisraeli has set his name, and one ortwo others which were not so authenticated.At first sight it is not easyto understand why he should havegiven himself so much trouble. MrDisraeli’s earliest novel, Vivian Grey,was written when the author wasabout the age of two-and-twenty, and,no doubt, to the critical eye, it hasmany faults. But so have the earlyproductions of every master—notonly in language, but in painting andall other branches of art,—yet weforgive them all for the unmistakabletraces of real genius which are displayed.That early novel of MrDisraeli, though produced so far backas 1826, has never been forgotten.It took its place at once as a decidedwork of genius; and, as such, continuedto be read before the authorbecame a political character or celebrity.And so it was, even in largermeasure, with his next work, ContariniFleming. Now, it is of some importanceto ask, why these books werepopular? They certainly could notrecommend themselves to the old,as elaborate compositions, for theyshowed a lack of worldly experience,and sometimes bordered on extravagance.But they recommended themselvesto the young, because they werebrimful of a youthful spirit; becausethey expressed, better perhaps thanever had been done before, the daring,recklessness, and utter exuberance ofyouth; and because even older menrecognised in them the distinct imageof passions which they had once entertained,but from which they were divorcedfor ever. Poor pitiful Randal,who even in his boyhood does notseem to have experienced a singlegenerous impulse, thinks that in thesejuvenile pictures he can identify thefuture politician. He says, “It is impossible,in perusing the book, not toconnect Mr Disraeli with ContariniFleming;” and he then goes ongravely to argue that many of thepositions in the romance are objectionable.Because Mr Disraeli makes hisleading character talk extravagantlywhen in love—as what boy undersuch circ*mstances does not talk extravagantly?—weare asked to believethat the author is habitually addictedto fustian! Because Contarini Flemingis represented at the head of aband of reckless collegians, who, inspiredby the “Robbers” of Schiller,betake themselves to the woods, Randalpolitely insinuates that Mr Disraeliwas intended by nature for a bandit!He might just as well tell us that MissJane Porter was intended for a Scottishchief! Such absolute trash asthis is really below contempt; norwould we have noticed it at allexcept to show the animus of thissingularly paltry critic. We shallmake no further allusion to his commentaryon the early novels, beyondremarking, that he crawls over everypage of Venetia and Henrietta Temple,in the hope to leave upon them tracesof his ugly slime.

It is, however, against the politicalnovels that Mr Randal Leslie choosesprincipally to inveigh. That he regardsthem as heterodox in doctrineis not to be wondered at—that hecannot discriminate between thesportive and the real is the resultof his own narrow powers of comprehension.But his chief cry, as we haveremarked before, is against personality,and he thus favours us with hisideas: “All men must execrate themidnight stabber. And a midnightstabber is a man who, in a work offiction, endeavours to make a fictitiouscharacter stand for a real one,and attributes to it any vices hepleases. Nothing can be more unfair;nothing can be more reprehensible.Against such a system ofattack even the virtues of a Socratesare no protection,” &c. We see nooccasion for dragging Socrates intothe discussion. Those twin sons ofSophroniscus, Tadpole and Taper,are quite sufficient for our purposein discussing this point of literarypersonality. We are therefore givento understand by Mr Leslie, that itis utterly unjustifiable to display, ina work of fiction, any character correspondingto a real one. That, certainly,is a broad enough proposition.According to this view, Virgil was amidnight stabber, because it is notoriousthat the characters in the Eneidwere intended to represent eminentpersonages of Rome; and all of themwere not flatteringly portrayed—as,for instance, Drances, who stands forCicero. Spenser was a midnightstabber, in respect of Duessa, intendedfor Mary Queen of Scots. Shakespearewas a midnight stabber, inrespect of Justice Shallow, the eidolonof Sir Thomas Lucy. Dryden was anirreclaimable bravo; witness his Absalomand Achitophel. We are afraidthat even Pope must wear the badgeof the poniard. Very few of ourdeceased, and scarce one of our livingnovelists, can escape the charge ofsatire and personality. If a man iswriting about things of the presentday, he must, perforce, take hischaracters from the men who movearound him, else he will produce notrue picture. Both Dickens andThackeray draw from life, and theirsketches are easily recognisable.There are certain characters in MrWarren’s Ten Thousand A-Year,which we apprehend nobody canmistake. In depicting, for example,the House of Commons, would it becorrect to paint that assembly, notas it is, but as what it might be, ifa total change were made in itsmembers? If a literary man hasoccasion, in a work of fiction, tosketch the Treasury Bench, must henecessarily leave out the principalfigures which give interest to thatElysian locality? But is it reallytrue that Mr Disraeli has been soexcessively licentious in his personality?Tadpoles he has drawn, nodoubt, and Tapers; but there are atleast two dozen gentlemen who haveequal right to appropriate those designationsto themselves. He hasgiven us two perfect types of a narrow-mindedclass, but the class itself is numerous.The originals of Coningsbyand Millbank, if there were any such,are not likely to complain of theirtreatment; and positively the onlyobjectionable instance of personalitywhich we can remember as occurringin Mr Disraeli’s political novels, isthe character of Rigby. It is quitepossible that Mr Disraeli might, ifhe chose, give a satisfactory explanationof this departure from decorum;for we are not of the number of thosewho profess, like Mr Randal Leslie,to think that it is unlawful to retaliatewith the same weapon whichhas been used in assault. But thetruth is, we care very little about thematter. Let us grant that this onecharacter of Rigby is objectionable—doesthat justify this outrageoushowl about perpetual personalities?Where are the personalities in Sybiland Tancred? We may be verydull, but we really cannot find them;and yet we have perused both worksmore than once with great pleasure.Who are the leading political characterswhom Mr Disraeli is said to havesketched for the purpose of misrepresentingtheir motives? Has he given usin his novels a sketch of Wellington,of Peel, of Brougham, of Lord JohnRussell, of Sir James Graham, ofO’Connell, of Cobden, or of Hume?We never heard that alleged; andyet we are told that his novels arefull of outrageous political libels!Why, if he had intended to be politicallypersonal, he could not by possibilityhave avoided introducingsome of these men, under feignednames, seeing that they have allplayed a conspicuous part in thegreat drama of public life. He might,we think, have introduced them, hadhe so pleased, without any breach ofpropriety; but it is enough, in dealingwith Mr Randal Leslie, to remarkthat he has not done so, andconsequently the whole elaboratestructure of hypocrisy falls to theground.

It may be said that it was not worthour while to waste powder and shotupon a jackdaw; nor, in all probability,should we have done so, werethis the sole chatterer of his species.But the splendid abilities andpolitical success of Mr Disraeli havecreated for him a host of enemies,who seem determined, at all hazards,to run him down, and whose attacksare not only malignant, but unintermitting.Some of these may be regardedsimply as the ebullitions ofenvy—the mutterings of discontentagainst success. The feeling whichprompts such attacks is anything butcommendable; but we are inclined todraw a distinction between that classof writers, and another, whose enmityto Mr Disraeli may be traced to morepersonal motives. The former may,perhaps, have no absolute dislike tothe man whom they are endeavouringto decry. They assail him because hehas risen so much and so swiftlyabove their social level; and if hewere to experience a reverse, theirfeeling towards him would probablychange. Theirs is just the sentiment ofvulgar radicalism—that which stimulatesdemagogues to attack the Churchand the aristocracy. Men of the literaryprofession are very liable to such influences,more especially when one oftheir number passes into anothersphere of distinction. So long as MrDisraeli confined himself to literarypursuits, he might be regarded anddealt with as one of themselves: itwas his political career, and his accessionto office as a Cabinet Minister,which made the gap between him andthe literary multitude. It is much tobe regretted, for the sake of literatureitself, that any such demonstrationsof jealousy should be exhibited, butwe fear there is no remedy for it.Other times, besides our own, furnishus with examples in abundance ofthis kind of unworthy detraction,which, however, may not be tingedwith absolute personal malice.

The author of this volume has nothingin common with the writers towhom we have just alluded. In thefirst place, he has no pretensionswhatever to be considered as a literaryman. His style is bald and bad;he is wholly unpractised in criticism;and he commits the egregious blunderof dealing in indiscriminate abuse.Notwithstanding all our admirationfor Mr Disraeli, we are bound toadmit that some of his novels affordample scope for criticism; and that awitty and competent reviewer couldeasily, and with perfect fairness, writean amusing article on the subject. Morethan one excellent imitation of Mr Disraeli’speculiar style has appeared inthe periodicals; and we have no doubtthat even the author of Coningsby enjoyeda hearty laugh over the facetiousparodies of Punch. There is nokind of malice in the preparation orissuing of squibs like these. Weshould all of us become a great dealtoo dull and solemn without them;and they contribute to the publicamusem*nt without giving annoyanceto any one. But Randal Leslie issuch an absolute bungler that he isnot contented with selecting the weakpoints in Mr Disraeli’s works, but triesto depreciate those very excellenciesand beauties which have elevatedhim in the eyes of the public. Hecannot bear to think that Mr Disraelishould have credit for having writteneven a single interesting chapter, andtherefore he keeps battering at thefabric of his fame, like a billy-goatbutting at a wall. Had Mr RandalLeslie possessed a little more realknowledge of the world, or had hisconceit been but one degree less thanit is, he would have paused before enteringthe literary and critical arena.He can talk glibly enough about gladiators—washe not aware that a certaindegree of training is required, beforea literary man becomes used to thepractice of his art? Apparently not;for anything so utterly contemptible,in the shape of criticism, it never wasour fortune to peruse. We conclude,therefore, that whatever may havebeen the nature of the other “privategriefs” which stimulated this wretchedonslaught on Mr Disraeli, literary jealousywas not among the number. Thefrog may wish to emulate the dimensionsof the ox; but not even Esophas ventured to represent it as emulousof the caroling of the lark.

We have no hesitation in statingour belief, that a certain party in theState, to whom Mr Disraeli is peculiarlyobnoxious, has addressed itselfdeliberately to the task, through itsorgans, of running him down. TheWhigs, of course, regard him with nofavour, for he has always been theirdetermined opponent; but we haveno reason whatever to suppose thattheir hostility would be carried so faras to induce them to join in so veryunworthy a conspiracy. But to thePeelites he has given mortal umbrage.They cannot forget that hewas the man who first challenged thedespotic authority of their chief in theHouse of Commons, and set an exampleof independence in thought andaction to others of the Tory party.They cannot forget the conflicts inwhich he was personally engaged withtheir leader; and they cannot forgivehim for the havoc which he made inthe ranks of the pseudo-Conservatives.If he and others had chosen tostifle their convictions, to lay asideall considerations of honour and consistency,to submit to mysteriousbut imperative dictation, and to becomethe passive tools of an autocraticminister, the Conservatives might stillhave been in power, and the red-tapistsin possession of their offices.Not one of the latter class but feelshimself personally injured. TheTapers and Tadpoles had been solong accustomed to the advent ofquarter-day, that they regarded theirplaces almost in the light of patrimonialpossessions; and bitter indeedwas their hatred of the manwho had assisted to eject them fromtheir Goshen. Besides this, theirvanity, of which they were not withouta large share, was sorely woundedby the manner in which they wereexhibited to the public view, andmore so by the intense relish withwhich the sketches were received.Mr Disraeli never made so happy ahit as in his portraiture of thesesmall, bustling, self-sufficient, andnarrow-minded officials, with theirridiculous notions about party watchwords,political combinations, backstairsinfluence, and so forth; norwas there ever a more terse or felicitousdescription of the then existingGovernment, than that which he has putinto the mouth of Taper:—“A soundConservative government—I understand:Tory men and Whig measures.”These things belong to thepast. They are, however, intelligiblereasons for the rancour which theremnants of the Peel party, even whenallied with the Whigs in power, exhibittowards Mr Disraeli; and nothingsince has occurred to mitigatethe acerbity of that feeling. But thereare weighty considerations applicableto the future. The Aberdeen Cabinetis composed of such heterogeneousmaterials that it cannot be expectedto hold long together. Even nowthere is dissension within it; and, butfor the expectation of an immediateand inveterate war, which renders theidea of a change of government distastefulto every one, men wouldconsider it as doomed. In fact, thealliance has never been other thana hollow one, and there is no realcordiality or confidence among thechiefs. The Whigs are already lookingin the direction of the Radicals;the Peelites would very gladly gainthe confidence of the country gentlemen.They believe it not impossibleeven yet, by making certain sacrificesand concessions, to reconstruct theConservative party; but Mr Disraeliis the obstacle, and their hatred ofhim is even greater than their love ofoffice. They would, in 1852, haveopened a negotiation, provided he hadbeen excluded; and they entertainthe same views in 1854. It is evidentthat Lord Aberdeen cannot long remainas Premier. He is anythingbut personally popular; he is nowwell advanced in years; and his conductin the Eastern question has notraised him in the estimation of thecountry. But then, failing him, whois to be the leader of the Peelites inthe House of Lords? Not certainlythe Duke of Newcastle, who hasneither temper nor ability for thatduty; and they have no one else toput forward. Gladly would theyserve under Lord Derby; but thesame Cabinet cannot hold Mr Disraeliand Mr Gladstone.

Let them do their worst. It is notby publications of this kind, or unscrupulousnewspaper invectives, thatthey will accomplish their object.Even the critic who has taken thisbook as a text for his commentary inthe Times, is constrained to acknowledgethat the author has sate down“to accumulate upon the head ofhis living victim all the dislike, malevolence,and disgust he can get togetherin 650 octavo pages.” We mustsay that it never was our lot to perusea more extraordinary article than thatwhich we now refer to. The critic doesnot even think it necessary to affectthat he cares for public morality. Hedislikes the Protectionists, whose generalability he doubts, as much ashe abhors their tenets; and he thinksthat Mr Disraeli ought to have lefttheir camp in 1848, immediately afterthe death of Lord George Bentinck.We confess that we were at first agood deal startled at this proposition,inasmuch as the course of conductwhich is here indicated would havelaid Mr Disraeli open to such chargesof perfidy as no honourable man couldendure; but, on looking a little further,we began to see the drift of theseobservations. There are two detachmentsof mischief-makers at work—theobject of the one being to disgustthe Tory party with Mr Disraeli; thatof the other being to disgust Mr Disraeliwith his party. We think itright, out of sheer regard for ethics,to quote a sentence or two from thecritical article in the Times:—

“For weeks,” says the critic, referringto the position of Mr Disraeliin 1848, “did he suffer mortification,insult, and ingratitude from the Protectionistparty, with Lord Derby atit* head; such as must have roused anobler soul to self-respect, and stungit with a consciousness of intolerablewrong. What if, at that period ofconsummate baseness and unblushinginsolence, Mr Disraeli had stood apartfrom the conspirators, and taken anindependent place in the arena whichhe had already made his own! Doeshe believe that the good-will of hiscountrymen would have been wantingto him at that trying hour, and thatthe sympathies of Whig and Torywould not have sustained him inthe crisis? He will never recoverthe consequences of the fault thencommitted. He stooped low as theground to conquer, and he failed. Hemight have vanquished nobly, andheld his head erect. By consentingto act with men who did not hesitateto let him feel how much they despisedhim, he has, indeed, tasted the sweetsof office, and for a season held thereins of power. But where is he now?Where might he have been, had heproudly taken his seat in 1848, alooffrom the false allies who had no beliefin his earnestness, no satisfaction inhis company, and who hurled theircontempt in his teeth?”

It requires more than one perusalbefore the full meaning of this passagecan be comprehended. The criticfirst informs us, with a most suspiciousdegree of circ*mstantiality as todetails, that, after the death of LordGeorge Bentinck, there was some indispositionto intrust the leadership ofthe Protectionist party in the Houseof Commons to Mr Disraeli, and thenargues that he ought to have leftthem at once and for ever! Beautiful,indeed, are the notions of moralityand honour which are here inculcated!

But how comes the writer in theTimes to be so intimately acquaintedwith the secret councils of the Protectionistparty, whom in the aggregatehe sneers at, terms “conspirators,” andaccuses of “consummate baseness andunblushing insolence?” What does heknow, more than other determinedsupporters of Sir Robert Peel, of whatwas passing in the opposite camp? Hetells us, speaking of 1845, that “inEngland the injustice of the CornLaws is felt at every hearth. SirRobert Peel seizes the opportunity torepair some of the errors of his formerlife, and to establish his name for everin the grateful recollection of hiscountrymen.” The man who wrotethese words never could have had anytrafficking with the Protectionists;he must have abhorred them throughout;and yet the curious thing is, thathe knows, or pretends to know, agreat deal more about them than anenemy could possibly have done.For example, he says, in reference tothe alleged unwillingness, on the partof the Protectionists, to be led by MrDisraeli, that “almost in as manywords Lord Derby, then Lord Stanley,condescended to convey the intelligenceto the gifted subaltern, and toinform him that, notwithstanding thetranscendent services he had rendered,he had not respectability enoughfor the place of honour he had earned.”This is either false or true. If false,it is the most unblushing fiction weever remember to have met with; iftrue, we should like very much toknow how the writer came by his information.

Not less remarkable is the intimateknowledge which the critic affects ofMr Disraeli’s private character. Thathe dislikes him is very evident. Hedescribes him as “Genius withoutConscience;” says “he has not a badheart—he has no heart at all;” thathe “will stand before posterity as thegreat political infidel of his age, asone who believed in nothing but himself;”and a great deal to the samepurpose. He denounces him as inconsistent;and yet, in the same breath,blames him for not having abandonedhis party on the impulse of a suddenpique. If Iago were alive and acritic, we should expect from himjust such an article as that whichappeared in the Times.

We end as we began. In thiswicked and envious little world ofours, no man of any note can hope toescape without abuse, which maybe formidable or not, according tothe quarter from which it comes, andthe motives which called it forth.If more than the share commonlyset apart for public men has fallenupon Mr Disraeli, he may comforthimself with the reflection that thereis but one feeling on the part of thepublic with regard to the conductof his assailants; and we are greatlymistaken if, by this time, the authorof the Literary and Political Biographydoes not wish, in his secretheart, that he had never addressedhimself to his dirty task. As forother attacks, he is certainly liable tothese, both as a party leader and asan ex-minister. No one knows betterthan Mr Disraeli that enmities maysometimes arise from peculiar causes.Of this, indeed, he has given us, inone of his earlier fictions, a very aptillustration, when he makes Ixionsay: “I remember we had a confoundedpoet at Larissa, who provedmy family lived before the Deluge,and asked me for a pension. I refusedhim, and then he wrote an epigramasserting that I sprang from the veritablestones thrown by Deucalion andPyrrha at the repeopling of the earth,and retained all the properties of myancestors!”

PART IV.—CHAPTER XVIII.

“Eh, Menie, are you sure yon’sLondon?”

So asked little July Home standingunder the shadow of the elm-trees,and looking out upon the sea of citysmoke, with great St Paul’s loomingthrough its dimness. July did notquite understand how she could besaid to be near London, so long asshe stood upon the green sod, and sawabove her the kindly sky. “There’sno very mony houses hereaway,” saidthe innocent July; “there’s mair inDumfries, Menie—and this is just afine green park, and here’s trees—areyou sure yon’s London?”

“Yes, it’s London.” Very differentlythey looked at it;—the one withthe marvelling eyes of a child, readyto believe all wonders of that mysteriousplace, supreme among the nations,which was rather a superb individualpersonage from among theArabian genii than a collection ofhuman streets and houses, full of theusual weaknesses of humankind; theother with the dreamy gaze of a woman,pondering in her heart over thescene of her fate.

“And Randall’s yonder, and JohnnieLithgow?” said July. “I would justlike to ken where; Menie, you’ve beendown yonder in the town—where willJohnnie and our Randall be? MrsWellwood down in Kirklands bademe ask Randall if he knew a cousinof hers, Peter Scott, that lives in London;but nobody could ken a’ thefolk, Menie, in such a muckle town.”

“My dear Miss July, muckle is anugly word,” said Miss Annie Laurie,“and you must observe how nicelyyour brother and his friend speak—quitemarvellous for self-educatedyoung men—and even Menie here isvery well. You must not say muckle,my love.”

“It was because I meant to sayvery big,” said July with a great blush,holding down her head and speakingin a whisper. July had thrownmany a wandering glance alreadyat Miss Annie, speculating whether tocall her the old lady or the younglady, and listening with reverentialcuriosity to all she said; for Julythought “She—the lady,” was verykind to call her my dear and my loveso soon, and to kiss her when she wentaway wearied, on her first evening atHeathbank, to rest; though July couldnever be sure about Miss Annie, andmarvelled much that Menie Laurieshould dare to call any one in suchringlets and such gowns, aunt.

“You will soon learn better, mydear little girl,” said the graciousMiss Annie, “and you must just becontent to continue a little girl whileyou are here, and take a lesson nowand then, you know; and above all,my darling, you must take care notto fall in love with this young manwhom you speak of so familiarly. Hemust not be Johnnie any more, butonly Mr Lithgow, your brother’s friendand ours—for I cannot have both myyoung ladies falling in love.”

“Me!” July’s light little frametrembled all over, her soft hair felldown upon her neck. “It never willstay up,” murmured July, with eagerdeprecation, as Miss Annie’s eye fellupon the silky uncurled locks; but itwas only shamefacedness and embarrassmentwhich made July notice thedescent of her hair—for July wastrembling with a little thrill of fearand wonder and curiosity. Was it possible,then, that little July had cometo sufficient years to be capable offalling in love?—and, in spite of herself,July thought again upon JohnnieLithgow, and marvelled innocently,though with a blush, whether he“minded” her as she minded him.

But July could not understand thestrange abstraction which had fallenupon her friend—the dreamy eye, thevacant look, the long intervals ofsilence. Menie Laurie of Burnsidehad known nothing of all this new-comegravity, and July’s wistful lookhad already begun to follow thosewandering eyes of hers—to followthem away through the daylight, andinto the dark, wondering—wondering—whatit was that Menie sought to see.

Jenny is busied in the remote regionsof the kitchen at this presentmoment, delivering a lecture, verysharp, and marked with some excitement,to Miss Annie Laurie’s kitchenmaid, who is by no means an ornamentalperson, and for that and manyother reasons is a perpetual grief toMiss Annie’s heart—so Jenny is happilyspared the provocation of beholdingthe new visitor who has enteredthe portals of Heathbank. For a portentousshawl, heavy as a thundercloud,a gown lurid as the lightningescaping from under its shade, and anew bonnet grim with gentility, aremaking their way round the little lawn,concealing from expectant eyes theslight person and small well-formedhead, with its short matted crop ofcurls, which distinguish Johnnie Lithgow.Johnnie, good fellow, does notthink his sister the most suitable visitorin the world to the Laurie household;but Johnnie would not, for morewealth than he can reckon, put slightupon his sister even in idea—so MissAnnie Laurie’s Maria announces MissPanton at the door of Miss AnnieLaurie’s drawing-room, and Nelly,where she failed to come as a servant,is introduced as a guest.

“Thank’ye, mem,” said Nelly. “Ilike London very weel so far as I’veseen it—but it’s a muckle place, Idinna doubt, no to be lookit throughin a day—and I’m aye fleyed to losemysel in thae weary streets; but yousee I didna come here ance errand tosee the town, but rather came with anobject, mem—and now I’m to bide onto take care of Johnnie. My motherdown-by at hame has had monythochts about him being left his lane,with naebody but himself to care aboutin a strange place—and it’s sure tobe a comfort to her me stopping withJohnnie, for she kens I’m a weel-meaningperson, whatever folk do tome; and I would be real thankful ifye could recommend me to a shop forgood linen, for I have a’ his shirts tomend. To be sure, he has plenty ofsiller—but he’s turning the maist extravagantlad I ever saw.”

“Good soul! and you have come todo all those kind things for him,” saidMiss Annie Laurie: “it is so delightfulto me to find these fine homelynatural feelings in operation—so primitiveand unsophisticated. I can’ttell you what pleasure I have inwatching the natural action of a kindheart.”

“I am much obliged to ye, mem,”said Nelly, wavering on her seat witha half intention of rising to acknowledgewith a curtsey this complimentarydeclaration. “I was aye kent for aweel-meaning lass, though I have myfaults—but I’m sure Johnnie ought token how weel he can depend on me.”

July Home was standing by thewindow—standing very timid anddemure, pretending to look out, butin reality lost in conjectures concerningJohnnie Lithgow, whose imagehad never left her mind since MissAnnie took the pains to advise hernot to think of him. July, innocentheart, would never have thought ofhim had this warning been withheld;but the fascination and thrill of consciousdanger filled July’s mind withone continual recollection of his presence,though she did not dare to turnround frankly and own herself his oldacquaintance. With a slight tremblein her little figure, July stands by thewindow, and July’s silky hair alreadybegins to droop out of the braid inwhich she had confined it with somuch care. A silk gown—the firstand only one of its race belonging toJuly—has been put on in honour ofthis, her first day at Heathbank; andJuly, to tell the truth, is somewhatfluttered on account of it, and is alittle afraid of herself and the unaccustomedsplendour of her dress.

Menie Laurie, a good way apart,sits on a stool at her mother’s feet,looking round upon all those faces—fromJuly’s innocent tremble of shypleasure, to Johnnie Lithgow’s wellpleasedrecognition of his childishfriend. There is something touchingin the contrast when you turn toMenie Laurie, looking up, with allthese new-awakened thoughts in hereyes, into her mother’s face. Fordutiful and loving as Menie has alwaysbeen, you can tell by a glance thatshe never clung before as she clingsnow—that never in her most trustfulchildish times was she so humblein her helplessness as her tender woman’slove is to-day. Deprecating,anxious, full of so many wistful beseechingways—do you think themother does not know why it is thatMenie’s silent devotion thus pleadsand kneels and clings to her very feet?

And there is a shadow on MrsLaurie’s brow—a certain somethingglittering under Mrs Laurie’s eyelid.No, she needs no interpreter—and themother hears Menie’s prayer, “Willyou like him—will you try to like him?”sounding in her heart, and resolvesthat she will indeed try to like him forMenie’s sake.

“Mr Home, of course, will come tosee us to-night,” said the sprightlyMiss Annie. “My dear Mrs Laurie,how can I sufficiently thank you forbringing such a delightful circle ofyoung people to Heathbank? It quiterenews my heart again. You can’tthink how soon one gets worn out andweary in this commonplace Londonworld: but so fresh—so full of youngspirits and life—I assure you, MrLithgow, yourself, and your friend,and my sweet girls here, are quite likea spring to me.”

Johnnie, bowing a response, graduallydrew near the window. Youwill begin to think there is somethingvery simply pretty and graceful inthis little figure standing here withinshadow of the curtain, the eveningsun just missing it as it steals timidlyinto the shade. And this brown hair,so silky soft, has slidden down at lastupon July’s shoulder, and the breathcomes something fast on July’s smallfull nether lip, and a little changefulflush of colour hovers about, comingand going upon July’s face. Listen—fornow a sweet little timid voice,fragrant with the low-spoken Border-speech,softened out of all its harshness,steals upon Johnnie Lithgow’sear. He knows what the words are,for he draws very near to listen—butwe, a little farther off, hear nothingbut the voice—a very unassured, shy,girlish voice; and July casts a furtivelook around her, to see if it is notpossible to get Menie Laurie to whisperher answer to; but when she doestrust the air with these few words ofhers, July feels less afraid.

Johnnie Lithgow!—no doubt it isthe same Johnnie Lithgow who carriedher through the wood, half a mileabout, to see the sunset from the RestingStane—but whether this can bethe Mr Lithgow who is very cleverand a great writer, July is puzzled toknow. For he begins to ask so kindlyabout the old homely Kirkland people—he“minds” every nook and cornerso well, and has such a joyous recollectionof all the Hogmanays andHallowe’ens—the boyish pranks andfrolics, the boyish friends. July,simple and perplexed, thinks withinherself that Randall never did so, anddoubts whether Johnnie Lithgow canbe clever, after all.

CHAPTER XIX.

“And July, little girl—you are gladto see Menie Laurie again?”

But July makes a long pause—Julyis always timid of speaking to herbrother.

“Menie is not Menie now,” saidJuly thoughtfully. “She never lookslike what she used to look at Burnside.”

“What has changed her?” At lastRandall began to look interested.

Another long pause, and then Julystartled him with a burst of tears.“She never looks like what she usedto look at Burnside,” repeated Menie’slittle friend, with timid sobs, “butaye thinks, thinks, and has trouble inher face night and day.”

The brother and sister were in theroom alone. Randall turned roundwith impatience. “What a foolishlittle creature you are, July. Meniedoes not cry like you for every littlematter; Menie has nothing to troubleher.”

“It’s no me, Randall,” said littleJuly, meekly. “If I cry, I just cannahelp it, and it’s nae matter; but, oh,I wish you would speak to Menie—forsomething’s vexing her.”

“I am sure you will excuse me forleaving you so long,” said the sprightlyvoice of Miss Annie Laurie, enteringthe room. “What! crying, July darling?Have we not used her well,Mr Home?—but my poor friend MrsLaurie has just got a very unpleasantletter, and I have been sitting withher to comfort her.”

Randall made no reply, unless thesmile of indifference which came to hislips, the careless turning away of hishead, might be supposed to answer;for Randall did not think it necessaryto pretend any interest in Mrs Laurie.

But just then he caught a momentaryglimpse of some one stealingacross the farthest corner of the lawn,behind a group of shrubs. Randallcould not mistake the figure; and itseemed to pause there, where it wascompletely hidden, except to the keeneye which had watched it thither, andstill saw a flutter of drapery throughthe leaves.

“Mem, if you please, Miss Menie’sout,” said Jenny, entering suddenly,“and the mistress sent me with wordthat she wasna very weel hersel, andwould keep up the stair if you’ve naeobjections. As I said, ‘I trow no,you would have nae objections’—no tosay there’s company in the house to bea divert—and the mistress is far fraeweel.”

“But, Jenny, you must tell mydarling Menie to come in,” said MissAnnie. “I cannot want her, youknow; and I am sure she cannotknow who is here, or she would neverbid you say she was out. Tell her Iwant her, Jenny.”

“Mem, I have told you,” saidJenny, somewhat fiercely, “if she wasane given to leasing-making she wouldhave to get another lass to gang hererrands than Jenny, and I canna tellwhatfor Miss Menie should heed, ordo aught but her ain pleasure, for onycompany that’s here ’enow. I’m no fitmysel, an auld lass like me, to gangaway after Miss Menie’s licht fit;but she’s out-by, puir bairn—and it’slittle onybody kens Jenny that wouldblame me wi’ a lee.”

She had reached the door beforeRandall could prevail with himself tofollow her; but at last he did hurryafter Jenny, making a hasty apologyas he went. Randall had by nomeans paid to Jenny the respect towhich she held herself entitled: herquick sense had either heard his stepbehind, or surmised that he wouldfollow her; and Jenny, in a violentfuff, strongly suppressing herself, butquivering all over with the effort itcost her, turned sharp round uponhim, and came to a dead pause facinghim, as he closed the door.

“Where is Miss Menie Laurie? Iwish to see her,” said Randall. Randalldid not choose to be familiareven now.

“Miss Menie Laurie takes her ainwill commonly,” said Jenny, makinga satirical curtsey. “She’s been usedwi’t this lang while; and she hasnadone what Jenny bade her this monya weary day. Atweel, if she had,some things wouldna have been toundo that are—and mony an hour’swark and hour’s peace the haill housemicht ha’e gotten, if she had aye hadthe sense to advise with the like ofme; but she’s young, and she takesher ain gate. Poor thing! she’ll haveto do somebody else’s will soon enoughif there’s nae deliverance; whatforshould I grudge her her ain the noo?”

“What do you mean? I want tosee Menie,” exclaimed Randall, withconsiderable haste and eagerness.“Do you mean to say she does notwant to see me? I have never beenavoided before. What does shemean?”

“Ay, my lad, that’s right,” saidJenny; “think of yoursel just, like aman, afore ye gie a kindly thought toher, and her in trouble. It’s like youa’; it’s like the haill race and lineageof ye, father and son. No that I’mmeaning ony ill to auld Crofthill; butnae doubt he’s a man like the lave.”

Randall lifted his hand impatiently,waving her away.

“I wouldna wonder!” cried Jenny.“I wouldna wonder—no me. She’sowre mony about that like her, hasshe?—it’ll be my turn to gang myways, and no trouble the maister. Youwould like to get her, now she’s inher flower; you would like to takeher up and carry her away, and puther in a cage, like a puir bit singing-burdie,to be a pleasure to you. Whatare you courting my bairn for? It’sa’ for your ain delight and pleasure,because ye canna help but be glad atthe sight of her, a darling as she is;because ye would like to get her toyoursel, like a piece of land; becauseshe would be something to you to bemaister and lord of, to make ye themair esteemed in ither folks’ een, andhappier for yoursel. Man, I’ve carriedher miles o’ gate in thae veryarms of mine. I’ve watched her growyear to year, till there’s no ane likeher in a’ the countryside. Is’t for mysel?—shecanna be Jenny’s wife—shecanna be Jenny’s ain born bairn? ButJenny would put down her neck underthe darling’s foot, if it was to give herpleasure—and here’s a strange ladcomes that would set away me.”

But Jenny’s vehemence was touchedwith such depth of higher feeling asto exalt it entirely out of the regionof the “fuff.” With a hasty andtrembling hand she dashed away sometears out of her eyes. “I’m no tomake a fule of mysel afore him,” mutteredJenny, drawing a hard breaththrough her dilated nostrils.

Randall, with some passion, andmuch scorn in his face, had drawnback a little to listen. Now he tookup his hat hurriedly.

“If you are done, you will let mepass, perhaps,” he said angrily.“This is absurd, you know—let mepass. I warn you I will not quarrelwith Menie for all the old women inthe world.”

“If it’s me, you’re welcome to ca’me names,” said Jenny, fiercely. “Idaur ye to say a word of the mistress—onyour peril. Miss Menie pleasesto be her lane. I tell you MissMenie’s out-by; and I would like token what call ony mortal has to disturbthe poor lassie in her distress,when she wants to keep it to hersel.He doesna hear me—he’s gane thevery way she gaed,” said Jenny, softening,as he burst past her out of sight.“I’ll no say I think ony waur of himfor that; but waes me, waes me—what’sto come out o’t a’, but dismayand distress to my puir bairn?”

Distress and dismay—it is not hardto see them both in Menie Laurie’sface, so pale and full of thought, asshe leans upon the wall here amongthe wet leaves, looking out. Yes, sheis looking out, fixedly and long, butnot upon the misty far-away London,not upon the pleasant slope of green,the retired and quiet houses, the whisperingneighbour trees. Somethinghas brought the dreamy distant future,the unknown country, bright and faraway—brought it close upon her, laidit at her feet. Her own living breaththis moment stirs the atmosphere ofthis still unaccomplished world; herfoot is stayed upon its threshold. Nomore vague fears—no more mereclouds upon the joyous firmament—butclose before her, dark and tangible,the crisis and decision—the turning-pointof heart and hope. Beforeher wistful eyes lie two clear paths,winding before her into the eveningsky. Two; but the spectre of a thirdcomes in upon her—a life distraughtand barren of all comfort—a fate irrevocable,not to be changed or softened;and Menie’s heart is deadly sick inher poor breast, and faints for fear.Alas for Menie Laurie’s quiet heart!

She was sad yesterday. Yesterdayshe saw a cloudy sword, suspended inthe skies, wavering and threateningabove her unguarded head; to-dayshe looks no longer at this imaginativemenace. From another unfearedquarter there has fallen a real blow.

CHAPTER XX.

With the heat and flush of excitementupon his face, Randall Homemade his way across the glisteninglawn, and through the wet shrubs—forthere had been rain—to that cornerof the garden where he had seenMenie disappear. Impatiently hisfoot rung upon the gravel path, andcrushed the fallen branches: somethingof an angry glow was in his eye,and heated and passionate was thecolour on his cheek.

“You are here, Menie!” he exclaimed.“I think you might havehad sufficient respect for me, to dowhat you could to prevent this lastpassage of arms.”

“Respect!” Menie looked at himwith doubtful apprehension. Shethought the distress of her mind musthave dulled and blunted her nerves;and repeated the word vacantly,scarcely knowing what it meant.

“I said respect. Is it so presumptuousan idea?” said Randall, with hiscold sarcastic smile.

But Menie made no answer. Drawingback with a timid frightenedmotion, which did not belong to hernatural character, she stood so verypale, and chill, and tearful, that youcould have found nowhere a morecomplete and emphatic contrast thanshe made to her betrothed. The oneso full of strength and vigour, stoutindependence and glowing resentment—theother with all her life goneout of her, as it seemed, quenched andsubdued in her tears.

“You have avoided me in thehouse—you will not speak to me now,”said Randall. “Menie, Menie, whatdoes this mean?”

For Menie had not been able toconceal from him that she was weeping.

“It is no matter, Randall,” saidMenie; “it is no matter.”

Randall grew more and more excited.“What is the matter? Haveyou ceased to trust me, Menie? Whatdo you mean?”

“I mean nothing to make youangry—I never did,” said Menie, sadly.“I’m not very old yet, but I nevergrieved anybody, of my own will, allmy days. Ill never came long ago;or, if it came, nobody ever blamed iton me. I wish you would not mindme,” she said, looking up suddenly.“I came out here, because my mindwas not fit to speak to anybody—becauseI wanted to complain to myselfwhere nobody should hear of my unthankfulness.I would not have saida word to anybody—not a word.There was no harm in thinking withinmy own heart.”

“There is harm in hiding yourthoughts from me,” said Randall.“Come, Menie, you are not to cheatme of my rights. I was angry—forgiveme; but I am not angry now.Menie, my poor sorrowful girl, whatails you? Has something happened?Menie, you must tell me.”

“It is just you I must not tell,”said Menie, under her breath. Thenshe wavered a moment, as if the windswayed her light figure, and held herin hesitating uncertainty; and then,with a sudden effort, she stood firm,apart from the wall she had beenleaning on, and apart, too, from Randall’sextended arm.

“Yes, I will tell you,” said Menie,seriously. “You mind what happeneda year ago, Randall; you mindwhat we did and what we said then—‘Forever and for ever.’”

Randall took her hand tenderly intohis own, “for ever and for ever.” Itwas the words of their troth-plight.

“I will keep it in my heart,” saidpoor Menie. “I will never changein that, but keep it night and day inmy heart. Randall, we are far apartalready. I have a little world you donot choose to share: you are enteringa greater world, where I can neverhave any place. God speed you, andGod go with you, Randall Home.You will be a great man: you willprosper and increase; and what wouldyou do with poor Southland Menie,who cannot help you in your race?Randall, we will be good friends: wewill part now, and say farewell.”

Abrupt as her speech was Menie’smanner of speaking. She had to hurryover these disjointed words, lest hersobs should overtake and choke herutterance ere they were done.

Randall shook his head with displeasedimpatience. “This is merefolly, Menie. What does it mean?Cannot you tell me simply and franklywhat is the matter, without such apreface as this? But indeed I knowvery well what it means. It meansthat I am to yield something—to undertakesomething—to reconcile myselfto some necessity or other, distastefulto me. But why commenceso tragically?—the threat should comeat the end, not at the beginning.”

“I make no threat,” said Menie,growing colder and colder, more andmore upright and rigid; “I mean tosay nothing that can make you angry.Already I have been very unhappy.I dare not venture, with our changedfortunes, to make a lifelong trial—Idare not.”

“Your changed fortunes!” interruptedRandall. “Are your fortunesto-day different from what they wereyesterday?”

Menie paused. “It is only a verypoor pride which would conceal itfrom you,” she said at length. “Yes,they are different. Yesterday we hadenough for all we needed—to-day wehave not anything. You will seehow entirely our circ*mstances arechanged; and I hope you will see too,Randall, without giving either of usthe pain of mentioning them, all thereasons which make it prudent for us,without prolonging the conflict longer,to say good-by. Good-by; I can asknothing of you but to forget me,Randall.”

And Menie held out her hand, butcould not lift her eyes. Her voicehad sunk very low, and a slight shiverof extreme self-constraint passed overher—her head drooped lower andlower on her breast—her fingersplayed vacantly with the glisteningleaves; and when he did not take it,her hand gradually dropped and fellby her side.

There was a moment’s silence—noanswer—no response—no remonstrance.Perhaps, after all, the poorperverse heart had hoped to be overwhelmedwith love which would takeno denial: as it was, standing beforehim motionless, a great faintness cameupon Menie. She could vaguely seethe path at her feet, the trees on eitherhand. “I had better go, then,” shesaid, very low and softly; and thelight had faded suddenly upon Menie’ssight into a strange ringing twilight,full of floating motes and darkness—andthose few paces across the lawnfilled all her mind like a life journey,so full of difficulty they seemed, soweak was she.

Go quickly, Menie—quickly, erethose growing shadows darken into ablind unguided night—swiftly, erethese faltering feet grow powerless,and refuse to obey the imperativeeager will. To reach home—to reachhome—home, such a one as it is, liesonly half a dozen steps away; pressforward, Menie—are those years orhours that pass in the journey? Butthe hiding-place and shelter is almostgained.

When suddenly this hand which hewould not take is grasped in his vigoroushold—suddenly this violent tremblemakes Menie feel how he supportsher, and how she leans on him. “Iam going home,” said Menie, faintly.Still he made no answer, but held herstrongly, wilfully; not resisting, butunaware of her efforts to escape.

“I have wherewith to work for you,Menie,” said the man’s voice in herear. “What are your changed fortunesto me? If you were a princess,I would receive you less joyfully, foryou would have less need of me.Menie, Menie, why have you triedyourself so sorely—and why shouldthis be a cause of separating us? Iwanted only you.”

And Menie’s pride had failed her.She hid her face in her hands, andcried, “My mother, my mother!” ina passion of tears.

“Your mother, your mother? Butyou have a duty to me,” said Randall,more coldly. “Your mother mustnot bid you give me up: you have noright to obey. Ah! I see; I am dulland stupid; forgive me, Menie. Youmean that your mother’s fortunes arechanged. She has the more need ofa son then; and my May Marionknows well, that to be her mother isenough for me—you understand me,Menie. This does not change ourattachment, does not change our plans,our prospects in the slightest degree.It may make it more imperative thatyour mother should live with us, butyou will think that no misfortune.Well, are we to have no more heroicsnow—nothing tragical—but only alittle good sense and patience on allsides, and my Menie what she alwaysis? Come, look up and tellme.”

“I meant nothing heroic—nothing.What I said was not false, Randall,”said Menie, looking up with some fire.“If you think it was unreal, that Idid not mean it—”

“If you do not mean it now, is notthat enough?” said Randall, smiling.“Let us talk of something lessweighty. July says you do not lookas you used to do; has this beenweighing on your mind, Menie? But,indeed, you have not told me whatthe misfortune is.”

“We knew it only to-day,” saidMenie. Menie spoke very low, andwas very much saddened and humbled,quite unable to make any defenceagainst Randall’s lordly manner ofsetting her emotion aside. “My father’ssuccessors were young men, andthe price they paid for entering on hispractice was my mother’s annuity.But now they are both gone; onedied two years ago, the other onlylast week—and he has died very poor,and in debt, the lawyer writes; sothat there is neither hope nor chanceof having anything from those heleaves behind. So we have no longeran income; nothing now but my mother’sliferent in Burnside.”

Menie Laurie did not know whatpoverty was. It was not any apprehensionof this which drew from hereyes those few large tears.

“Well, that will be enough foryour mother,” said Randall. It wasimpossible for Menie to say a word ormake an objection, so completely hadhe put her aside, and taken it forgranted that his will should decideall. “Or if it was not enough, whatthen? Provision for the future lieswith me—and you need not fear forme, Menie. I am not quarrelsome.You need not look so deprecating andfrightened: you will find no disappointmentin me.”

Was Menie reassured? It was noteasy to tell; for very new to MenieLaurie was this trembling humility oftone and look—this faltering and wavering—asif she knew not to whichside to turn. But Randall began tospeak, as he knew how, of her ownself, and of their betrothing, “for everand for ever;” and the time thesewords were said came back upon herwith new power. Her mind was notsatisfied, her heart was not convinced,and very trembling and insecure nowwas her secret response to Randall’sdeclaration that she should find nodisappointment in him; but her heartwas young, and all unwilling to giveup its blithe existence. Instinctivelyshe fled from her own pain, and acceptedthe returning hope and pleasantness.Bright pictures rose beforeMenie, of a future household harmoniousand full of peace—of the newlove growing greater, fuller, day byday—the old love sacred and strong,as when it stood alone. Why did shefear? why did a lurking terror in herheart cry No, no! with a sob andpang? After all, this was no vainimpracticable hope; many a one hadrealised it—it was right and true forever under the skies; and Menie puther hand upon the arm of her betrothed,and closed her eyes for amoment with a softening sense of reliefand comfort, and gentle tearsunder the lids. Let him lead forward;who can tell the precious stores oflove, and tenderness, and supreme regardthat wait him as his guerdon?Let him lead forward—on to thosebright visionary days—in to thispeaceful home.

CHAPTER XXI.

Perhaps next to the pleasure of doingall for those we love best, the joyof receiving all ranks highest. Withher heart elate, Menie went in againto the house she had left so sadly—wentin again, looking up to Randall,rejoicing in the thought that from himevery daily gift—all that lay in thefuture—should henceforth come. Andif it were well to be Menie’s mother—chiefover one child’s heart whichcould but love—how much greater joyto be Randall’s mother, high in thereverent thought of such a mind ashis! Now there remained but onedifficulty—to bring the mother andthe son lovingly together—to let nomisconception, no false understandingblind the one’s sight of the other—toclear away all evil judgment ofthe past—to show each how worthyof esteem and high appreciation theother was. She thought so in her ownsimple soul, poor heart! Through herown great affection she looked at both—toeither of them she would haveyielded without a murmur her ownlittle prides and resentments; and thelight of her eyes suffused them with acircle of mingling radiance; and sweetwas the fellowship and kindness, purethe love and good offices, harmoniousand noble the life of home and everyday, which blossomed out of MenieLaurie’s heart and fancy, in the reactionof her hopeless grief.

Mrs Laurie sits very thoughtful andstill by the window. Menie’s mother,in her undisturbed and quiet life, hadnever found out before how proud shewas. Now she feels it in her nervousshrinking from speech of her misfortune—inthe involuntary haughtinesswith which she starts and recoils fromsympathy. Without a word of commentor lamentation, the mere barefacts, and nothing more, she has communicatedto Miss Annie; and MrsLaurie had much difficulty in restrainingoutward evidence of the burst ofindignant impatience with which, inher heart, she received Miss Annie’seffusive pity and real kindness. MissAnnie, thinking it best not to troubleher kinswoman in the present moodof her mind, has very discreetly carriedher pity to some one who will receiveit better, and waits till “poordear Mrs Laurie” shall recover hercomposure; while even July, repelledby the absorbed look, and indeed byan abrupt short answer, too, withdraws,and hangs about the other endof the room, like a little shadow, everand anon gliding across the windowwith her noiseless step, and her streamof falling hair.

Mrs Laurie’s face is full of thought—whatis she to do? But, harder farthan that, what is Menie to do?—Menie,who vows never to leave her—whowill not permit her to meet thechill fellowship of poverty alone. Alittle earthen-floored Dumfriesshirecottage, with its kailyard and its oneapartment, is not a very pleasantanticipation to Mrs Laurie herself,who has lived the most part of herlife, and had her share of the gifts offortune; but what will it be to Menie,whose life has to be made yet, andwhose noontide and prime must all beinfluenced by such a cloud upon herdawning day? The mother’s brow isknitted with heavy thought—themother’s heart is pondering withstrong anxiety. Herself must sufferlargely from this change of fortune,but she cannot see herself for Menie—Menie:what is Menie to do?

Will it be better to see her marriedto Randall Home, and then to goaway solitary to the cothouse in Kirklands,to spend out this weary life—theselingering days? But Mrs Laurie’sheart swells at the thought. Perhapsit will be best; perhaps it is what wemust make up our mind to, and evenurge upon her; but alas and alas! howheavily the words, the very thought,rings in to Mrs Laurie’s heart.

And now here they are coming,their youth upon them like a mantleand a crown—coming, but not withdowncast looks; not despondent, norafraid, nor touched at all with theheaviness which bows down the mother’sspirit to the very dust. Meniewill go, then. Close your eyes, mother,from the light; try to think you areglad; try to rejoice that she will becontent to part from you. It is “forher good”—is there anythingyou would not do “for her good,”mother? It has come to the decisionnow; and look how she comes withher hand upon his arm, her eyes turningto his, her heart elate. She willbe his wife, then—his Menie first, andnot her mother’s; but have we notschooled our mind to be content?

Yes, she is coming, poor heart!coming with her new hope gloriousin her eyes; coming to bring theson to his mother; coming herselfwith such a great embracing love asis indeed enough of its own mightand strength to unite them for ever;and Menie thinks that now she cannotfail.

And now they are seated all of themabout the window, July venturingforward to join the party; and as nothingbetter can be done, there commencesan indifferent conversation,as far removed as possible from thereal subject of their thoughts. Theresits Mrs Laurie, sick with her heavymusings, believing that she now standsalone, that her dearest child has madeup her mind to forsake her, and thatin solitude and meagre poverty shewill have to wait for slow-comingage and death. Here is Randall,looking for once out of himself, witha real will and anxiety to soften, byevery means in his power, the misfortunesof Menie’s mother, and rousinghimself withal to the joy of carryingMenie home—to the sterner necessityof doing a man’s work to provide forher, and for the new household; andall the wonder you can summon—nosmall portion in those days—fluttersabout the same subject, littleJuly Home; and you think in yourheart if you but could, what marvellousthings you would do for MenieLaurie, and Menie Laurie’s mother;while Menie herself, with a wistfulnew-grown habit of observation, readseverybody’s face, and knows notwhether to be most afraid of the obstinategloom upon her mother’s brow,or exultant in the delicate attention,the sudden respectfulness and regard,of Randall’s bearing. But this littlecompany, all so earnestly engrossed—allsurrounding a matter of thevitallest importance to each—turnaside to talk of Miss Annie Laurie’stoys—Miss Annie Laurie’s party—andonly when they divide and separatedare speak of what lies at their heart.

And Mrs Laurie is something hardto be conciliated. Mrs Laurie is muchinclined to resent this softening ofmanner as half an insult to her changeof fortune. Patience, Menie! thoughyour mother rebuffs him, he bears itnobly. The cloud will not lightenupon her brow—cannot lighten—foryou do not know how heavily thiswistful look of yours, this very anxietyto please her—and all your transparentwiles and artifices—your suppressedand trembling hope, strikesupon your mother’s heart. “She willgo away—she will leave me.” Yourmother says so, Menie, within herself;and it is so hard, so very hard, to persuadethe unwilling content with thatsad argument, “It is for her good.”Now, draw your breath softly lest shehear how your heart beats, for Randallhas asked her to go to the gardenwith him, to speak of this; and MrsLaurie rises with a sort of desolatestateliness—rises—accepts his offeredarm, and turns away—poor Menie!with an averted face, and without aglance at you.

And now there follows a heavy time—alittle space of curious restless suspense.Wandering from window towindow, from table to table; strikinga few notes on the ever-open piano;opening a book now, taking up a pieceof work then, Menie strays about, inan excitement of anxiety which shecan neither suppress nor conceal.Will they be friends? such friends—suchloving friends as they might be,being as they are in Menie’s regardso noble and generous both? Willthey join heartily and cordially? willthey clasp hands upon a kindly bargain?But Menie shrinks, and closesher eyes—she dares not look upon thealternative.

“Menie, will you not sit down?”Little July Home follows Menie withher eyes almost as wistfully as Meniefollows Randall and her mother.There is no answer, for Menie is sofully occupied that the little timidvoice fails to break through the tranceof intense abstraction in which herheart is separated from this presentscene. “Menie!” Speak louder,little girl: Menie cannot hear you, forother voices speaking in her heart.

So July steals across the room withher noiseless step, and has her armtwined through Menie’s before she isaware. “Come and sit down—whatare they speaking about, Menie? Doyou no hear me? Oh, Menie, is itour Randall?—is it his blame?”

July is so near crying that she mustbe answered. “Nobody is to blame;there is no harm,” said Menie, quickly,leading her back to her seat—quicklywith an imperative hush and haste,which throws July back into timidsilence, and sets all her faculties astirto listen, too. But there comes nosound into this quiet room—not eventhe footsteps which have passed outof hearing upon the garden path, norso much as an echo of the voices whichMenie knows to be engaged in conversewhich must decide her fate.But this restless and visible solicitudewill not do; it is best to take up herwork resolutely, and sit down withher intent face turned towards thewindow, from which at least the firstglance of them may be seen as theyreturn.

No,—no need to start and blushand tremble; this step, ringing lightupon the path, is not the stately stepof Randall—not our mother’s sobertread. “It’s no them, Menie—it’sjust Miss Laurie,” whispers littlestartled July from the corner of thewindow. So long away—so longaway—and Menie cannot tell whetherit is a good or evil omen—but stillthey do not come.

“My sweet children, are you herealone?” said Miss Annie, settingdown her little basket. “Menie, love,I have just surprised your mammaand Mr Randall, looking very wise, Iassure you; you ought to be quitethankful that you are too youngto share such deliberations. July,dear, you must come and have yourlesson; but I cannot teach you to playthat favourite tune; oh no, it would bequite improper—though he has verygood taste, has he not, darling?But somebody will say I have designsupon Mr Lithgow, if I always playhis favourite tune.”

So saying, Miss Annie sat downbefore the piano, and began to sing,“For bonnie Annie Laurie I’ll laydown my head and dee.” Poor JohnnieLithgow had no idea, when hepraised the pretty little graceful melodyand delicate verses, that he waspaying a compliment to the lady ofHeathbank.

And July, with a blush, and alittle timid eagerness, stole away toMiss Annie’s side. July had neverbefore touched any instrument exceptMenie Laurie’s old piano at Burnside,and with a good deal of awe hadsubmitted to Miss Annie’s lessons.It did seem a very delightful prospectto be able to play this favourite tune,though July would have thought verylittle of it, but for Miss Annie’s constantwarnings. Thanks to these,however, and thanks to his own kindlyhalf-shy regards, Johnnie Lithgow’sfavourite tunes, favourite books, favouritethings and places, began togrow of great interest to little JulyHome. She thought it was veryfoolish to remember them all, andblushed in secret when Johnnie Lithgow’sname came into her mind as anauthority; but nevertheless, in spiteof shame and blushing, a great authorityJohnnie Lithgow had grown,and July stood by the piano, eagerand afraid, longing very much to beas accomplished as Miss Annie, to beable to play his favourite tune.

While Menie Laurie still sits bythe window, intent and silent, hearingnothing of song or music, butonly aware of a hum of inarticulatevoices, which her heart longs andstrains to understand, but cannothear.

CHAPTER XXII.

The music is over, the lesson concluded,and July sits timidly beforethe piano, striking faint notes withone finger, and marvelling greatly howit is possible to extract anything likean intelligible strain from this wasteof unknown chords. Miss Annie isabout in the room once more, givingdainty touches to its somewhat defectivearrangement—throwing down abook here, and there altering an ornament.Patience, Menie Laurie! manyanother one before you has sat inresolute outward calm, with a heartall a-throb and trembling, even asyours is. Patience; though it is hardto bear the rustling of Miss Annie’sdress—the faint discords of July’smusic. It must have been one timeor another, this most momentous interview—allwill be over when it is over.Patience, we must wait.

But it is a strange piece of provocationon Miss Annie’s part, that sheshould choose this time and no otherfor looking over that little heap ofMenie’s drawings upon the table.Menie is not ambitious as an artist—fewideas or romances are in theselittle works of hers; they are onlysome faces—not very well executed—thefaces of those two or three peoplewhom Menie calls her own.

“Come and show them to me, mylove.” Menie must not disobey, thoughher first impulse is to spring out of thelow opened window, and rush awaysomewhere out of reach of all interruptiontill this long suspense is done.But Menie does not rush away; sheonly rises slowly—comes to MissAnnie’s side—feels the pressure ofMiss Annie’s embracing arm roundher—and turns over the drawings;strangely aware of every line in them,yet all the while in a maze of abstraction,listening for their return.

Here is Menie’s mother—and hereagain another, and yet another, sketchof her; and this is Randall Home.

“Do you know, I think they are verylike,” said Miss Annie: “you mustdo my portrait, Menie, darling—youmust indeed. I shall take no denial;you shall do me in my white muslin,among my flowers; and we will putMr Home’s sweet book on the table,and open it at that scene—that scene,you know, I pointed out to you theother day. I know what inspired himwhen he wrote that. Come, my love,it will divert you from thinking of thistrouble—your mamma should nothave told you—shall we begin now?But Menie, dear, don’t you think youhave put a strange look in this faceof Mr Randall? It is like him—but Iwould not choose you to do me withsuch an expression as that.”

Half wild with her suspense, Menieby this time scarcely heard the wordsthat rang into her ears, scarcely sawthe face she looked upon; but suddenly,as Miss Annie spoke, a new lightseemed to burst upon this picture, andthere before her, looking into her eyes,with the smile of cold supervisionwhich she always feared to see, withthe incipient curl of contempt uponhis lip—the pride of self-estimationin his eye—was Randall’s face, glowingwith contradiction to all her suddenhopes. Her own work, and shehas never had any will to look at himin this aspect; but the little pictureblazes out upon her like a sudden enlightenment.Here is another one,done by the loving hand of memory ayear ago; but, alas! there is no enchantmentto bring back this idealglory, this glow of genial love andlife that makes it bright—a face of theimagination, taking all its wealthof expression from the heart whichsuffused these well-remembered featureswith a radiance of its own;but the reality looks out on Meniedarkly; the face of a man not to bemoved by womanish influences—not tobe changed by a burst of strong emotion—notto be softened, mellowed,won, by any tenderness—a heart thatcan love, indeed, but never can forgetit*elf; a mind sufficient for its ownrule, a soul which knows no generousabandon, which holds its own will andmanner firm and strong above allother earthly things. This is the facewhich looks on Menie Laurie out ofher own picture, startling her heart,half distraught with fond hopes anddreams into the chill daylight again—fullawake.

“I will make portraits,” said Menie,hastily, in a flood of sudden bitterness,“when we go away, when wego home—I can do it—this shall bemy trade.”

And Menie closed the little portfolioabruptly, and went back to herseat without another word; wentback with the blood tingling throughher veins, with all her pride and allher strength astir; with a vague impetuousexcitement about her—an impulseof defiance. So long—so long:what keeps them abroad lingeringamong these glistening trees?—perhapsbecause they are afraid to tell herthat her fate is sealed; and, startingto her feet, the thought is strong onMenie to go forth and meet them, tobid them have no fear for her, to tellthem her delusion is gone for ever,and that there is no more light remainingunder the skies.

Hush! there are footsteps on thepath. Who are these that come together,leaning, the elder on theyounger, the mother on the son!With such a grace this lofty headstoops to our mother; with such akindly glance she lifts her eyes to him;and they are busy still with the consultationwhich has occupied so longa time. While she stands arrested,looking at them as they draw near—growingaware of their full amity andunion—a shiver of great emotioncomes upon Menie—then, or ever sheis conscious, a burst of tears. In anothermoment all her sudden enlightenmentis gone, quenched out ofher eyes, out of her heart—and Menieputs the tears away with a falteringhand, and stands still to meet them ina quiet tremor of joy, the same lovingMenie as of old.

“My bairn!” Mrs Laurie says nothingmore as she draws her daughterclose to her, and puts her lips softlyto Menie’s brow. It is the seal of thenew bond. The mother and the sonhave been brought together; the pastis gone for ever like a dream of thenight; and into the blessed daylight,full of the peaceful rays God sends usout of heaven, we open our eyes as toanother life. Peace and sweet harmonyto Menie Laurie’s heart!

Put away the picture; lay it bywhere no one again shall believe itsslander true; put away this false-reportingface; put away the strangeclear-sightedness which came upon uslike a curse. No need to inquire howmuch was false—it is past, and webegin anew.

CHAPTER XXIII.

“Yes, Menie, I am quite satisfied.”It is Mrs Laurie herself who volunteersthis declaration, while Menie, on thelittle stool at her feet, looks up wistfully,eager to hear, but not venturingto ask what her conversation withRandall was. “We said a greatmany things, my dear—a great dealabout you, Menie, and somethingabout our circ*mstances too. Therent of Burnside will be a sufficientincome for me. I took it kind ofRandall to say so, for it shows thathe knew I would not be dependent;and as for you, Menie, I fancy youwill be very well and comfortable,according to what he says. So youwill have to prepare, my dear—toprepare for your new life.”

Menie hid her face in her mother’slap. Prepare—not the bridal garments,the household supplies—somethingmore momentous, and of greaterdelicacy—the mind and the heart;and if this must always be somethingsolemn and important, whateverthe circ*mstances, how much moreso to Menie, whose path had beencrossed already by such a spectre?She sat there, her eyes coveredwith her hands, her head bowingdown upon her mother’s knee; butthe heavy doubt had flown from her,leaving nothing but lighter cloudyshadows—maidenly fears and tremblings—inher way. Few hearts weremore honest than Menie’s, few morewistfully desirous of doing well; andnow it is with no serious anticipationsof evil, but only with the naturalthrill and tremor, the natural excitementof so great an epoch drawingclose at hand, that Menie’s fingersclose with a startled pressure on hermother’s hand, as she is bidden prepare.

What is this that has befallen littleJuly Home? There never were suchthrongs of unaccountable blushes,such a suffusion of simple surprise.Something is on her lips perpetually,which she does not venture to speak—somerare piece of intelligence,which July cannot but marvel at herselfin silent wonder, and which shetrembles to think Menie and “a’bodyelse” will marvel at still more. Withdrawingsilently into dark corners,sitting there doing nothing, in long fitsof reverie, quite unusual with July;coming forward so conscious andguilty, when called upon; and now,at this earliest opportunity, throwingher arms round Menie Laurie’s neck,and hiding her little flushed and agitatedface upon Menie’s shoulder.What has befallen July Home?

“Do you think it’s a’ true, Menie?He wouldna say what he didna mean;but I think it’s for our Randall’s sake—itcanna be for me!”

For July has not the faintest idea,as she lets this soft silken hair of hersfall down on her cheek without aneffort to restrain it, that JohnnieLithgow would not barter one smileupon that trembling child’s lip of hersfor all the Randalls in the world.

“He says he’ll go to the Hill, andtell them a’ at hame,” said July.“Eh, Menie, what will they say? Andhe’s to tell Randall first of all. Iwish I was away, no to see Randall,Menie; he’ll just laugh, and think it’sno true—for I see mysel it canna befor me!”

“It is for you, July; you mustnot think anything else; there is nobodyin the world like you to JohnnieLithgow.” And slowly July’s headis raised—a bright shy look of wondergradually growing into conviction, asudden waking of higher thought anddeeper feeling in the open simple face;a sudden flush of crimson—the woman’sblush—and July withdrew herselffrom her friend’s embrace, andstole a little apart into the shadow,and wept a few tears. Was it true?For her, and not for another! Butit is a long time before this granddiscovery can look a truth and real,to July’s humble eyes.

But, nevertheless, it is very true.Randall’s little sister, Menie’s child-friend,the little July of Crofthill, hassuddenly been startled into womanhoodby this unexpected voice. Aftera severer fashion than has ever confinedit before, July hastily fastensup her silky hair, hastily wipes off alltraces of the tears upon her cheek,and is composed and calm, after asweet shy manner of composure, liftingup her little gentle head with anewborn pride, eager to bring nodiscredit on her wooer’s choice. Andalready July objects to be laughed at,and feels a slight offence when she istreated as a child—not for herself, butfor him, whom now she does not quitecare to have called Johnnie Lithgow,but is covetous of respect and honourfor, as she never was for Randall,though secretly in her own heartJuly still doubts of his genius, andcannot choose but think Randall mustbe cleverer than his less assumingfriend.

And in this singular little company,where all these feelings are astir, it ishardly possible to preserve equanimityof manners. Miss Annie herself, thelady of the house, sits at her littlework-table, in great delight, runningover now and then in little outburstsof enthusiasm, discoursing of MrHome’s sweet book, of Mr Lithgow’scharming articles, and occasionallymaking a demonstration of joy andsympathy in the happiness of herdarling girls, which throws Menie—Menie,always conscious of Randall’seye upon her, the eye of a lover, it istrue, but something critical withal—intograve and painful embarrassment,and covers July’s stooping face withblushes. Mrs Laurie, busy with herwork, does what she can to keep theconversation “sensible,” but with nogreat success. The younger portionof the company are too completelyoccupied, all of them, to think of ordinaryintercourse. Miss Annie’s roomwas never so bright, never so richwith youthful hopes and interestsbefore. Look at them, so full of individualcharacter, unconscious asthey are of any observation—thoughNelly Panton, very grim in the stiffcoat armour of her new assumed gentility,sits at the table sternly upright,watching them all askance, withvigilant unloving eye.

Lithgow, good fellow, sits by MissAnnie. Though he laughs now andthen, he still does not scorn the naturalgoodness, the natural tendernessof heart, which make their appearanceunder these habitual affectations—thejuvenile tricks and levities of herunreverent age. Poor Miss AnnieLaurie has been content to resign thereverence, in a vain attempt at equality;but Lithgow, who is no criticby nature, remembers gratefully hertrue kindness, and smiles only aslittle as possible at the fictitiousyouthfulness which Miss Annie herselfhas come to believe in. So hesits and bears with her, her littlefollies and weaknesses, and, in hisunconscious humility, is magnanimous,and does honour to his manhood.Within reach of his kindly eye, Julybends her head over her work, glancingup now and then furtively to seewho is looking at him—to see, in thesecond place, who is noticing orlaughing at her; and July, with allher innocent heart, is grateful to MissAnnie. So many kind things shesays—and in July’s guileless apprehensionthey are all so true.

Graver, but not less happy, MenieLaurie pursues her occupation byJuly’s side, rarely looking up at all,pondering in her own heart the manyweighty things that are to come,with her tremor of fear, her joy ofdeliverance scarcely yet quieted, andall her heart and all her mind engaged—indreams no longer, but in soberthought; sober thought—thoughts ofgreat devotion, of lifelong love andservice, of something nobler than thecommon life. Very serious are theseponderings, coming down to commonlabours, the course of every day; andMenie does not know the nature ofher dreamings—they look to her soreal, so sober, and so true—and wouldscorn your warning, if you told herthat not the wildest story of Arabiangenii was more romance than those,her sober plans and thoughts.

Apart, and watching all, standsRandall Home. There is love in hiseye—you cannot doubt it—love, andthe impulse of protection, the strongappropriating grasp. There is somethingmore. Look how his head risesin the dimmer background above thetable and the lights, above the littlecompany assembled there. Withsomething like laughter, his eye turnsupon July—upon July’s wooer, hisown friend—kindly, yet with a senseof superiority, an involuntary elevationof himself above them both. Andthis glance upon Miss Annie is merescorn, nothing higher; and his eyehas scarcely had time to recover itself,when its look falls, bright andsoftened, upon his betrothed; a look oflove—question it not, simple Menie—butit is calm, superior, above you still.

CHAPTER XXIV.

“They tell me it’s a haill monthsince it was a’ settled, but I hearnaething of the house or the plenishing,and no a word of what Jenny’sto do. If they’re no wanting me, I’mno wanting them—ne’er a bit. It’saye the way guid service is rewarded;and whatfor should there be onyodds with Jenny? I might have kentthat muckle, if I had regarded counsel,or thought of my ainsel; but ayeJenny’s foremost thought was ofthem, for a’ such an ill body as sheis now.”

And a tear was in Jenny’s eye, asshe smoothed down the folds ofMenie’s dress—Menie’s finest dress,her own present, which Menie was towear to-night. And Menie’s ornamentsare all laid out carefully uponthe table, everything she is likely toneed, before Jenny’s lingering stepleaves the room. “I canna weel tell,for my pairt, what like life’ll be withouther,” muttered Jenny, as shewent away. “I reckon no verymuckle worth the minding about;but I’m no gaun to burden onybodythat doesna want me—no, if I shouldnever hae anither hour’s comfort a’my days.”

And slowly, with many a backwardglance and pause, Jenny withdrew.Neglect is always hard to bear.Jenny believed herself to be left outof their calculations—forgotten ofthose to whom she had devoted somany years of her life; and Jenny,though she tried to be angry, couldnot manage it, but felt her indignanteyes startled with strange tears. Itmade a singular cloud upon her facethis unusual emotion; the nativeimpatience only struggled through itfitfully in angry glimpses, thoughJenny was furious at herself for feelingso desolate, and very fain wouldhave thrown off her discomfort in afuff—but far past the region of thefuff was this her new-come solitudeof heart. Her friends were deador scattered, her life was all boundup in her mistress and her mistress’schild, and it was no small trial forJenny to find herself thus cast offand thrown aside.

The next who enters this room hasa little heat about her, a certain atmosphereof annoyance and displeasure.“I will be a burden”—unawaresthe same words steal over Mrs Laurie’slip, but the sound of her voice checksher. Two or three steps back andforward through the room, a longpause before the window, and thenher brow is cleared. You can seethe shadows gradually melting away,as clouds melt from the sky, and inanother moment she has left the room,to resume her place down stairs.

This vacant room—nothing can youlearn from its calm good order, itswindows open to the sun, its undisturbedand home-like quiet, of whatpasses within its walls. There isMenie’s little Bible on the table; itis here where Menie brings her doubtsand troubles, to resolve them, if theymay be resolved. But there is nowhisper here to tell you what happensto Menie, when, as has alreadychanced, some trouble comes uponher which it is not easy to put away.Hush! This time the door opensslowly, gravely—this time it is a footstepvery sober, something languid,which comes in; and Menie Laurieputs up her hand to her forehead, asif a pain was there; but not a wordsays Menie Laurie’s reverie—not aword. If she is sad, or if she ismerry, there is no way to know. Shegoes about her toilette like a piece ofbusiness, and gives no sign.

But this month has passed almostlike age upon Menie Laurie’s face.You can see that grave thoughts arecommon now, everyday guests andfriends in her sobered life, and thatshe has begun to part with herromances of joy and noble life—hasbegun to realise more truly whatmanner of future it is which lies beforeher. Nothing evil, perhaps—littlehardship in it; no great share oflabour, of poverty, or care—but nolonger the grand ideal life, the dreamof youthful souls.

And now she stands before thewindow, wearing Jenny’s gown. Itis only to look out if any one isvisible upon the road—but there is nopassenger yet approaching Heathbank,and Menie goes calmly downstairs. As it happens, the drawing-roomis quite vacant of all but NellyPanton, who sits prim by the wall inone corner. Nelly is not an invitedguest, but has come as a volunteer, inright of her brother’s invitation, andMiss Annie shows her sense of theintrusion by leaving her alone.

“Na, I’m no gaun to bide verylang in London,” said Nelly. “Yesee, Miss Menie, you’re an auldfriend. I’m no so blate, but I maytell you. I didna come up here anceerrand for my ain pleasure, butmostly to see Johnnie, and to try if Icouldna get ony word of a very decentlad, ane Peter Drumlie, thatbelangs about our countryside. Wewere great friends, him and me, andthen we had an outcast—you’ll kenby yoursel—but we’ve made it upagain since I came to London, andI’m gaun hame to get my providing,and comfort my mother a wee while,afore I leave her athegither. It’s areal duty comforting folk’s mother,Miss Menie. I’m sure I wouldnaforget that for a’ the lads in theworld.”

“And where are you to live, Nelly?”Nelly’s moralising scarcely called foran answer.

“We havena just made up ourminds; they say ae marriage ayemakes mair,” said Nelly, with a grimsmile. “Miss Menie, you’ve set usa’ agaun.”

Perhaps Menie did not care to beclassed with Nelly Panton. “JulyHome will be a very young wife,”she said; “I think your brothershould be very happy with her,Nelly.”

“I wouldna wonder,” said Nelly,shortly; “but you see, Miss Menie,our Johnnie’s a well-doing lad, andmicht ha’e looked higher, meaningnae offence to you; though nae doubtit’s true what Randall Home saidwhen he was speaking about this.‘Lithgow,’ says he (for he ca’s Johnnieby his last name—it’s a kind o’ fashionhereaway), ‘if you get naething withyour wife, I will take care to seeyou’re no cumbered with onybodybut hersel;’ which nae doubt is agreat comfort, seeing there michtha’e been a haill troop of friends,now that Johnnie’s getting up in theworld.”

“What was that Randall Homesaid?” Menie asked the question in avery clear distinct tone, cold andsteady and unfaltering—“What doyou say he said?—tell me again.”

“He said, Johnnie wouldna betroubled with nane of her friends,” saidNelly; “though he has her to keep,a bit wee silly thing, that can donaething in a house—and nae doubta maid to keep to her forby—that hewouldna have ony of her friends aburden on him; and a very wise thingto say, and a great comfort. I ayesaid he was a sensible lad, RandallHome. Eh, preserve me!”

For Randall Home stands beforeher, his eyes glowing on her withhaughty rage. He has heard it, everysingle deliberate word, and Randallis no coward—he comes in person toanswer for what he has said.

Rise, Menie Laurie! Slowly theygather over us, these kind shadows ofthe coming night; no one can see themomentary faltering which inclinesyou to throw yourself down thereupon the very ground, and weep yourheart out. Rise; it is you who arestately now.

“This is true?”

She is so sure of it, that there needsno other form of question, and Menielays her hand upon the table to supportherself, and stands firmly beforehim waiting for his answer. Why isit that now, at this moment, whenshe should be most strong, the passingwind brings to her, as in mockery,an echo of whispering mingled voices—thetimid happiness of July Home?But Menie draws up her light figure,draws herself apart from the touch ofher companions, and stands, as shefancies she must do henceforth, allher life, alone.

“This is true?”

“I would disdain myself if I tried toescape by any subterfuge,” said Randall,proudly; “I might answer thatI never said the words this womanattributes to me; but that I donot need to tell you. I would notdeceive you, Menie. I never can denywhat I have given expression to; andyou are right—it is true.”

And Randall thinks he hears avoice, wavering somewhere, far off,and distant like an echo—not comingfrom these pale lips which move andform the words, but falling out uponthe air—faint, yet distinct, not to bemistaken. “I am glad you have toldme. I thank you for making no difficultyabout it: this is very well.”

“Menie! you are not moved by thisgossip’s story? This that I said has noeffect on you? Menie! Is a womanlike this to make a breach betweenyou and me?”

In stolid malice, Nelly Panton sitsstill, and listens with a certain melancholyenjoyment of the mischief shehas made, protesting, under herbreath, that “she meant nae ill; sheaye did a’thing for the best;” whileRandall, forgetful of his own acknowledgment,repeats again and againhis indignant remonstrance, “a womanlike this!”

“No, she has no such power,” saidMenie firmly—“no such power. Pardonme—I am wanted to-night. Mystrength is not my own to be wastednow; we can conclude this matteranother time.”

Before he could say a word, thedoor had closed upon her. Therewas a bustle without, a glimmer ofcoming lights upon the wall. In afew minutes the room was lighted up,the lady of the house in her presidingplace—and Randall started withangry pride from the place where hestood, by the side of Nelly Panton,whose gloomy unrelieved figure suddenlystood out in bold relief uponthe brightened wall.

Another time! Menie Laurie hasnot gone to ponder upon what thisother conference shall be—she is notby her own window—she is not outof doors—she has gone to no such refuge.Where she never went before,into the heart of Miss Annie’s preparations—intothe bustle of MissAnnie’s hospitality—shunning evenJenny, far more shunning her mother,and waiting only till the room is fullenough, to give her a chance of escapingevery familiar eye. This is thefirst device of Menie’s mazed, bewilderedmind. These many days shehas lived in hourly expectation ofsome such blow; but it stuns herwhen it comes.

Forlorn! forlorn! wondering if itis possible to hide this misery fromevery eye—pondering plans andschemes of concealment, trying to invent—donot wonder, it is a naturalimpulse—some generous lie. ButMenie’s nature, more truthful than herwill, fails in the effort. The timegoes on, the lingering moments swellinto an hour. Music is in her ears,and smiling faces glide before herand about her, till she feels this dreadfulpressure at her heart no longertolerable, and bursts away in a suddenpassion, craving to be alone.

Another heart, restless by reasonof a gnawing unhappiness, wandersout and in of these unlighted chambers—oftenestcoming back to thisone, where the treasures of its liferest night by night. This wanderingshadow is not a graceful one—thesepattering, hasty footsteps have nothingin them of the softened lingeringtread of meditation. No, poorJenny, little of sentiment or graceembellishes your melancholy—yet itis hard to find any poem so full ofpathos as a desolate heart, even sucha one as beats in your homely breastto-night.

Softly—the room is not vacant now,as it was when you last entered here.Some one stands by the window, stoopingforward to look at the stars; andwhile you linger by the door, a lowcry, half a sigh, half a moan, breaksthe silence faintly—not the same voicewhich just now bore its part so wellbelow;—not the same, for that voicecame from the lips only—this is outof the heart.

“Bairn, you’re no weel—they’vea’ wearied you,” said Jenny, stealingupon her in the darkness: “lie downand sleep; it’s nae matter for the likeof me, but when you sigh, it breaksfolk’s hearts.”

The familiar voice surprised thewatcher into a sudden burst of childishtears. All the woman failed inthis great trial. “Oh, Jenny, dinnatell my mother!” Menie Laurie wascapable of no other thought.

Before many weeks shall have goneover, perhaps while these sheets arepassing through the press, we shallbe able to judge of the accuracy ofLord Ellenborough’s opinion, as expressedin the House of Lords on the6th February, that we are on the eveof one of the most formidable wars thatever this country was engaged in.Yes; within a short period from thepresent date much will be known; theRussian problem will be near its solution.The mystery of that force,which is said to be irresistible, and ofthose resources said to be inexhaustible,will be laid bare to the world.We shall know if all that we havebeen told of that vast power whichhas kept Europe in awe, is real; if thecolossal idol which all have gazed onwith a feeling that cannot be accuratelydescribed, does not stand on feet ofclay. We confess that recent eventshave somewhat weakened the generalfaith in the overwhelming strength ofRussia, and people begin to have somedoubt whether the world has not beenimposed upon. With her vast territorialextent, including nearly one-seventhpart of the terrestrial portionof the globe and one twenty-seventhof its entire surface, and her variedpopulation, comprising nearly one-ninthof the human race, she hasspoken as if she could domineer overall Europe; and until the Pruth waspassed, and the Danube became oncemore the theatre of battle, mankindseemed, if not entirely to admit, atleast unwilling to dispute the claim.The combats of Oltenitza and Citalehave, we suspect, disturbed that belief.Foreign and all but hostileflags have, within the last few weeks,floated almost within sight of Sebastopol;the squadrons of England andFrance have swept the hitherto unapproachableEuxine, from the ThracianBosphorus to Batoun, and fromBatoun back to Beicos Bay, and herfleet has not ventured to cross theirpath. Should Austria, listening toher evil genius, prove false to herown interests, we believe that the anticipationsof the noble Lord referredto will be realised. Should she consulther own safety, and make commoncause with those whose warlike preparationsare not for aggression, butdefence, we still incline to the opinionthat hostilities may be limited to theiroriginal theatre—to be temporarilyarrested, if not closed, by diplomaticintervention. The unsuccessful issue,at least to the date at which we write,of Count Orloff’s mission, gives ussome hope that such will be the case;but a very short time will enable usto judge whether the advance of acorps d’armée to the Servian frontieris to aid Russian aggression, or toact, if necessary, against it.

An aggressive spirit has invariablymarked the policy of Russia from thetime of Peter the Great. Long harassedby internal enemies, and sometimesstruggling for existence, she atlength was freed from the dangerswhich had menaced her from abroad.By a fortunate concurrence of circ*mstances,the moment when her governmentbecame constituted, and beganto enjoy its liberty of action, the neighbouringstates, from the Baltic to theCaspian, entered into their period ofweakness. The wild ambition andthe mad enterprise of Charles XII.occasioned the decline of Sweden.The chivalrous monarch, the conquerorof Narva, the vanquished of Pultova,perished in the ditch of Frederickshall.Peter triumphed over his most formidableenemy; and, if he did notfrom that moment begin his aggressionin the Ottoman territory, he was at allevents no longer embarrassed by thedangerous diversions in the north.There still, however, remained an obstacleto his designs on those magnificentpossessions of the Osmanlis, whichhave at all times possessed the fatalprivilege of attracting the cupidity ofthe northern barbarian. There stillremained Poland; but her anarchy,her internal convulsions, inseparablefrom her anomalous institutions, provedto be no less profitable to theMuscovite than the madness of theScandinavian hero; and from the dayof her dismemberment, Turkey becamethe permanent object of the ambitionwhich, even as we write, threatens toconvulse Europe.

It rarely happens that up to the closeof a long war the original cause ofquarrel continues the same. The firstdissension disappears as war progresses,and, in the numerous complicationswhich hostilities give rise to,the belligerents themselves either forget,or do not assign the same importanceto the question which originallyarrayed them in arms against eachother. Though the war betweenRussia and Turkey has not yet aremote date, and though hostilitieshave not yet been formally declaredbetween Russia and the WesternPowers, notwithstanding the recall oftheir respective ambassadors, we stillfear that the public is beginning tolose sight of the primary grounds ofquarrel between the Czar and theSultan, and which has led to thepresent state of things. The pretextput forward by Russia for interventionin the Ottoman empire is her desireto “protect” the ten millions of Christiansof the Greek Church who aresubjects of the Porte; these ten millionsprofessing the same faith as thesubjects of the Emperor of Russia, andliving under the tyrannous rule of aninfidel government. We admit theplausibility of that claim, and we areaware how easily the generous sympathiesof a Christian people can beroused in favour of such a cause.We can appreciate the feelings of thosewho are persuaded that the momenthas at length arrived when the Crossshall be planted on the mosques ofStamboul, and the orthodox believertake the place of the Mussulman.The claim to a Protectorate over tenmillions of suffering Greeks in theEuropean territory of the Sultan hasbeen described as a cover, under whichRussia aims at the possession ofConstantinople, and, in fact, at theextension of her dominion from theCarpathian to the Danube, and fromthe Danube to the Sea of Marmora;but the Czar has solemnly and repeatedlydeclared that he had no suchambition, and that the sole motivewhich actuated him was to protect apopulation who professed the self-samereligion as himself, he being the visiblehead of the Eastern Church, and recognisedas such by the Eastern orGreek Christians; and the refusal ofthe Porte to grant that Protectorateis the primary cause of the war.Without examining whether any, orwhat conditions would justify a foreigngovernment in imposing its protectionon the subjects of an independentstate, we may be permitted to saysomething of the nature of the religionwhose champion the Czar professesto be; of the alleged hom*ogeneityof the Eastern and RussianChurches, for on this the wholequestion turns; and of the advantageslikely to accrue to the Greeks fromRussian protection.

Among the many errors likely tobe dissipated by the minute discussionwhich the Eastern question hasundergone in the public press of thisand other countries, not the least isthat which has reference to the Emperorof Russia as the natural Protectorof the Christian communitiesof the East. The hardihood with whichthis claim has been constantly put forward,and the silent acquiescence withwhich it seems to have been admittedby those who should know better, haveimposed upon the world. Even now,they who resist the formal establishmentof the influence of Russia overthe internal affairs of Turkey, do somore by reason of the political consequencesof that usurpation to the restof Europe, than with the thought ofdisputing the abstract right of the headof the “Orthodox Faith” to the Protectoratehe lays claim to. Thesepretensions, like many others we couldmention, will not stand the test of examination.We do not learn, on anysatisfactory evidence, that the Christianpopulations of the Ottoman empirehave, during the last ten months,received with sympathy or encouragementthe prospect of Russianprotection; nor have they, so far aswe know, exhibited any very earnestlonging for the introduction of theknout as an element of government.The population of independent Greecemay, and, we have no doubt, do, indulgein the harmless dream of a newByzantine empire to be raised on theruins of that which Mahomet II. wonfrom their fathers; and they woulddoubtless rejoice that the dominationof the Osmanlis were put an end toby Russia, or any other power, oncondition of being their successors,as they were their predecessors. Webelieve that to this sort of revolutionthe aspirations of the Greeksare limited. But that people disputethe claim of the Czar to the Pontificateof the “Orthodox Faith,” andreject the idea of a temporal submissionto him. The Greek Church, however,does not constitute the onlyChristian community of the Ottomanempire. Other congregations are to befound there, subjects also of the Porte,and who have not less claim to theprotection of the various states ofEurope, when protection is needed;but who still less desire that Russiashould be their sole protector.

The points of difference between theGreek and Latin Churches are familiarto the world. But it may not beso generally known that, while theRussian branch of the former professesto preserve the Byzantine dogmasas its basis, the condition of itshierarchy, and the mechanism of itsdiscipline, have become so altered withthe lapse of years, that, at the presentday, there exists no identity in thisrespect that would justify the head ofthe Russian Church in his pretensionsto a temporal or spiritual protectorateover that church whose administratorand head is the Patriarch of Constantinople.Besides the difference of language,which is not without its importance—theone speaking Greek,the other Sclavonic—the Church ofConstantinople still boasts that shehas preserved her Patriarch, who isindependent of secular interferencein spirituals, while no such privilegebelongs to Russia. A seriousdifference, too, exists between theRussian and Greek Churches (andone which would create new schismsand new convulsions) on the importantquestion of baptism. Convertsare admitted into the pale of the formerfrom other communities, whenthey have been already baptized, withoutthe obligation of again receivingthe sacrament; while the Church ofConstantinople makes the repetitionof the sacrament indispensable in similarcases. The difference of churchgovernment is of the greatest importance:the Greeks have never admittedthat the Holy Synod of St Petersburg,established by Peter the Great,represents in any sense the spiritualauthority which he forcibly overthrew.The substitution of the chief of thestate for it was never pretended to beotherwise than for political purposes,and as a means of realising the ambitiousand aggressive designs of theCzar; and, while we do not deny thesuccess it has met with, we believe that,since that event, the Russian clergy, asa body, has become the most ignorantand the most servile of any ecclesiasticalcorporation that now exists. Theedict of Peter the Great admits themerely temporal object he had in view.“A spiritual authority,” it states,“which is represented by a corporation,or college, will never excite in the nationso much agitation and effervescenceas a single chief of the ecclesiasticalorder. The lower classes of thepeople are incapable of comprehendingthe difference between the spiritual andsecular authority. When they witnessthe extraordinary respect and honourwhich encompass a supreme pontiff,their admiration and wonder are soexcited, that they look upon the chiefof the Church as a second sovereign,whose dignity is equal, or even superior,to that of the monarch himself;and they are disposed to attach tothe ecclesiastical rank a character ofpower superior to the other. Now, asit is incontestable that the commonpeople indulge in such reflections,what, we ask, would be the case ifthe unjust disputes of an arbitraryclergy were added to light up a conflagration?”At the time this edictwas issued, the Russian Church hadalready lost its patriarch. Full twentyyears had elapsed since that event;and if ever the mitre of a prelaterivalled the diadem of an emperor, itwas not in the reign of Peter that suchan instance was to be found. No seriousantagonism of the kind did orcould exist in Russia; and the realobject of the abolition of the patriarchatewas, to combine with the absolutismof the sovereign the prestigeof spiritual supremacy—that the Czarmight not only say, with Louis XIV.,“The State! I am the State;” butalso, “The Church! I am the Church.”

The Holy Synod of St Petersburgis, it is true, composed of some of thehighest dignitaries of the RussianChurch, (taken from the monasticorder); but these are appointed by thesecular authority; are presided over bya layman who represents the Czar, andwhose veto can suspend, or even annul,the most solemn resolutions ofthe Synod, even when unanimouslyadopted. The person who occupiedfor years, and who, we believe, stilloccupies the important post of Presidentof the Supreme EcclesiasticalCouncil, which regulates and decideson all matters concerning the disciplineand administration of the Churchof Russia, is a general of cavalry—GeneralProtuson! The body thuscontrolled by a military chief, may beincreased in numbers, or reduced, accordingto the pleasure of the Czar;but those who ordinarily constitutethat Ecclesiastical Board are the metropolitanof St Petersburg, the archbishops,a bishop, the Emperor’s confessor,an archimandrite (one degreelower than a bishop), the chaplain-generalof the naval and militaryforces, and an arch-priest. But, whateverbe the rank, the learning, or thepiety of the Synod, one thing mustbe well understood by them;—theymust never dare to express an opinion,or give utterance to a thought,in opposition to the Czar. The edictsof the Synod bear the imperial impress;they are invariably headedwith this formula, “By the mosthigh will, command, and conformablyto the sublime wishes of his Majesty,&c. &c.” If it be alleged that theauthority of the Holy Synod, with itsbearded, booted, and sabred president,relates merely to the temporaladministration of the Church, andthat should a question of dogma ariserecourse would be had to an ŒcumenicalCouncil, composed of all thechurches of the Oriental rite, we replythat the superintendence of the Synodis not confined to points of mere administrationor discipline. The canonisationof a saint, for instance, isnot a matter of mere administration.When a subject is proposed for thatdistinction—and the Russian Hagiologyis more scandalously filled thanthe Roman in the worst times of thePapacy—it is the Synod, that is, theEmperor, who decides on the claimsto worship of the unknown candidate,whose remains may have been previouslysanctified by the gross superstitionof a barbarous peasantry. It istrue that, in consequence of some notoriouscriminals having, not manyyears ago, been added to the list oforthodox saints, the Emperor, since thediscovery of this, has manifested considerablerepugnance to exercising thisimportant part of his pontifical functions.He has, on recent occasions, refusedhis fiat of canonisation. A fewyears ago, some human bones were dugup on the banks of a stream in thegovernment of Kazan, which, for somereason or other, were supposed to possessmiraculous powers. A cunningspeculator thought it a regular godsend;and petitions were forthwithsent to St Petersburg claiming divinehonours for the unknown. The petitionswere repeatedly rejected, but asoften pressed on the Emperor. HisPontifical Majesty, who was assured,on high authority, that the claims ofthe present candidate were quite aswell founded as those of many in theHagiology, at last consented to issuehis order of canonisation, but roundlyswore that he would not grant anothersaintship as long as he lived. Yetit is not doubted that the opportunityoffered by the present “holy war” ofcontinuing the sacred list will be madeuse of unsparingly.

In other Churches the sacerdotalcharacter is indelible; it is conferredby the ecclesiastical authority, andwhether by the imposition of hands,or any other formality, cannot be destroyedeven where the party is suspendedfrom his sacred functions, orprohibited altogether from performingthem. But neither suspension, nordegradation, can be considered as amatter of mere administration, or ordinarydiscipline; and the Emperor’smilitary representative has it in hispower to decide on the degradationof any clergyman, and to completelyefface the sacerdotal character acquiredby ordination.

But, supposing the improbable eventof an Œcumenical Council, in whichthe various Churches of the Eastshould enter as component parts, inwhat manner, we may be permittedto ask, would the Russians claim tobe represented? Would the Patriarchof Constantinople, or those of Antioch,Jerusalem, and Alexandria, whoare under his spiritual jurisdiction,and who pronounce the MuscoviteChurch as, if not heretical, at leastschismatical, submit to be presidedover by an aide-de-camp of the Czar;or would they recognise, in favour ofhis Majesty, the quality of impeccability,or infallibility, which they refuseto the head of the Latin Church?

With that complete dependence inspiritual as in temporal government onthe chief of the State, and that debasingservitude of the Russian Church, maybe compared with advantage the immunitiesand privileges of the Churchof Constantinople even under the Mussulmangovernment. Its Patriarch isthe chief of the Greek communities, thepresident of their Synod, and the sovereignjudge, without interference onthe part of the Sultan’s authority, ofall civil and religious matters relatingto these communities which may bebrought before it. The Patriarch, andthe twelve metropolitans who, underhis presidency, compose the Synod,or Grand Council of the Greek nation,are exempt from the Haratch, or personalimpost. The imposts the Greeknation pays to the government areapportioned, not by the Mussulmanauthorities, but by its own archbishopsand bishops. Those prelates are deofficio members of the municipal councils,by the same right as the Turkishgovernors and muftis. The cadis andgovernors are bound to see to the executionof the decisions or judgmentsof the bishops, in all that relates totheir dioceses respectively; and toenforce the payment of the contributionswhich constitute the ecclesiasticalrevenues. The clergy of theGreek Church receive from each familyof their own communion an annualcontribution, for the decent maintenanceof public worship. They celebratemarriages, pronounce divorces,draw up wills, and from all theseacts derive a considerable revenue;and, in certain cases, they are authorisedto receive legacies bequeathedfor pious objects. For every judgmentpronounced by their tribunals,the Patriarch and metropolitans areentitled to a duty on the value of theproperty in litigation, of ten per cent.They have the power of sentencingto fine, to imprisonment, to corporalpunishment, and to exile, independentlyof the spiritual power they possess,and which they not rarely exercise,of excommunication. The Patriarchand the prelates are paid a fixedcontribution by the priests to whomthe higher functions of the ministryare confided; and these, in turn, receivea proportional amount from theclergy under their immediate superintendence.The incomes of the Patriarchsof Jerusalem, Antioch, andAlexandria, of the thirty-two archbishops,and the one hundred and fortybishops of the Ottoman empire, are paidout of these public contributions.

These immunities present, as we havesaid, a striking contrast with the conditionof the orthodox Church in Russia.A Church so endowed, and with powersover the millions who belong to itscommunion, would naturally temptan ambitious sovereign to become itsmaster under the name of Protector.We discard completely any inquiryinto the relative merits of the twocommunities; but we think it must beevident to any impartial mind, thatthe protectorate of the Czar, in hischaracter of head of the orthodox faith,would make him the supreme rulerover the Ottoman empire in Europe.

We do not mean to allege that theimmunities of the Christian populationhave been faithfully respectedby the pashas, the cadis, or otheragents of the Porte. We admitthat most of what has been saidof the intolerance and the corruptionof Turkish officials is true, andthat acts of oppression and crueltyhave been perpetrated, which call forthe severest reprehension, and requirethe interference of the Christiangovernments of Europe. But whatwe dispute is, the exclusive right ofthe Emperor of Russia to such interventionor to such protectorate.

The Church of Constantinople regardsthat of St Petersburg as schismatical,however nearly they approachin some respects; and so far from acknowledginga right of Protectorate,either in the Synod or the Emperor,she claims over her younger and erringsister all that superiority which isimparted by primogeniture. Shewould reject the claim of Russia tosupremacy, and refuse to be administeredby a servile Synod, with a nomineeof the Czar for President. Tosubmit to that Protectorate would beto admit foreign authority; that admissionwould involve the loss of herPatriarch, the evidence of her independence;and to this conviction maybe traced the indifference of the Greekpopulation to Russian influence, andthe co-operation its clergy has givento the Porte.

But, scattered amid the immensepopulation which are subject to theSultan, may be found communionsnot belonging to the Confession ofPhotius as adopted by the EasternChurches, and still less to the schismaticalbranch of it which is known asthe Russian Church. These communionshave no relation, affinity, or infact anything whatever in commonwith the Synod of St Petersburg, orthe Czar, whom they regard as aspiritual usurper, and the creed heprofesses as all but heretical. TheEutychian Armenians amount to noless than 2,400,000 persons, of whomnearly 80,000 are actually united to theLatin Church; but, whatever be thedifference in dogma or ceremonial betweenthem, they unite in oppositionto the Synod of St Petersburg, and insubmission to the Porte. There aremoreover, upwards of a million ofRoman Catholics and united Greeks—thatis, Greeks who admit the supremacyof the Pope, while observingtheir own ceremonial, and who, it willnot be questioned, have an equalright to protection, where protectionis requisite. We can easily understandthe interference of the Europeanpowers on behalf of thosecommunities among whom are to befound persons of the same religiousbelief as themselves; but we cannotunderstand on what grounds an exclusiveclaim is put forward by a powerwhich can have no sympathy withthem, and which has destroyed themost important link that connected theChurch of St Petersburg with that ofthe Patriarch. The possession ofConstantinople by the Russians would,we are convinced, be followed by thedestruction of the independence ofthe Eastern Church, the substitutionof some Russian general or admiral,Prince Menschikoff perhaps, or PrinceGortschakoff, or whoever may happento be the favourite of the day, for thevenerable Patriarch; and by the mostcruel persecution, not perhaps so muchfrom religious intolerance, as for thesame reasons assigned by Peter theGreat for his abolition of the patriarchaldignity. The treatment of theunited Greeks of the Russian empire,the Catholics of Poland and of theMuscovite provinces, is sufficient toshow to those who, now at all events,live tranquilly under the rule of the Sultan,what they have to expect from thetolerance, the equity, or the mercy ofsuch a Russian Protector. One-fourthof the Latin population ruled over bythe Czar is made up of various religioussects and forms of worship—Catholicism,Lutheranism, Calvinism,Mahometanism, Judaism, Lamaism,Schamaism, &c. In theory these differentpersuasions have a right to toleration;but in practice the case is different.The jealousy of the Czars, andtheir determination to reduce all thatcomes within their grasp to the samedead level of servitude, cannot endurea difference of any kind, religious or political;and pretexts are never wantingfor persecutions, which have beencompared to those of the worst days ofthe Roman emperors. The Baltic provinces,Lithuania and Poland, testifyto the truth of these allegations. Itappears clear, then, that the Christiancommunities of the Ottoman empiredo not require the protection or dominationof Russia, which would crushall alike.

We beg to point out another, anda material error into which the generalityof people have fallen with referenceto the Christian population ofTurkey in Europe. The oppression ofa Christian people by a misbelievingdespotism is sufficient, of itself, to enlistthe sympathies of a civilised and tolerantnation; and the fact of that oppressionbeing practised by a smallminority over a multitude composingthree-fourths of the population of theOttoman empire in Europe, is denouncedas a monstrous anomaly; and thepublic indignation has been roused atthe idea of scarcely three millions anda half of Turks grinding to the dustmore than ten millions of Christians.We execrate religious oppression asmuch as any one can do; and whetherthe persecuted be numerous or few,one or one thousand, the crime is, inprinciple, the same. But we can showthat, in the present instance, theaggravating circ*mstance of so greata difference in numbers does notexist. Those who speak of tenmillions of Greek Christians beingoppressed by three millions of Turks,forget, or may not be aware, thatMoldavia and Wallachia, known asthe Danubian Principalities, and now“protected” to the utmost by synodsof another kind from that of St Petersburg—bymilitary tribunals, andmartial law—contain a population ofabove four millions, all of whom, withthe exception of about fifty thousandHungarian Catholics, are members ofthe Greek, though not of the Russo-GreekChurch. Now, the Moldo-Wallachiansare, in their domesticadministration, independent of thePorte, the tie which attaches them toit—the payment of a comparativelysmall tribute—being of the slenderestkind. The Principalities are governedby their own princes or hospodars,formerly named for life, and, sincethe convention of 1849 between Russiaand the Porte, for seven years;they are selected from among theirown boyards, and receive investitureonly from the Sultan. The Moldo-Wallachianarmy is recruited from theMoldo-Wallachian population, and isorganised on the Russian plan, withRussian staff-officers. In neither ofthe three provinces is there a Turkishgarrison, nor a Turkish authority ofany kind, nor a single Turkish soldier;there is consequently no Turkishoppression or persecution. Servia,with a population of about a million,mostly Christians of the Greek communion,is equally independent of thePorte. The Turks have, it is true, agarrison in Belgrade, limited, by treatywith Austria, to a certain force; andBelgrade itself is the residence of aPasha; but, beyond this trifling militaryoccupation, the acknowledgment,as a matter of form, of the supremacyof the Sultan, and a small tribute inmoney, nothing else is left them. And,as in the case of the Danubian provinces,the internal government isentirely in the hands of the Serviansthemselves. The liberal institutionsestablished in Servia by Prince MiloschObrenowitsch, were not disturbed orinterfered with by the Porte, to whichthey gave no umbrage, but were overthrownby Russian intrigue. InServia no oppression, no persecution,is or can be practised by the Turks,who are powerless. Thus, we haveabout five millions of population tobe deducted from the ten millions saidto be mercilessly oppressed, outraged,and persecuted by Mussulman bigotry;—andalso said to be eager for thereligious Protectorate of Russia.

The Danubian Principalities wereformerly governed by princes calledwaywodes, who were appointed by theSultan. Those waywodes, it is true,exercised every species of oppression;but our readers will perhaps be surprisedwhen they learn that these provincialtyrants were not Mussulmans:they were Christians, and Christiansof the same communion as the peoplewhom they ruled over; and they wereselected because they were Christians,to administer Christian dependencies.The waywodes were Fanariote Greeks,and denizens of Constantinople. Wedo not deny that the Turkish governmentwere bound to see that their provinceswere properly administered;but they were powerless to repressthese abuses, as they were powerlessto repress the abuses in the TurkishPashalicks.

The influence of Russia for a longtime, and particularly for the lasttwenty-five years, has been paramountin the Danubian Principalities.We have shown that the Moldo-Wallachians,with a slight exception, preferthe Greek rite; but there is noevidence that they have any religioussympathies with the Church of whichthe Emperor of Russia is the head.The Moldo-Wallachians also regardthe Russian dogmas as schismatic,and recognise only the religious supremacyof the Patriarch of Constantinople.In Paris there is a Russianchapel for the use of the Russianembassy, the residents of that nation,and the few subjects of IndependentGreece who may think it proper, oruseful, to attend Russian worship.The Moldo-Wallachians who alsoreside in the French capital havebeen often pressed to attend thatchapel, with a view, no doubt, toestablish in the eyes of the world ahom*ogeneity which in reality doesnot exist. As a proof of the antipathybetween the two communions, wequote a passage from a discoursedelivered on the occasion of the openingof a temporary place of worshipfor the Moldo-Wallachians by theArchimandrite Suagoano. To thosewho still believe that there exists thebond of a common faith between theChurch of Constantinople and that ofSt Petersburg, and that the Moldo-Wallachians,or the Greeks of theOttoman empire, desire a RussianProtectorate, we recommend the perusalof the following, which was pronouncedto a numerous congregationin the beginning of January last.“When we expressed a desire,” saidthe archimandrite, “to found a chapelof our own rite, we were told that aRussian chapel already existed inParis, and we were asked why theRoumains (Moldo-Wallachians) donot frequent it? What! Roumainsto frequent a Russian place of worship!Is it then forgotten that theycan never enter its walls, and thatthe Wallachians who die in Paris,forbid, at their very last hour, thattheir bodies should be borne to a Muscovitechapel, and declare that thepresence of a Russian priest would bean insult to their tomb. Whencecomes this irreconcilable hatred? Thathatred is perpetuated by the differenceof language. The Russian tongueis Sclavonic; ours is Latin. Is therein fact a single Roumain who understandsthe language of the Muscovites?That hatred is just; for is not Russiaour mortal enemy? Has she notclosed up our schools, and debarredus from all instruction, in order tosink our people into the depths ofbarbarism, and to reduce them themore easily to servitude? On thathatred I pronounce a blessing; forthe Russian Church is a schism whichthe Roumains reject; because theRussian Church has separated fromthe great Eastern Church; becausethe Russian Church does not recogniseas its head the Patriarch of Constantinople;because it does not receivethe Holy Unction of Byzantium;because it has constituteditself into a Synod of which the Czaris the despot; and because thatSynod, in obedience to his orders, haschanged its worship, has fabricatedan unction which it terms holy, hassuppressed or changed the fast days,and the Lents as established by ourbishops; because it has canonisedSclavonians who are apocryphalsaints, such as Vladimir, Olga, andso many others whose names are unknownto us; because the rite ofConfession, which was instituted toameliorate and save the penitent, hasbecome, by the servility of the Muscoviteclergy, an instrument for spiesfor the benefit of the Czar; in fine,because that Synod has violated thelaw, and that its reforms are arbitrary,and are made to further theobjects of despotism. These acts ofimpiety being so notorious, and thosetruths so known, who shall now maintainthat the Russian Church is notschismatic? Our Councils reject it;our canons forbid us to recognise it;our Church disavows it; and all whohold to the faith, and whom she recognisesfor her children, are boundto respect her decision, and to considerthe Russian rite as a schismatic rite.Such are the motives which preventthe Roumains from attending theRussian chapel in Paris!” This addresswas received with enthusiasmby the assemblage. Letters of felicitationhave been received by the archimandritefrom his unhappy brethrenof the Principalities, who are drivenwith the bayonet to the churches tochant Te Deum for Russian victories;and, impoverished as they are, theprelates and priests of Wallachia sendtheir mites to Paris, to aid in the constructionof a true Greek church.[2]

It would be unjust to charge anyreligious community with the responsibilityof the crimes or vices of individualmembers. The police officesand law courts in our own countryoccasionally disclose cases of moraldepravity among members of theclerical profession; but these casesare few, we are happy to say, in comparisonwith the number of pious andlearned men that compose the body.Nor do we pronounce a sweepinganathema on the Russo-Greek Church,because, with the exception of, as weare informed, a few of the superiordignitaries, no ecclesiastical corporationcan produce more examples ofgross ignorance and vicious habits.The degradation, the miserable conditionof the mass of the Russianclergy, the pittance they receive fromthe State, being insufficient to keepbody and soul together, and the almosttotal want of instruction, are, nodoubt, the cause of this state of things.Marriage is a primary and indispensablecondition for the priesthood;and the death of the wife, unlesswhere a special exemption is accordedby the Synod or the Emperor, involvesnot merely the loss of his sacerdotalfunctions, but completely annulsthe priestly character. The widowedpriest returns to a lay condition fromthat moment; he may become a fieldlabourer, or a valet; a quay porter,or a groom; a mechanic, or a soldierof the army of Caucasus; but hisfunctions at the altar cease then, andfor ever. The irregularities which inRussia, as elsewhere, prevailed in themonastic establishments, afforded apretext to that rude reformer, Peterthe Great, for abolishing the greaternumber of them. Their immensewealth, the gifts of the piety orthe superstition of past ages, wasa temptation which the inexorabledespot could not resist; and havingonce acquired a taste for plunder,he appropriated not only monastic property,whilst abolishing monasteries,but filled the imperial treasury withthe confiscated wealth of the secularclergy. What Peter left undoneCatherine II. completed. Duringthe reign of that Princess, whose ownfrailties might have taught her sympathyfor human weaknesses, thewhole of the remaining immovableproperty of the Church was seized.The correspondent and friend of Voltaireand the Encyclopedists filledwith joy the hearts of the philosophersof Paris, by the appropriationof the resources of superstition, whichshe devoted to the realisation of herambitious projects, or to recompenserichly the services of her numerousfavourites. Miserable pittances wereallotted to the functionaries to whomthat great wealth had belonged; butthe distractions of love and war toooften interfered with the payment ofeven those pittances. In Moscow, StPetersburg, and some other largecities, there are still, perhaps, a fewbenefices which afford a decent subsistenceto the holders; but the stipends,even when augmented by thecasuel, the chance and voluntary contributionpaid by individuals for specialmasses, and certain small perquisitesfor funerals, &c., are insufficientto maintain, in anything approachingto comfort, a single, muchless a married clergyman. There appearsto be some difference of opinionamong the best authorities on theexact stipends received by the higherclergy. The income of the seniormetropolitan, the first dignitary ofthe orthodox church, including allsources of revenue, has never beenestimated at more than from £600 to£700 per annum; that of the othermetropolitans, at about £160; of anarchbishop, £120; of a bishop, £80;of an archimandrite, the next in rankafter a bishop, from £40 to £50. Thewooden hut inhabited by a parishpriest is not superior to that of thepoorest of his parishioners, and thespot of land attached is cultivated byhis own hands. The destitute conditionof the inferior clergy has manytimes been brought under the noticeof the government, and commissionershave been named to examine intothe complaints, but without producingany result.

Under such circ*mstances, it is notextraordinary that the clergy shouldbecome degraded in the eyes of thepeople, and be regarded, when notin the performance of their sacredfunctions, as objects of derision andcontempt. With starvation at home,they are forced to seek in the housesof others what their own cannotsupply; to satisfy the most pressingwants of nature, they submit toscoff and insult; and wherever feastingis going on, the priest is foundan unbidden, and in most instancesan unwelcome guest. This state oflife leads to vagrant, idle, and dissolutehabits, and it is declared, on whatappears to be competent authority,that intemperance is the general characteristicof the lower clergy ofRussia. Intemperance easily leadsto other vices. According to officialreports laid before the Synod, therewere, in the single year 1836, 208ecclesiastics degraded for infamouscrimes, and 1985 for crimes or offencesless grave. In that year the clergy comprised102,456 members;—the numberdegraded and sentenced by the tribunalswas therefore about two per cent.In 1839, the number of priests condemnedby the tribunal was one outof twenty; and during the three yearsfrom 1836 to 1839 inclusive, the caseswere 15,443, or one-sixth of the whole.A good deal of scandal, as well theremight be, was occasioned by the reportsof the Synod, and that body receiveda hint to be more discreet inexposing to the sneers of the heterodoxthe state of the orthodox church.It attempted, in a subsequent report,to explain away or palliate those disorders.“If such things,” says theSynodical Report of 1837, “cannot beentirely avoided by reason of the vastextent of the empire; of the want ofseminaries, attendance at which hasbeen only recently obligatory; of thelittle instruction received by theclergy, who in this respect are, as itwere, in a state of infancy—so muchso, that one old barbarism has notyet disappeared—nevertheless, thesame clergy has exhibited rich examplesof ancient piety and severityof morals.” Dr Pinkerton assures usthat there are to be found among thefamilies of the parochial clergy, a degreeof culture and good manners peculiarto themselves. If we can relyon accounts more recent, and quite asgood, these are but rare exceptions;and we fear that matters are prettymuch the same as when Coxe wasin Russia, and many of the parishpriests were so ignorant as to be unableto read, even in their own language,the gospel they were commissionedto preach. M. de Haxthausen,whose testimony is entitled to greatrespect, says, “Ecclesiastics of meritare rare in the country. The greaternumber of the old popes are ignorant,brutal, without any instruction, andexclusively given up to their personalinterests. In the performance of religiousceremonies, and in the dispensationof the sacraments, they haveoften no other object in view than toobtain presents. They have no careabout the spiritual welfare of theirflocks, and impart neither consolationnor instruction to them.” This ignorance,added to relaxed morals, accountsfor their want of influence withthe people, who are in the habit oftreating them with the most contemptuousfamiliarity. The lower classeshave special sarcasms and insultingproverbs applicable to their popes.

The higher ranks of the Russianclergy are principally, we believe exclusively,taken from the Tschernoi Duhovenstvo,or black clergy—monks wholive in convents, and pass their livesin the practice of religious observances.Their superiority to thesecular clergy is in all respects considerable,and whatever of instructionexists among the priesthoodmust be sought for in the retreats ofthe Basilians—the only order ofmonks, we believe, in Russia. Theylive, however, apart from the people;they have no direct intercourse withthem; they are ignorant, or regardless,of their material or moral wants;and for them they feel no sympathyor affection. It must not be supposedthat this superiority over theparochial or secular clergy, in stationor morals, implies independence, separatelyor collectively. Their dependenceon the government differsnot in the least from that of themost ignorant village pope, or of themeanest serf. The high functionariesand dignitaries of the Church are, aswe have already observed, taken fromthe monastic body; and as the Synod,or, which is all the same, the Emperor,can deprive an ecclesiastic ofhis functions, and degrade him to alay condition, the metropolitan archbishop,or bishop, who cares to keephis mitre, has no other choice thanto be the docile and zealous agent ofthe Autocrat. Since the time ofPeter the Great, the whole body ofthe Russian clergy, from the highestto the lowest, have lain grovellingin the dust at the feet of every tyrantwith the title of Czar or Czarina;and no other corporation in the worldthat we have any knowledge of, layor clerical, equals it in hopeless servitude.Taught from their infancy toregard the Czar as the sole dispenserof good and evil, and firmly believingthat every people on the earth tremblesat his name, they scarcely makeany distinction between him and theDeity; and in their public and privatedevotions their adoration isdivided, perhaps not equally, betweenGod and the Emperor. Those namesare mingled together in the first lessonsthey learn, and their awe of themortal ruler is more intense than theirlove for the Creator. Those ideasare transmitted by the priests to theirchildren; and as the ranks of theclerical body are filled up almost exclusivelyfrom the families of thepopes, ignorance and slavishness becomeas traditional and as hereditaryas the office for which they are indispensable.The jealous fears of theAutocrat prevent grafting on the oldstock, and he suffers no innovationof any kind to animate that torpidmass of bondage.

In alluding to the social degradationof the Russian clergy, it is butfair to admit that there are certainprivileges attached to that body whichare not accorded to the rest of hisImperial Majesty’s subjects. TheCzar, out of his mere motion, and byspecial favour, the value of which isno doubt properly appreciated by thepersons interested, has made a differencein the punishments inflicted onlaymen and on clergymen. The Russianpriest is not liable to be scourged todeath by the knout; nor to be beatento a jelly by a club, like the othermembers of the orthodox faith. Yetthis privilege, we fear, is more speciousthan real. It does not survivethe sacerdotal character; and as thismay be suspended or annihilated atthe pleasure of the Synod, or at thedeath of the popess, the exemptionfrom the knout and the baten is an extremelyuncertain privilege. The ruleof the Russian Church, which makesthe priestly character, indelible in othercommunions, to depend on so frail atenure as the life of the partner, ismost curious, and must perpetuatethose vices which we have alreadynoticed. The pastor who loses hiswife must at once abandon his sacredfunctions, and set himself to someother pursuit, if he be still in theforce of health and manhood; if hebe aged or infirm, his lot is hard indeed.When the sacerdotal office isforfeited by some very grave offence,hard labour for life, or the distractionsof a campaign in the Caucasusin one of the condemned regiments,with glimpses of the knout, form thehopeless future of the unhappy wretchwho, but a few months before, wasdispensing the sacraments at thealtar. We may add, that the wivesand widows of the priests, and theiryoung children, enjoy, by a piousdispensation of the head of the Churchof Russia, an exemption from theknout. The children, moreover, areexempt from the payment of impostsand military enlistment.

The sects that have started intolife since the seventeenth century arecomprised by the established orofficial church of Russia in the sweepingdesignation of roskolnicki, orschismatical; but the term is rejectedwith indignation by the parties towhom it is applied. They refuse, asa base and groundless calumny, theterm schismatical, and claim for theirown special qualification that of Starowertzi,or Ancient believers. Theyhave also, no less than their predecessors,been the object of the severityof the government. Every opportunityhas been laid hold of to crushthem; and in the revolt of the Strelitz,not only were ruinous fines imposedon them, but many of theirleaders were imprisoned, exiled,hanged, or poniarded, by order ofPeter I. Severity being of no avail,milder measures were resorted to.A compromise was proposed in thereign of Catherine II., and after ashow of examination, several of theirless objectionable doctrines were allowedto pass muster as orthodox,and the variations in their liturgyreceived, on condition that theirpriests submitted to receive ordersfrom the prelates of the Synod.As an additional inducement, theywere promised that ordination shouldbe conferred according to the sectarian,and not the established rite;that their usages should be respected,and no interference take place in theeducation of their clergy. But so greatwas the animosity that no concessioncould win, no kindness soften them,and the experiment of gaining overthis stray flock to the fold failedtotally. At an earlier period Starowertziconvents were erected in thedeep recesses of the forests in thenorthern provinces of Russia. Theseconvents were soon demolished, andtheir prelates and abbots banished, orotherwise removed. Yet for manyyears their religious necessities weresupplied by priests ordained by theStarowertzi bishops; and, since theirdeath, pastors are recruited from themany seceders from the orthodoxchurch. In spite of the difficultiesthe sect has to contend with, and theincessant vigilance and rigour of theauthorities, it possesses a mysteriousinfluence, which is said to be felt evenin the councils of the empire. It isbelieved that no important reform isever attempted, no change in the internaladministration of the countrytakes effect, until the opinions of thechiefs of this formidable party are ascertained,and the impression likely tobe made upon the mass of their followers.In all social relations, in allmatters connected with everyday lifeand business, it is affirmed that theStarowertzi are trustworthy and honourable.They are not habituallymendacious or deceitful, like the morecivilised classes of his Imperial Majesty’ssubjects; and the more closelythe lower orders resemble the Starowertzithe better they are. In educationthey are also superior to the massof the Russians. Among them thereare few who have not learned to readand write, though even in the acquisitionof this elementary instructiontheir religious prejudices prevail.They make use only of the Sclavonicdialect, the modern Russian beingregarded as heretical. They are familiarwith the Bible, and commitsome portions of it to memory, whichthey recite with what the Frenchwould term onction; neither are theydespicable opponents to encounter onthe field of theological controversy.One of the principal seats of Starowertzismwas in the midst of thosevast and dismal swamps which extendtowards the Frozen Ocean, on theEuropean side of the great Ouralchain, and on the banks of the riverwhich discharges its waters into theCaspian; in the government of Saratoff,more than four hundred milesto the south-east of Moscow; andamong the Cossack tribes that wandernear the Volga and the Terek,close to the military line which extendsin front of the Caucasus, are tobe found numerous disciples. But formany years the great centre of Starowertzismwas on the Irghis. On itsbanks four great monasteries oncerose, and their inmates found a never-failingsupply from the deserters ofthe army, and the fugitives from thewilderness and the knout of Siberia.Priests of the official church, excitedby fanaticism or degraded for theirvices, and monks expelled from theirconvents, were received with openarms as welcome converts. Theirnumbers increased so rapidly as togive serious alarm to the governors,and in 1838 a razzia was proclaimedagainst these religious fortresses.Strong bodies of troops were sentagainst them; the convents were pillaged,and then given to the flames,and the inmates were either sent tothe army, or driven into the impenetrablewilds of Siberia. The doctrinesof the sect have chiefly spread in therural districts, and among the lowerclasses of tradesmen. In the conventsfor females (for Starowertzismhas also its nuns), the only occupationconsists in multiplying copies oftheir liturgy, for no religious work isallowed to be printed. The Starowertzidivide the inhabitants of theearth into three great classes—theSlaves, by them termed Slovaise, orSpeakers; the Nemtzi, or Mutes, whomthey regard as little above heathens;and all the Orientals are, withoutdistinction, called by the general designationof Mussulmans. The riteof baptism is performed by immersion—theyadmit the validity of noother; but in no case do they recogniseit when administered by theorthodox Russian, and all convertsmust be rebaptised before admission.It is a curious fact, almost incredible,were we not assured of itsexactness on good authority, thatthough their spiritual directors belongmostly to the scum of the Russianclergy—degraded priests or monks—theStarowertzi are the least immoralof all the sects into which theorthodox church has been broken up.

The sect which more closely approximatesin fundamentals to theestablished church is that which termsitself the Blagosslowenni (the Blessed);and so slight is the difference betweenthem, that in the official nomenclaturethey are designated as the Jedinowertzi,or the Uniform Believers. Inessential points of doctrine the differenceis not great, in some almost imperceptible,though the ceremonialvaries notably from that which is recognisedby the Holy Synod. Theymake the sign of the cross in a differentmanner from the orthodox. Theydenounce the shaving the beard as asin of the greatest enormity. Someother peculiarities are worth noting:they repeat the name of Jesus in threedistinct parts; walk in procession intheir places of worship from right toleft, and, taking their ground on thetext of Scripture which says that thatwhich enters at the mouth is not sinful,but that which issues from it, theydenounce the practice of smoking as acrime. There is another point, whichwe fear would be unpopular amongour fellow-subjects in Ireland: theBlessed attribute a diabolical origin tothat useful root the potato, and, whatwe believe has been strenuously maintained,though in a different spirit, bysome Irish antiquarian, they pretendto prove that the potato was actuallythe fruit with which Eve was easilyseduced by the wily serpent, and whichour first mother persuaded her confidinghusband to partake of. This sectreprobates the reforms attempted byPeter I., and they are not to this dayreconciled to the Emperor Nicholasfor not wearing the costume, and bearingthe title of the Belvi Tzar, or theWhite Czar.

The Starrobriadtzi, or the Observersof the ancient rite, are an offshoot of theStarowertzi, but are still more exclusiveand intolerant, and much morehostile to the official church. Thescum of the orthodox priesthood aresure to find a welcome with them, andthe more degraded they are the better.Every candidate for admissionmust formally recant his previousheresy—for such they term the orthodoxdogma.

The most numerous of all thesesects is one which is termed the Bespopertchine(Without priests). Theynot only reject ordination as conferredby the orthodox bishop, but dispensealtogether with clergy as a distinctbody. The sect is subdivided intoseveral fractions, each known by thename of its founder, such as the Philipperes,the Theodosians, the Abakounians,&c., &c. They anticipatea general conversion of the reprobates,—thatis, all who are not of their sect,whether Christian or Infidel—by reasonor by force; and believe that thetime is at hand when the errors ofNicon, the Luther of the Russo-Greekchurch, will be solemnly abjured byRussia; that a regenerated order ofecclesiastical superintendents willcome from the East, when their ownsect, the only true church of God, willreign triumphant wherever the nameof Russia is heard. The reign of Antichristbegan with Nicon; it still subsists,and will endure until the adventof the Lord, who is to smite the unbelievers,and scatter the darkness thatenvelopes the earth. Though a regularlyordained priesthood is not recognised,yet a sort of religious organisationis admitted by the Philipponsection of it. Instead of the popes ofthe orthodox church, they have a classof men whom they term Stariki, orElders, and who are selected from anumber of candidates. The ceremonyof installation consists in a few wordsof prayer, and the accolade in the presenceof the congregation. The elders,who are distinguished by a particularcostume, have no regular stipend, butsubsist entirely on alms. In case ofmisconduct, they are not only deprivedof their office, but expelled altogetherfrom the community. The Philipponsretain the rite of confession; but theavowal of their sins is made, not to aliving man, but to an image, whichacts by way of conductor to the pardonwhich is sent down from heaven.An elder, however, stands by as awitness of the confession and forgiveness;and while the long story ofoffences, mortal or venial, is unfolded,his duty consists in crying out at regularintervals, “May your sins beforgiven!” The simple exclamation, inthe presence of three witnesses, that aman takes a woman to wife, is theonly ceremony required for marriage,nor is it indispensable that the eldershould be present. The portion of theBible translated by Saint Cyril is theonly part of it they retain. Theirdoctrine of the procession of the HolyGhost is the same as that of the GreekChurch. They believe that the soulsof the dead are sunk in a profoundlethargy from the moment they quitthe body until the general judgment,to which they will be summoned bythe archangel’s trumpet. On thatawful day the souls of the wicked onlyare to resume their bodies, and passinto eternal fire. Their fasts, whichcomprise a third of the year, are of thestrictest. They rigorously abstainfrom malt liquors; and though, oncertain specified occasions, wine ispermitted, yet the moderate draughtmust be administered from the handof one of their own sect. In the matterof oaths they are quite as rigid asthe Society of Friends. They are distinguishedby no family name, butonly by that received at their birth.Their differences are all settled beforea tribunal composed of an elder andtwo or three of the sect, who must,however, be fathers of families; andfrom this decision there is seldom anappeal. Between husband and wifea complete community of goods exists,and the surviving partner inherits all.

The Theodosians do not much differfrom the Philippons. Their women,however, have a separate place ofworship from the men, where the serviceis celebrated by ancient maidens,called Christova Neviestu, or the Betrothedof Christ. The Theodosianshave a large hospital in the city of Moscow,with two magnificent churches.The former affords accommodation formore than a thousand patients. Communismhas penetrated into all thesesects. Among the subdivisions of thegreat sect of the Starowertzi marriageis not regarded as a bond which lastsfor life, or which can only be severedby divorce. A man and woman agreeto live together for one or more years,as it may suit their convenience.They separate on the expiry of theircontract, and become free to receivea similar offer from any one else,while the issue of such temporarymarriages belongs to the public, withoutany special notice from theparents.

The Douchobertzi, or Wrestlers inSpirit, are, like the Malakani, or Drinkersof Milk, divided into seven fractions,and are remarkable for theirhostility to the official church. Theirdoctrines consist of the leading pointsof the old heresies, and they constitutea theological system more developed,though not more uniform,than any of the previous sects. Someof their doctrines are so vague, andso inconsistent, that what is regardedas fundamental in one district, oreven in one village, is considered ascorrupt or as unimportant in anothernot perhaps a league off. Differentfrom the Starowertzi, who strictly adhereto traditional observances, theyare incessantly making innovationsin the fundamental doctrines of theorthodox church. The Starowertziare particularly scrupulous about formand ceremonial; the Douchobertzi, onthe contrary, reject all forms of worship,and spiritualise the church.The influence of these spiritualists isnot yet felt to any considerable extentin Russia. Though offshoots ofthe Malakani, or Milk Drinkers, thesetwo sects hate each other most cordially.

The use of milk preparations duringLent, and on days of rigid abstinence,explains the name by which the Malakaniare known to their adversaries,but the designation by which theydescribe themselves is Istinie Christiane,or True Christians. They areof modern date, and first becameknown in the middle of the last century,when they appeared in the governmentof Tambon. They soonspread into neighbouring governments,and their most successful proselytismhas been among the peasantry. Threelarge villages in the Taurida are entirelypeopled by this sect. Like theLatin Church, they admit seven sacraments,but they receive them onlyin spirit. As with them the “church”is merely a spiritual assemblage ofbelievers, they have no temples forthe celebration of divine worship.Images they do not tolerate, andswearing on any account, or in anyform, is severely interdicted. One oftheir leading doctrines is, that withthem alone Jesus Christ will reign onthe earth. A precursor of that spiritualmillennium, who assumed to bethe prophet Elias, appeared in 1833.He exhorted the Malakani to prepare,by rigid fasting and mortification, forthe advent of the Saviour, whichwould take place in two years. Abrother fanatic or accomplice, underthe biblical appellation of Enoch, wenton a similar mission, to announce thetidings to the barbarians of westernEurope. When the duty of the originalimpostor, whose real name wasBeloireor, was accomplished, he announcedhis approaching return toheaven in a chariot. Thousands ofthe Malakani assembled to witnessthe ascent of the prophet, who presentedhimself to the kneeling multitudeclothed in flowing robes of whiteand blue, and seated in a car drawnby white steeds. The new Elias rose,spread out his arms, and waved themup and down, as a bird his wingswhen preparing to mount into thesky. He bounded from his chariot,but instead of soaring gracefully tothe clouds, fell heavily and awkwardlyin the mire, and killed a woman whostood by clinging to the wheels. Themultitude had fasted, prayed, wept, andwatched, and their imaginations hadbecome excited to the highest pitch.Enraged at the disappointment, orconvinced of the imposture of the prophet,they rose against him, and wouldhave slain him, had he not contrivedto escape the first burst of their fury.He was afterwards caught, and, withmore judgment than could be expectedfrom them, they contented themselveswith handing him over to thetribunals to pay the penalties of imposture.He endured a long imprisonment;but neither his disgracenor the fear of the knout preventedhim from predicting to the last dayof his existence the near advent ofthe millennium. His persistence conciliatedformer, and obtained him newdisciples. They became more numerousafter his death; but the scene oftheir labours was changed; they wereforced to emigrate to Georgia, wherethey still carry on their propagandism.

It is a curious fact that, when Napoleoninvaded Russia, the great captainwas regarded by the Malakani as“the Lion of the Valley of Josaphat,”whose mission was to overthrow the“false emperor,” and restore to powerthe “White Czar.” A numerous deputationfrom the government of Tambon,preceded by heralds clothed inwhite, was sent forth to meet him.Their privilege did not protect them.Napoleon, or his marshals, had nogreat sympathy with fanatics; theywere considered as prisoners of war:one only escaped, the others werenever heard of again.

The Douchobertzi are the illuminatiof Russia, and the term applied tothem by the common people is Yarmacon,or Free Masons. Thoughthis sect really dates from the middleof the eighteenth century, it affects totrace its origin to a very remoteperiod, claiming as its founders theyouths who were flung into the furnaceby order of Nebuchadnezzar.The corruption and fall of the soul ofman, long previous to the creation ofthe material world, forms the basis oftheir faith. The “Son of God” meansthe universal spirit of humanity; andthe assumption of the form of manwas in order that each individualmember of mankind might also possessthe attributes of the Son of God. TheDouchobertzi admit that in the personof Christ the world has been saved;but the Christ whose death is recordedin Holy Writ was not the real Redeemer;it was not He who madeatonement for man; that belongs onlyto the ideal Christ. Forms of worship,and, of course, temples, are rejectedby them. Each member of the sectis himself a temple, where the “Eternal”loves to be glorified, and manis at once temple, priest, and victim;or, in other words, the heart is thealtar, the will the offering, and thespirit of man the pontiff. They areall equal in the sight of God, and theyadmit the supremacy of no creatureon the earth. The more rigorous ofthe Douchobertzi carry their severityof morals to an extreme, and withthem the most innocent and mostnecessary recreations are heinouscrimes. But the majority pass to theother extreme, and strange stories aretold of the orgies practised in secretunder the guise of devotional exercises.The Douchobertzi, like otherfanatics, expect the triumph of theirown sect over the world. Evennow the fulness of time is nigh athand; and when the awful momentcomes, they will rise in their accumulatedand resistless force, and spreadterror over the earth. Their chiefwill be the only potentate who shallreign in unbounded power, and allmankind will gather round the footstepsof his throne, bow their headsto the dust, veil their eyes before theglory that flashes fiercely from hisbrow, and proclaim his boundlesspower and his reign without end.But this triumph must be precededby a season of trial and sorrow.Their Czar must previously undertakea mighty struggle against all misbelievers.It will be terrible, but brief;the Douchobertzi shall, of course, winthe victory, and, in the person of theirchief, mount the throne of the worldto reign for ever and for ever! TheRussian authorities have repeatedlyattempted to crush a sect whose tendenciesare so menacing; but the taskis difficult against a body who haveno acknowledged leader, no priesthood,and no place of worship. Amongthe few puritans who take no painsto conceal their doctrines, they haveto a certain extent succeeded. Oneof the most eminent of them was aman named Kaponstin, who wasreverenced as a divinity. In consequenceof some dissensions with theMalakani, to whom he originally belonged,he separated from them,preached new and still more extravagantdoctrines. Numerous proselytesquitted with him their old villages,and took up their abode in theTaurida. There they founded ninevillages, which a few years ago containeda population of nine thousandsouls, professing the more rigid doctrinesof the Douchobertzi. Kaponstinhad been a sub-officer in the imperialguard, was of studious habits, and ofthe most scrupulous exactness in theperformance of his military duties.His fanaticism came on him all of asudden. One day, in the guardroom,he stood up among the soldiers,whom he had previously won over tohis doctrine, and summoned them tofall down on the ground and adorehim, as he was the Christ—a commandwhich most of them instantly obeyed.Kaponstin was degraded from hisrank, and committed to prison; buton its being found that he was totallyunfitted for a military life, he was released,and he at once resumed hispreachings. Kaponstin taught thatthe Divine soul of Christ had, fromthe beginning of the world, dwelt ina succession of men, who alone were,each in turn, the true heads of thechurch. As mankind degenerated,and became unworthy of the sacreddeposit, false popes usurped the dignityand attributes of the Son of God.The Douchobertzi were now the soleand true guardians of the treasurewhich especially dwelt in him asthe incarnation of the sect. His followersbelieved him at his word,and fell down and worshipped him.Kaponstin again attracted the attentionof the authorities, and was againthrown into prison. A large sum ofmoney, the produce of the contributionsof hundreds of thousands, wasoffered as a bribe to the gaoler—andwhen did a Russian functionary refusea bribe? He regained his liberty, fledto the forests, was once more hunteddown, but baffled the vengeance of hispursuers. He shut himself up in acavern in the remote districts of theTaurida, and under the vigilant eye ofhis followers, by none of whom hissecret was revealed, passed there theremaining years of his life, preaching,believed, and adored. His retreat thepolice did not or would not discover;when he died is known only to a few.The mantle of Kaponstin was assumedby his son, who proved himself unworthyof wearing it. At the age offifteen he was received by his father’sdisciples as his true successor, and theChrist of the Douchobertzi. At hisinstallation the grand council of thesect assembled, and the first resolutionadopted was that ten concubinesshould be allotted to their youthfulprophet, Hilarion Kaponstin. He didnot merit the reverence paid him, nordid he inherit a particle of the intellector the courage of his father. Fromthe day of his installation he gavehimself up to the most debasing sensuality.The father had instituted acouncil, composed of forty members,twelve of whom represented theapostles. This council took advantageof the incapacity of its boy-prophet,and from being merely a legislative,assumed the functions of anexecutive power, which it exercisedmost tyrannically. It soon becamethe scourge of the community.As the members of the council wereonly divine by reflection, it was nocrime to shake off its usurped authority,and the sect rose in rebellion. Thetyrants were seized, tried in secretconclave, and sentence of death pronouncedagainst them, for usurpationand cruelty. A lonely isle nearthe mouth of the Malotschua wasselected for the execution, and therethey suffered the last penalty. There,also, during the two years whichfollowed that event, more than fivehundred members of the sect were putto death, suspected of having revealedthe secrets of its orgies. They weredrowned in the stream, or perished bythe halter or the knife; at all events,they disappeared, and were nevermore heard of. These doings, evenin that remote district, could not longbe kept secret. The police bestirredthemselves; the isle where so manydeeds of murder had taken place wasvisited, and closely searched; andnumerous bodies that had apparentlybeen buried alive, carcasses strangledor hacked to pieces, and mutilatedlimbs, were found in abundance. Someyears were spent in the inquiry, andthe issue was, that at the close of1839 the government ordered thecomplete expulsion of the Douchobertziof the Malotschua. Many witheredand perished amid the snows of theCaucasus. Their nominal chief, HilarionKaponstin, died in 1841, at Achaltisk,in Georgia, leaving behind himtwo infants, in whom the Douchobertzistill hope to see their Christ revived.

Those we have sketched are but afew specimens of the long catalogue ofsects who disavow the dogmas of theChurch of St Petersburg, and denounceits Holy Synod. There areothers that work in obscurity, butwith perseverance, and gradually, butsteadily, sap its foundations. Most ofthose doctrines lead to the completedisruption of all moral bonds, and thedissolution of society; and sensuality,plunder, and cruelty seem to pervadethe gloomy reveries in which theRussian peasant indulges. We havereason to believe that the stirringof that dangerous spirit which aimsat the overthrow of all authority,has given serious uneasiness to theRussian government; and that theconspiracies which have more thanonce been found to exist in the army,are traceable to that dark and sternfanaticism! Education, of course, isthe remedy for the evil. In Russia,however, the maxim of Bacon is reversed,and there ignorance, notknowledge, is believed to be power.If education once teach the Russianserf to regard the Czar as less than theDeity, how long would that despotismendure?

Such, then, is the “orthodoxy”which the Czar would extend oversouthern Europe, whose doctrines andwhose unity he would impose onGreece; and such the religious protectoratewith which the Greek Christians,the subjects of the Porte, aremenaced. Those pretensions have nofoundation, no justification, in civil orreligious law; they are not based onthe laws of any civilised community.The orthodox Church of Russia is butthe erring offspring of the Church ofConstantinople; and she is brandedon the forehead by that Church withschism. It was from the Church ofConstantinople that, down to thefifteenth century, she received herpatriarchs, who never advanced pretensionsto equality with the Byzantinepontiffs. What they might haveattained to, it is now useless to inquire,for the link which bound thatChurch to her parent was, as we haveshown, severed for ever by Peterthe Great. By the same right as theCzar, the sovereign of France mightclaim a protectorate over the Catholicsof Belgium or Northern Germany;or call upon the Autocrat himself torender an account of the Poles, orothers of his Catholic subjects. Russiahas no claim to eminence in piety,in learning, in antiquity, in superiormorality, or in extent of privilege.Her Church has been for years forcedto maintain a separate struggle againstsects more or less hostile to her Synod,and to her temporal authority. Eachprelate, each dignitary of her establishment,is, with respect to the Czar,precisely what the meanest serf is tohis lord, and the mass of her priestsare sunk in ignorance. The questionof the Holy Shrines is invariably themask assumed by Russia to coverher designs in the East. The right onwhich the nations of the West claimto protect the Cross from the Infideldates from the Crusades. Among thehosts which the enthusiasm and eloquenceof the Hermit sent forth to dobattle with the Mussulman, and to liberatefrom the cruel yoke of the misbelieversthe land which witnessed themystery of the Redemption, the nameof Russia is not to be found. Thesebarbarians had then their necks bowedunder the rule of the Tartars; theywere then crowding to the tents of theKhans, kissing the hoofs of their masters’horses, or presenting, as slaves,the draught of mares’ milk, too happyif permitted to lick from the dust thedrops that fell from the bowl.

Perhaps we ought to offer an apologyfor the length of this paper. Butwe were desirous of showing, first,that the hom*ogeneity of the Russianand Eastern Churches, on which theCzar lays his strongest claim to theprotectorate he demands, has nofoundation in fact, and that theChristian communities on which hewould impose his protection deny theorthodoxy of his faith, and regard himas the usurper of spiritual power;second, that the doctrines of theSynod of St Petersburg are denouncedby Russians themselves, and the establishmentopposed by a formidablesectarianism, and that that Church isitself rather in a condition to requireprotection against its internal enemiesthan to afford it to others; third,that even supposing the Russian andEastern Churches to be identical, theprotectorate in question would, in consequenceof the temporal privilegespreserved by the Patriarch of Constantinople,as already noticed, be thepositive introduction of a dangerousforeign influence in the domestic administrationof the Ottoman empire,and that the Sultan would therebybecome the vassal of the Czar;fourth, that as there are numerousChristian subjects of the SublimePorte who do not belong to the Greekcommunion, their protector, whereprotection is needed, cannot be theCzar; and, fifth, that the semi-independentMoldo-Wallachians also disavowthe doctrines of the RussianChurch, and reject her protection.

We do not pretend to speak withenthusiasm of the Ottomans, but itmust be admitted, that what has occurredsince the commencement of thepresent quarrel is not to their disadvantage.Unlike the Czar, theSultan has made no appeal to themere fanaticism of his people, norhas he attempted to arouse the fiercenessof religious hatred against theGiaour, which he might have done. Hisappeal has been to their feeling of nationality—suchan appeal as every governmentwould make in similar circ*mstances.Nor are the events whichhave taken place on the Danube likelyto inspire the world with contempt forOttoman valour and patriotism. Ifleft alone to struggle with their powerfuladversary, the Turks must succumb;but in the present campaignthey have, at all events, proved themselvesto be good soldiers.

The momentous question of a generalwar is, at the moment we writethese lines, trembling in the balance;and the decision is with Austria. Butwhatever be the phase into which thegreat Eastern question is about toenter, we have one decided opinionon the policy of Russia. It is thusexplained, not by a hostile or aforeign writer, but by a Russian historian,the eloquent Karamsin, in thefollowing brief sentences: “The objectand the character of our militarypolicy has invariably been, to seek tobe at peace with everybody, and tomake conquests without war; alwayskeeping ourselves on the defensive,placing no faith in the friendship ofthose whose interests do not accordwith our own, and losing no opportunityof injuring them, without ostensiblybreaking our treaties with them.”

Nature, it would seem, has fortunatelyprovided against the simultaneousdevelopment of kindred geniusand intellect amongst human families.Such, at least, is the general rule, andit is a beneficent one. For if a suddenfrenzy were to seize the whole clansof Brown, or Smith, or Campbell, orThomson—were the divine afflatusbreathed at once upon the host, morenumerous than that of Sennacherib,of the inheritors of the above names,undoubtedly such a confusion wouldensue as has not been witnessed sincethe day of the downfall of Babel.Passing over three of these greatdivisions of the human race, as locatedin the British Islands, let us confineour illustration simply to the sons ofDiarmid. Without estimating thenumber of Campbells who are scatteredover the face of the earth, wehave reason to believe that in Argyllshirealone there are fifty thousand ofthat name. Out of each fifty, at leasttwenty are Colins. If, then, a poeticalepidemic, only half as contagious asthe measles, were to visit our westerncounty, we should behold the spectacleof a thousand Colin Campbells rushingfrantically, and with a far crytowards Lochow, and simultaneouslytwangling on the clairshach. Fame,in the form of a Druidess, might announce,from the summit of KilchurnCastle, the name of the one competitorwho was entitled to the wreath; buttwice five hundred Colins would pressforward at the call, and the questionof poetic superiority could only bedecided by the dirk. Fortunately, aswe have already observed, natureprovides against such a contingency.Glancing over the cosmopolitan directory,she usually takes care that notwo living bards shall bear preciselythe same appellation; and if, sometimes,she seems to permit an unusualmonopoly of some kind of talent inthe same family or sept, we almostnever find that the baptismal appellationscorrespond. Thus, in the daysof James I., there were no less thanthree poetical Fletchers—John, thedramatist; Phineas, the author of thePurple Island; and Giles, the brotherof Phineas. Also there were twoBeaumonts—Francis, the ally of thegreater Fletcher, and Sir John, hisbrother. In our own time, the poeticmantle seems to have fallen extensivelyon the shoulders of the Tennysons.Besides Prince Alfred, whom we allhonour and admire, and to whom morethan three-fourths of our young versifierspay homage by slavishly imitatinghis style, there was Charles, whosevolume, published about the sametime as the firstling of his brother,was deemed by competent judges toexhibit remarkable promise; andwithin the last few months, anotherTennyson—Frederick—has boundedlike a grasshopper into the ring, andis now piping away as clearly as anycicala. And here, side by side, amidstthe mass of minstrelsy which cumbersour table, lie two volumes, on thetitle-page of each of which is inscribedthe creditable name of Arnold.

We have not for a considerabletime held much communing with therising race of poets, and we shall atonce proceed to state the reason why.Even as thousands of astronomers arenightly sweeping the heavens withtheir telescopes, in the hope of discoveringsome new star or wanderingcomet, so of late years have shoals ofsmall critics been watching for theadvent of some grand poetical genius.These gentlemen, who could not, iftheir lives depended on it, elaborate asingle stanza, have a kind of insaneidea that they may win immortal fameby being the first to perceive and hailthe appearance of the coming bard.Accordingly, scarce a week elapseswithout a shout being raised at thebirth of a thin octavo. “Apollodorus,or the Seraph of Gehenna, a DramaticMystery, by John Tunks,” appears;and we are straightway told,on the authority of Mr Guffaw, thecelebrated critic, that:—“It is a workmore colossal in its mould than theundefined structures of the now moulderingPersepolis. Tunks may not,like Byron, possess the hypochondriacalbrilliancy of a blasted firework, orpour forth his floods of radiant spumewith the intensity of an artificial volcano.He does not pretend to thespontaneous combustion of our youngfriend Gander Rednag (who, by theway, has omitted to send us his lastvolume), though we almost think thathe possesses a diviner share of thepoet’s ennobling lunacy. He does notdive so sheer as the author of Festusinto the bosom of far unintelligibility,plummet-deep beyond the range ofcomprehension, or the shudderinggaze of the immortals. He may notbe endowed with the naked eagle-eyeof Gideon Stoupie, the bard of Kirriemuir,whose works we last weeknoticed, and whose grand alcoholicenthusiasm shouts ha, ha, to themutchkin, as loudly as the call of thetrumpet that summons Behemothfrom his lair. He may not, like theyoung Mactavish, to whose risingtalent we have also borne testimony,be able to swathe his real meaning inthe Titanic obscurity of the parti-colouredOssianic mysticism. He maynot, like Shakespeare, &c. &c.” Andthen, having occupied many columnsin telling us whom Mr Tunks doesnot resemble, the gifted Guffaw concludesby an assurance that Tunks isTunks, and that his genius is at thismoment flaring over the universe,like the meteor-standard of theAndes!

Desirous, from the bottom of ourheart, to do all proper justice to Tunks,we lay down this furious eulogium,and turn to the volume. We find, aswe had anticipated, that poor Tunksis quite guiltless of having written asingle line of what can, by any stretchof conscience, be denominated poetry—thatthe passages which Guffawdescribes as being so ineffably grand,are either sheer nonsense or exaggeratedconceits—and that a very excellentyoung man, who might havegained a competency by following hispaternal trade, is in imminent peril ofbeing rendered an idiot for life by thefolly of an unscrupulous scribbler.Would it be right, under those circ*mstances,to tell Tunks our mind,and explain to him the vanity of hisways? If we were to do so, the poorlad would probably not believe us;for he has drunk to the dregs thepoisoned chalice of Guffaw, and isready, like another Homer, to beg forbread and make minstrelsy throughinnumerable cities. If we cannot hopeto reclaim him, it would be uselesscruelty to hurt his feelings, especiallyas Tunks is doing no harm to anyone beyond himself. So we regardhim much as one regards a butterflytowards the close of autumn, with thewish that the season of his enjoymentmight be prolonged, but with thecertainty that the long nights andfrosty evenings are drawing nigh.Little, indeed, do the tribe of theGuffaws care for the mischief they aredoing.

Or take another case. Let us supposethe appearance on the literarystage of a young man really endowedwith poetic sensibility—one whosepowers are yet little developed, butwho certainly gives promise, conditionallyon proper culture, of attainingdecided eminence. Before we knowanything about him, he is somehow orother committed to the grasp of theGuffaws. They do not praise—theyidolise him. All the instances ofyouthful genius are dragged forth tobe debased at his feet. He is told, inas many words, that Pope was agoose, Chatterton a charlatan, KirkeWhite a weakling, and Keats a driveller,compared with him,—at any rate,that the early effusions of those poetsare not fit to be spoken of in the samebreath with what he has written at asimilar age. There are no bounds tothe credulity of a poet of one-and-twenty.He accepts the laudation ofthose sons of Issachar as gospel, and,consequently, is rather surprised thata louder blast has not been blownthrough the trumpet of fame. Hiseulogists are so far from admittingthat he has any faults, that they holdhim up as a pattern, thereby excitinghis vanity to such an extent that anhonest exposition of his faults wouldappear to him a gross and malignantoutrage. It is really very difficult toknow what to do in such cases. Onthe one hand, it is a pity, without aneffort, to allow a likely lad to be flyblownand spoiled by the buzzingblue-bottles of literature; on the other,it is impossible to avoid seeing thatthe mischief has been so far done, thatany remedy likely to be effectualmust cause serious pain. To tie up aGuffaw to the stake, and to inflict uponhim condign punishment—a resolutionwhich we intend to carry into effectsome fine morning—would be far lesspainful to us than the task or duty ofwounding the sensitiveness of a youthwho may possibly be destined to be apoet.

Setting, for the present, the Guffaws,or literary Choctaws, aside, we havea word to say to a very different classof critics, or rather commentators;and we desire to do this in the utmostspirit of kindness. WhetherAristotle, who could no more haveperpetrated a poem than have performedthe leger-de-main of theWizard of the North, was justified inwriting his “Poetics,” we cannotexactly say. More than one of histreatises upon subjects with which hehardly could have been practicallyconversant, are still quoted in theschools; but we suspect that his authority—paramount,almost, during themiddle ages, because there were thenno other guides, and because he foundhis way into Western Europe chieflythrough the medium of the Moors—isfast waning, and in matters of tasteought not now to be implicitly received.Aristotle, however, was agreat man, far greater than Dr Johnson.The latter compiled a Dictionary;Aristotle, by his own efforts,aspired to make, and did make, a sortof Encyclopædia. But he composedseveral of his treatises, not because heconceived that he was the person bestqualified to be the exponent of thesubject, but because no one reallyqualified had attempted before him toexpound it. We have seen, andperused with real sorrow, a recenttreatise upon “Poetics,” which wecannot do otherwise, conscientiously,than condemn. The author is nodoubt entitled to praise on account ofhis metaphysical ability, which we devoutlytrust he may be able to turn tosome useful purpose; but as to poetry,its forms, development, machinery,or application, he is really as ignorantas a horse. It is perfectly frightfulto see the calmness with which oneof these young students of metaphysicssits down to explain the principlesof poetry, and the self-satisfied airwith which he enunciates the resultsof his wonderful discoveries. Far beit from us, when “our young mendream dreams,” to rouse them rudelyfrom their slumber; but we hold itgood service to give them a friendlyshake when we observe them writhingunder the pressure of Ephialtes.

It is one thing to descant uponpoetry, and another to compose it.After long meditation on the subject,we have arrived at the conclusionthat very little benefit indeed is to bederived from the perusal of treatises,and that the only proper studies for ayoung poet are the book of nature,and the works of the greatest masters.To that opinion, we are glad to observe,one of our Arnolds seriouslyinclines. Matthew—whom we shalltake up first, because he is an old acquaintance—haswritten an elaboratepreface, in which he complains of thebewildering tone of the criticism of thepresent day. He remarks with perfectjustice, that the ceaseless babblingabout art has done an incalculabledeal of harm, by drawing the attentionof young composers from thestudy and contemplation of theirsubjects, and leading them to squandertheir powers upon isolated passages.There is much truth in theobservations contained in the followingextract, albeit it is in direct oppositionto the daily practice of theGuffaws:—

“We can hardly, at the present day,understand what Menander meant whenhe told a man who inquired as to theprogress of his comedy, that he hadfinished it, not having yet written a singleline, because he had constructed the actionof it in his mind. A modern criticwould have assured him that the meritof his piece depended on the brilliantthings which arose under his pen as hewent along. We have poems which seemto exist merely for the sake of single linesand passages; not for the sake of producingany total impression. We havecritics who seem to direct their attentionmerely to detached expressions,—to thelanguage about the action, not to the actionitself. I verily think that the majorityof them do not in their heartsbelieve that there is such a thing as atotal-impression to be derived from a poemat all, or to be demanded from a poet;they think the term a commonplace ofmetaphysical criticism. They will permitthe poet to select any action he pleases,and to suffer that action to go as it will,provided he gratifies them with occasionalbursts of fine writing, and with a showerof isolated thoughts and images. Thatis, they permit him to leave their poeticalsense ungratified, provided that he gratifiestheir rhetorical sense and theircuriosity. Of his neglecting to gratifythese there is little danger; heneeds rather to be warned against thedanger of attempting to gratify thesealone; he needs rather to be perpetuallyreminded to prefer his action to everythingelse; so to treat this, as to permitit* inherent excellencies to develop themselves,without interruption from the intrusionof his personal peculiarities—mostfortunate when he most entirely succeedsin effacing himself, and in enabling anoble action to subsist as it did in nature.”

It would be well for the literatureof the age if sound criticism of this descriptionwere more common. MrArnold is undoubtedly correct in holdingthat the first duty of the poet,after selecting his subject, is to takepains to fashion it symmetrically, andthat any kind of ornament which tendsto divert the attention from the subjectis positively injurious to the poem.This view, however, is a great dealtoo refined for the comprehension ofthe Guffaws. They show you a hideousmisshapen image, with diamondsfor eyes, rubies stuck into the nostrils,and pearls inserted in place of teeth,and ask you to admire it! Admirewhat? Not the image certainly, foranything more clumsy and absurd itis impossible to imagine: if it is meantthat we are to admire the jewels, weare ready to do so, as soon as theyare properly disposed, and made theornaments of a stately figure. Thenecklace which would beseem thebosom of Juno, and send lustre evento the queen of the immortals, cannotgive anything but additional hideousnessto the wrinkled folds of anErichtho. Mr Arnold, who has inheritedhis father’s admiration forancient literature, makes out the bestcase we remember to have seen, invindication of the Greek drama. Itis as follows:—

“For what reason was the Greek tragicpoet confined to so limited a range ofsubjects? Because there are so few actionswhich unite in themselves, in the highestdegree, the conditions of excellence; andit was not thought that on any but anexcellent subject could an excellent poembe constructed. A few actions, therefore,eminently adapted for tragedy, maintainedalmost exclusive possession of the Greektragic stage; their significance appearedinexhaustible; they were as permanentproblems, perpetually offered to the geniusof every fresh poet. This too is the reasonof what appears to us moderns a certainbaldness of expression in Greek tragedy;of the triviality with which weoften reproach the remarks of the chorus,where it takes place in the dialogue; thatthe action itself, the situation of Orestes,or Merope, or Alcmæon, was to stand thecentral point of interest, unforgotten, absorbing,principal; that no accessorieswere for a moment to distract the spectator’sattention from this; that the toneof the parts was to be perpetually keptdown, in order not to impair the grandioseeffect of the whole. The terribleold mythic story on which the drama wasfounded, stood, before he entered thetheatre, traced in its bare outlines uponthe spectator’s mind; it stood in his memoryas a group of statuary, faintly seen,at the end of a long and dark vista: thencame the Poet, embodying outlines, developingsituations, not a word wasted,not a sentiment capriciously thrown in:stroke upon stroke the drama proceeded;the light deepened upon the group; moreand more it revealed itself to the rivettedgaze of the spectator; until at last, whenthe final words were spoken, it stood beforehim in broad sunlight, a model ofimmortal beauty.”

This is indeed criticism worth listeningto, and the style of it is notless admirable than the matter. Wedo not, however, entirely go alongwith Mr Arnold in his decided preferencefor the antique drama. Wenever arise from the study of Greektragedy without the impression thatit is deficient in richness and flexibility.This, we think, is to be attributedin a great measure to its form,which is not natural; the members ofthe chorus being neither altogetheractors, nor altogether disinterestedspectators. They are interlopers betweenthe audience and the actors,and detract from the interest of thelatter by requiring and receiving explanation.That at least is our feelingafter the perusal of Greek tragedy,but it by no means follows that thesame impression was produced on theminds of a Greek audience. We agreewith Professor Blackie that the grandworks of the Attic three are to be regardedrather as operas than as tragedies,according to our modernacceptance of the term—that theywere framed purposely for musicalaccompaniment and effect—and that,failing these, it is impossible for us toform an adequate estimate of theirpower in exciting sympathy or awakeningemotion. “The man,” says thetranslator of Æschylus, “must certainlybe strangely blinded by earlyclassical prepossessions, if he fails tofeel that, as a whole, a Greek tragedy,when set against the English compositionof the same name, is exceedinglynarrow in its conception, meagrein its furniture, monotonous in itscharacter, unskilful in its execution,and not seldom feeble in its effect.”Most true—and for this reason, thatthe writer of English tragedy seeksno other vehicle of thought or ideathan language; so that, except forscenic display, his play will give asmuch pleasure to, and produce nearlythe same effect upon the mind, if readsilently in the closet, as if broughtupon the stage. It is not necessary,in order to appreciate Shakespeare,that we should have seen his dramasrepresented in the pomp and magnificenceof the theatre. Whereas theGreek artist had to deal with the morecomplex material of words and music.Take away the latter, and you frustratehalf his design; because he didnot mean the words of the chorus tobe studied as poems—he meant themto be heard with the full accompanimentof music. Those who are in thehabit of frequenting the modern operawill readily understand our position.What can be finer than Norma, asrepresented on the stage, when Grisior Caradori assumes the part of theprophetess, imprecates vengeance onthe perfidious Pollio, and implores theforgiveness of the father? Highertragedy than that can hardly be conceived—theeffect upon the audienceof the combined music and action isas powerful as though they had beenlistening to the greatest masterpieceof Shakespeare. But take the librettoof Norma—divest yourself of themusical association—study it in thecloset—and we answer for it that noexercise of imagination on your partwill enable you to endure it. Andwhy is this? Simply because it wasconstructed as an opera, and because,by withdrawing the music, you destroymore than half the charm.

In dramatic compositions, wherelanguage alone can be employed asthe vehicle of thought or sentiment, itis absolutely necessary that the expressionshould be bolder, the stylemore vivid, and the range of illustrationlarger than is requisite in theother kind where music is brought inaid of language, or rather where languageis employed to assist the forceof music. It seems therefore preposterousand contrary to reason, to expectthat we should take as muchdelight or derive as high intellectualgratification from the bare perusal ofa Greek skeleton play, as must havebeen felt by an Attic audience whowitnessed its representation as a gorgeousnational opera. It is even agreater artistical mistake to supposethat we should copy it implicitly.Alfieri indeed did so; but it is impossibleto read one of his plays withoutexperiencing a most chilly sensation.We entirely concur with what MrArnold has said regarding the importanceof subject, symmetry, and design;but we differ from him as tothe propriety of adhering to the nakednessof the Greeks. Let him compare—sofar as that can be done withdue allowance for the difference beingnarrative and dramatic poetry—thestyle of his early favourite Homerwith that of Sophocles, and we thinkhe will understand our meaning.

We confess to have been so muchpleased with Mr Matthew Arnold’spreface, that we turned to his poeticalperformances with no slight degreeof expectation. As we have alreadyhinted, he is an old acquaintance, forwe reviewed him in the Magazinesome four or five years ago, when heappeared in the suspicious characterof a Strayed Reveller. We then pointedout what we thought to be his faults,warned him as strongly as we couldagainst his imitative tendencies, and,we hope, did justice to the geniuswhich he evidently possessed andoccasionally exhibited. Certainly wedid not indulge in ecstasies; but webelieved him capable of producing,through culture and study, somethinggreatly superior to his early attempts,and we did not hesitate to say so.Since then, we are given to understandthat he has published anothervolume of poems, which it was notour fortune to see; and the presentis, with some additions, a collectionof those poems which he considersto be his best, and which were containedin his earlier volumes. It is ahopeful sign of Mr M. Arnold that heis amenable to criticism. More thanone of the poems which we noticedas absolutely bad, are omitted fromthe present collection; and thereforewe are entitled to believe that, onmature consideration, he has assentedto the propriety of our judgment.This is a good feature; for poets generallyseem possessed with a tenfoldshare of stubbornness, and, like mothers,who always lavish their affectionsupon the most rickety of theiroffspring, are prompt to defend theirworst effusions with almost superhumanpertinacity. It is because wefeel a decided interest in Mr Arnold’sultimate success that we again approachhis poetry. We cannot conscientiouslycongratulate him on apresent triumph—we cannot even saythat he has improved upon his earliesteffort; for the “Forsaken Merman,”which we noticed years ago, in termsof high commendation, is still the onegem of his collection; but we thinkthat he may improve, and must improve,if he will only abandon allimitation, whether ancient or modern—identifyhimself with his situation—trustto natural impulse—and giveart-theories to the winds. What hehas to do is to follow the example ofMenander, as quoted by himself. Lethim, by all manner of means, be deliberatein the formation of his plan—lethim fix what he is going to do,before he does anything—but let himnot forget (what we fear he now forgetsor does not know), that, in execution,the artist must beat on his ownanvil, sweat at his own fire, and plyat his own forge. The poem of amaster should bear as distinct andunmistakable marks of the hand thatproduced it, as a picture of Titian orVelasquez, a statue of Phidias, analtar-rail of Quentin Matsys, or agoblet of Benvenuto Cellini. Heavenonly knows how many thousands ofimitators have followed in the wakeof these and other great originalartists; but who cares for the imitations?No one, unless they are sogood that they can be palmed off onpurchasers under cover of the mightynames. Admit them to be imitations,and the merest tyro will hesitate tobid for them. It does seem to usthat men of letters are slower thanany other description of artists inperceiving the baneful effects of imitation.They do not appear to seethis obvious truth, that, unless theycan transcend their model, they aredeliberately courting an inferior place.If they can transcend it, then of coursethey have won the day, but it mustbe by departing from, not by adheringto, the peculiarities of the model.

In so far as Mr Matthew Arnold isconcerned, we do not intend theseremarks to be applicable to his Greekchoric imitations. We spoke of thesebefore, and are willing to take themas classical experiments. Goethe, inhis old age, was rather fond of thiskind of amusem*nt; and it camegracefully from the octogenarian, who,having won his fame as a Teuton,might in his latter days be allowedto indulge in any Hellenic exercitations.And as old age is privileged,so is extreme youth. The youngstudent, with his head and imaginationfull of Sophocles and classicaltheories, even though he may pushthe latter beyond the verge of extravagance,is always an interesting objectto the more experienced man ofletters. Enthusiasm is never to bedespised. It is the sign of a high andardent spirit, and ought not to bemet with the drenching operation ofthe bucket. But Mr M. Arnold isnow considerably past his teens. Heis before the public for the third time,and he still parades these Greek imitations,as if he were confident oftheir worth and power as Englishpoems. So be it. We have nothingin regard to them to add to what wesaid before, except that a much higherartist than Mr M. Arnold must appear,before the British public will beconvinced that such hobbling and unrhymedversification ought to supersedeour own beautifully intoned andindigenous system of prosody.

Of the new poems contained in thiscollection, the most ambitious is entitled“Sohrab and Rustum, an Episode.”We like episodes, becausethey have the advantage of being short,and, moreover, if well constructed, areas symmetrical as poems of greaterpretension. The story is a simpleone, and yet contains in itself theelements of power. Sohrab, the sonof the great Persian hero Rustum, bya princess of Koordistan, has neverseen his father, but, like Telemachus,is in search of him. Being with theTartar army during a campaignagainst the Persians, he conceivesthe idea of challenging the bravestchampion of that host to single combat,in the hope that, if he is victor,Rustum may hear of and acknowledgehim. If slain—

The challenge is given; but Sohrabwas already known far and wideas a handy lad with the scimitar,and a powerful hurler of the spear;therefore the Persians, with theirusual want of pluck, were exceedinglyunwilling to encounter him. Wesubjoin Mr Arnold’s account of thepanic:—

Not one of these fellows with the jaw-breakingnames could muster courageto come forth, like Goliath, againstthe dauntless David of the Tartars.Gudurz, however, bethinks him thatRustum had arrived in the camp theevening before, and of course he wasthe very man for the occasion; so hevisits him immediately after breakfast.All heroes feed, or ought tofeed, voraciously; and judging fromappearances, Rustum was qualified tocompete at a game of knife and forkwith Achilles.

Possibly from the effects of repletion,Rustum for some time refusesto accept the championship, but is atlast taunted into action and takes thefield, but determines to fight unknown.We ought to mention here that Rustum,so far from suspecting his relationshipwith Sohrab, is unaware thathe has any son at all. We must drawon Mr Arnold’s verse for the exordiumto the combat.

Then follows the combat, Homericallyintermingled with a great dealof talk between the champions, untilSohrab falls mortally wounded by hisfather’s spear. Then come the explanations,and Rustum knows thathe has slain his son.

Real poetry, we are sorry to say, isnow so scarce among us, that we cannotafford to dismiss any promisingaspirant with a sneer. From the foregoingextracts it will be seen that MrM. Arnold, in opposition to the tenetsof that school of bardlings so copiouslybeslavered by Guffaw, has adopted,in this poem, a simple and even severemethod of expression. He is nowwriting after Homer—not, indeed,slavishly, but on the Homeric principle;and the question now arises,whether or not he has succeeded. Ouropinion is that this poem is highlycreditable as an attempt in the rightdirection—that it is infinitely superiorto the turgid trash with which we havebeen, of late years, inundated—butthat it has not merit enough to conferlasting distinction on the author. MrArnold, we are aware, has been toldthe reverse; and as the sugared cupis always more palatable than thatwhich contains an ingredient of bitter,he may possibly be inclined to prefersweet panegyric to sincere thoughwholesome criticism. But we are notwriting for him alone; we are attendingto the poetical reputation of theage. In this composition, as it appearsto us, Mr Arnold again suffers throughimitation. He is writing, with deliberateintention, Homerically—that is,he has been keeping Homer in his eye,instead of rivetting it on his subject.Now this is a great mistake. Thepeculiar manner of a poet dependsupon the age in which he lives.There is an enormous gap in world-historybetween “the blind oldman of Scio’s rocky isle,” and MrMatthew Arnold, who dates from“Fox How, Ambleside,” A.D. 1853;and it is a sheer impossibility thatthe two can naturally express themselvesalike. What was nature in theone, is affectation in the other. Homerexpressed himself simply, because hewas addressing a simple audience;and also because his hearty, noble,and grand organisation made himsuperior to rhetorical conceits or affectation.Arnold also expresses himselfsimply; but he does so, not fromnative impulse or inspiration, but becausehe is aware of Homer’s charm.But he frustrates his own intentionby deliberately copying Homer, andmaking his readers painfully awareof it. A true, or at all events a veryaccomplished poet, would not havecommitted this error. Let any man,of really cultivated taste in poetry,read the “Hyperion” of Keats, andthe “Morte D’Arthur” of Tennyson—bothof them splendid poems, anddistinguished by severe simplicity oflanguage—and then compare themwith this effusion of Mr Arnold. Wecannot for one moment doubt theverdict. Keats and Tennyson sawthe principle, but they kept themselvesaway from imitation, gavetheir genius full play, and achievedmagnificent results. Mr Arnold, recognisingthe principle, cannot diverthis eye from the model, adopts thepeculiarities of that, and fails. Infact, imitation is his curse. We saidso more than four years ago, and wenow repeat it. So strong is his tendencythat way, that he cannot, withinthe limits of a composition of moderatelength, confine himself to theimitation of a single renowned poet,but makes patchwork by copying thepeculiarities, even though they areacknowledged blemishes, of another.Thus we find, nearly at the commencementof the poem which weare now discussing, the followingpassage:—

The description—or catalogue—istwice as long as the foregoing extract,but we cannot afford to multiplyquotations. The student of Miltonwill readily recognise the sourceof this inspiration, and will regretthat those very passages, which everysound judge (if he be not an arrantpedant or a schoolmaster) wouldwish to be excised from the pages ofthe “Paradise Lost,” should havebeen selected for imitation by a youngmodern poet.

Further, Mr Arnold errs in beingunnecessarily minute. Here again hemay plead the Homeric example;but we reply, as before, that Arnoldis not Homer. That style of description,which Delille happily characterisesas “peindre les ongles,” is notonly tedious but puerile, and sometimeshas a ludicrous effect. Take,for example, the following detailedaccount of the toilet of an old Tartargentleman:—

Now, supposing that Mr Arnoldhad to describe the uprising of amodern, would he consider it necessaryto favour us with a descriptionof the emergence from the blankets,the deposition of the nightcap, thewrestle into the nether integuments,the shaving-jug, the razor, and allthe rest of it? We beg to assure himthat this passage, so far from beingvigorous, is pure slip-slop; and weare convinced that, on reflection, hewill admit the justice of the stricture.For example; how infinitely moreterse and satisfactory is the one linewhich Shakespeare puts into themouth of poor Ophelia—

What the mischief do we care for thetexture of the stockings, or the peculiarmethod of investiture? Is itnecessary to enter into details regardingthe boots, and to specify whetherthey were Wellingtons or Bluchers?That there are, in this episode, somefine, and one or two noble passages,we are very glad to acknowledge, butit is by no means perfect as a whole.Indeed, even if the bulk of it had beenfaultless, the termination would havespoiled it as a poem; for Mr Arnoldhas been induced, through some extraordinaryhallucination, to destroythe effect of the catastrophe, by superaddinga needless piece of description.We sincerely regret this; because thecatastrophe, when it does come (andit ought to have arrived sooner) isvery fine; and no artist could havedesired a better termination than thepicture of Rustum watching by hisdead son—

Here the poem ought to have ended;but Mr Arnold wishes to try hishand at that very ancient and hackneyedsubject, the description of thecourse of a river; and, the Oxus beingconveniently near, he embarks ona voyage for the Arab Sea.

Not at all bad as a piece of versification,but utterly to be condemnedin the place where it is introduced.

In spite of one or two beautifulpassages—the best being the descriptionof the children at play in thethird part—we cannot enthusiasticallyadmire the poem of “Tristram andIseult.” It is sickly, feverish, andwithal terribly disjointed—affordingno trace of that symmetry of design,the lack of which in modern poetryMr Arnold has very justly deplored.Neither can we say much for the“Church of Brou,” in which, by theway, Mr Arnold has attempted anelaborate description of a painted window,very dull of tint, indeed, whenwe compare it with the gorgeous masterpiecein “The Eve of St Agnes.”On the whole, we are disappointedwith this volume, because we reallythink that Mr M. Arnold might havedone much better. That he has thepower is quite evident; that many ofthe poetical views he enunciates aresound, we have already acknowledged;but, somehow or other, heneither exerts the power continuously,nor adheres in practice to his views.We have a strong impression that hecomposes too coldly and phlegmatically,and without allowing the properscope to his imagination. Thatis always a bad method. The inspirationof the poet is not by any meansa mere figure of speech; it must berealised, if great effects are to be produced.Verses—ay, and good versestoo—may be written to almost anyextent, without the composer experiencinganything like a thrill of emotion;but verses so produced are notof the nature of true poetry. Grandharmonies suggest and develop themselvesonly when the mind is in an exaltedstate; and at such times thepoet cares nothing for the rules of art.If he stops to consider these, he instantaneouslyloses the inspiration.

We cannot, as yet, congratulate MrM. Arnold on high success; but weaugur well of him for the future, andshall be delighted to pay him a moredecided and satisfactory tribute wheneverhe will allow us to do so. Comewe now to the second Arnold—Edwin,of University College, Oxford.

Judging from external evidence, weshould say that Edwin is some yearsyounger than Matthew, and he is fortunately,as yet, altogether free frompoetical theories. Song comes to himas naturally as it does to the bird onthe bough. He cannot help expressinghis thick-thronging and alwaysgraceful fancies in verse; and he frequentlydoes so with the true minstrelspirit. That he should be occasionallya little extravagant is to be expected.All very young poets are so,and we like them the better for it; forwhy should they affect the solemn airsand sententious pomposity of theirseniors? Edwin Arnold is just now inthe very parterre of poesy—cullingflowers with a liberal hand, and bindingthem into a nosegay fit for the acceptanceof his lady-love. Our penwould prove faithless to our fingersshould we attempt to disentangle thatpretty posy, which early genius lays atthe feet of beauty. Why should we reviewhis poems, after the manner ofthe cold critics, carping at what isenthusiastic, and triumphing over errors,from which older brethren of thelyre are by no means exempt? If hechooses, in imitation of “BurleighHall,” to renew the story of the Falcon-Feast,long since told by Boccaccio,and from him dramatised byBarry Cornwall, why should we pointto faults which, in a year or so, hewill discover of his own accord?Never again, we are certain, will he,in a love story, libel his hero and hisheroine as he has done in four lines ofthat ballad—

—thereby implying that the owner ofthe falcon was a brute, and his mistressa deliberate gourmande, gloatingover the trail! The story, even astold by the Florentine, has alwaysseemed to us hideously unnatural.The man who could sacrifice, in coldblood, a dumb creature that lovedhim, would not hesitate, under temptation,to lay a sacrilegious hand onthe weazand of his father; and wepray Mr Edwin Arnold to considerwhat kind of sympathy we should feelfor Ulysses, if his first act, on his returnto Ithaca, had been to drive hisfalchion into the heart of old Argus,who, for so many years, had been lyingneglected at the gate, pining forhis master’s return. Let us rathergive a specimen or so of the betterstyle of our youthful poet. We beginwith the first poem.

A very pretty commencement to apretty poem; the subject of which,however, must be considered as ratherticklish. It is curious that Edwin, aswell as Matthew, has tried his handat the painted window, which wewish he had not done, as the plagiaryfrom Keats is evident:—

O Edwin! what could tempt youto charge your pallet with so manycolours? Don’t you see how ill theyassort together, giving the impressionof a mashed rainbow?—and howdreadfully out of place are the flashinggold lights! They should be“lying,” Edwin, not “flashing;”for the holy moon is looking in, andall within the chamber should be repose.Pray you observe the exquisitetoning of Keats in that passage withwhich you are already familiar, butthe extreme beauty of which you donot yet thoroughly comprehend.

Keats gives the colours in which anangel should be painted—yours, MrEdwin, are too tawdry even for thecoat of Harlequin.

So many of these poems come underthe general title of “Occasional,” thatwe have some difficulty in finding aproper one for extract. Our favourite,on the whole, is “Quentin Matsys,”and from it we select a specimen.

Well then, after having given theseextracts, we may be asked whether wethink that Mr Edwin Arnold is reallyand truly a poet? Look, our dear sir,we beseech you, at that splendid gameco*ck—howglossy in his plumage, howquick in his eye, how massive in hisneck, and how powerful in his limbs!There he walks, proud as the sultanat the head of his seraglio, the prideof his master’s heart, the terror ofevery recreant dunghill within a circleof a couple of miles. Some fewmonths ago he was a mere chicken,whom you might have devoured withparsley-sauce without experiencing apang of remorse. Before that he layin an egg-shell. Now, had you lookedeither on the egg or on the chicken,you could not have stated with proprietythat either was a gameco*ck—andyet there undeniably goes thefinest ginger-pile in the parish. So isit with Mr Edwin Arnold. He maynot be entitled yet to the high andsacred name of a poet—for he is stillexercising himself in verse, and hasnot attained the possession of a distinguishingstyle of his own; but heshows excellent symptoms of breeding,and we doubt not will, in duetime, advance a valid claim to thelaurels. This, moreover, is to be saidin his favour, that he is not treadingin the footsteps of the “intense”school, and that he always writes intelligibly—avirtue which we observea good many modern poets hold utterlyin derision. Let him go on inhis vocation, cultivating his taste,improving his judgment, observingnature, and eschewing gaudy ornament—andhe may hope to win aname which shall be reverenced, whenthose of the utterers of fustian andbalderdash, dear to the heart of Guffaw,are either wholly forgotten, orremembered only with ridicule.

The theatrical season in Paris, nowat its height, has not yet been markedby the production of any particularlysuccessful pieces. At about this timelast year, the clever comedy of LadyTartuffe afforded agreeable occupationto the critics, and abundant amusem*ntto the town. At the Gymnase,the Fils de Famille, of which two versionshave since been produced uponthe London stage, and Philiberte, asparkling three-act comedy in verse,full of wit, but rather Régence in itstone and style, nightly filled thehouse with select and gratified audiences.L’Honneur et l’Argent, M.Ponsard’s respectable and proper,but, in our opinion, wearisome play,had a triumphant run at the Odeon;whilst, at the Vaudeville, the Ladywith the Camelias, who, objectionablethough she was in some respects, wascertainly, as far as talent went, immeasurablysuperior to her variousimitators and successors, drew allParis to her seductive boudoir. Thiswinter no play of decided merit andimportance has been produced at anytheatre. In more than one instance,attempts have been made to proclaimthe success of a piece immense, whenin reality it was most moderate; and,at the Gymnase, Diane de Lys hasreally had a considerable run; butthis has been owing to extraneouscirc*mstances, and to the excellenceof the acting, much more than to anyintrinsic merits of the play, which deriveda sort of scandalous interestfrom a generally-credited report thatthe author, Alexander Dumas theyounger, had merely dramatised anadventure of his own—altering, however,the catastrophe; for the playcloses with the death of the lover,shot by the offended husband. Rumourwent so far as to point to aforeign lady of rank as the originalof the duch*ess Diana, and the playwrightwas blamed for his indiscretion.Whether there were groundsfor such censure, or whether the talewas a mere ingenious invention, industriouslycirculated by the author’sfriends to give a spurious popularityto a rather amusing but very worthlesspiece, it is hard to decide—theone case being quite as probable asthe other. The Gymnase, however,boasts of its Diana as a signal triumph—whichshe may be to its treasury, althoughin other respects she does thetheatre no great credit, beyond displayingan excellent cast and admirableacting. That agreeable theatreneeds something to console it for theloss of its most valuable and accomplishedcomedian, Bressant, summonedby the higher powers from thescene of his numerous triumphs to theclassic boards of the Française. Therehe had the good taste to make hisfirst appearance in a play of Molière’sin preference to the less sterling classof comedy with which he is more familiar;and, both by his acting, andby the enthusiastic greeting he metfrom a crowded house, he at onceproved himself a valuable accessionto the talent and popularity of thefirst French theatre. That establishmentjust now has greater need ofgood new plays than of good newactors. It is unfortunate in its authors,and the drama droops underthe imperial régime. Alexander Dumas—whoseoutrageous vanity andfanfaronades, daily displayed in thecolumns of the new journal, the Mousquetaire,which he owns and edits,have lately made him the laughingstockof Paris,—after writing twofive-act historical plays in about asmany days each, and having themboth accepted by the committee, butprohibited before performance—probablybecause the authorities did notthink the most important theatre inFrance a fit stage for such mountebankfeats of rapid writing—has beenfain to console himself (supposing hisegregious self-conceit not to have sethim above all need of consolation) bythe cordial reception of a one-actcomedy called Romulus, which hasboth humour and character. He hasboasted of this little success almostas much as of the merits of his twogreat failures, the interdicted plays;has published the piece (the idea ofwhich is derived from a passage inone of Auguste La Fontaine’s tales)in the feuilleton of his paper, wherehe also printed monstrous storiesabout his having written it in somewonderfully short space of time. Butthis clever silly man has made himselfsuch a reputation as a Munchausenthat none now believe him; and,moreover, it is very well known inParis that the piece in question wasplanned, and in great part written,by an accomplished French actor,much esteemed in England, to whosecultivated taste and extensive readingsome of the best dramatists ofthe day have on various occasionsbeen indebted for advice and assistance,which they have not all beenso slow as Mr Dumas to acknowledge.

The expectations of many persons,conversant with the relative merits ofthe principal living writers for theFrench stage, were lately raised highby the announcement of a five-actcomedy from the united pens of twoof the most successful of these, MessrsEmile Augier and Jules Sandeau.Both of these gentlemen have distinguishedthemselves as dramatists,although M. Sandeau is perhaps bestknown as the author of some veryclever and agreeable novels. Indeed,since the regretted decease of Charlesde Bernard, few have been moresuccessful in that branch of literature.His style is that in which modernFrench writers have best succeeded—theroman de mœurs, or novel ofsociety, whose attraction and interestdepend rather upon accurate delineationand delicate satire of the habits,follies, and foibles of the time, thanin startling situations and complicatedintrigues. The late Charles deBernard, to whose charming talentwe some years ago devoted an article,and whose collected works have justreceived the well-deserved honourof posthumous republication, was anadept in the style, and was also oneof the most inventive writers of hisday. Most of his novels and talesdisplay, in addition to a refined andextensive knowledge of French societyand character, much ingenuityof plot and originality of incident.Of the same school, Jules Sandeauhas more pathos and sentiment, lessoriginality and wit. Like that ofmost novelists who are also dramatists,his dialogue is terse, spirited,and life-like, although less pointed andsparkling than that of the author ofGerfaut. Occasionally he remindsus of that clever whimsical writer,Alphonse Karr, but of Karr in hishappiest moods, when he abjurestriviality, and produces such novelsas Genevieve and La Famille Alain.One of the favourite stock-pieces atthe Comédie Française, Mademoisellede la Seiglière, is by Sandeau, foundedon his own novel of the same name.Another of his tales, La Chasse auRoman, he dramatised conjointly withAugier, and the piece brought outthe other day, La Pierre de Touche—TheTouchstone—is also founded ona novel by Sandeau, entitled UnHéritage. How is it, many haveasked, that, with an excellent subject—thatof a highly popular romance—towork upon, M. Sandeau and thewitty and experienced author ofGabrielle, Philiberte, and other justlysuccessful plays, have produced acomedy which has been more or lesshissed every night of its performance,and which, instead of awakening thesympathies or exciting the admirationof the public, has produced an impressionso manifestly unfavourable,that the authors deemed it necessaryto publish a letter in explanation andvindication—a letter the publishersof the play have reproduced in theform of a preface? Before replyingto this question, or sketching theplot of the play, we will give a slightoutline of the novel on which it isfounded. Our readers will hardlyhave forgotten another of M. Sandeau’snovels, Sacs et Parchemins, ofwhich we some time ago gave an account.[4]Those who have read, withthe amused interest it could hardlyfail to excite, M. Sandeau’s accountof the vaulting ambition of the retireddraper Levrault, and of thedesperate and ludicrous expedients ofthe ruined Viscount de Montflanquin,in his French Wolf’s Crag, will not beunwilling to follow the same writerupon German ground, to the ancientcastle of Hildesheim, and into thehumble abode of Franz Müller, themusician of Munich. We will brieflyglance at the spirited and characteristicopening chapters of Un Héritage.

It was a great day for MasterGottlieb Kaufmann, notary in thelittle German town of Mühlstadt.Count Sigismund Hildesheim wasjust dead, and his will was to beopened in presence of his assembledrelatives. Gottlieb, attired in suitablesables, the silver buckles of hisshoes replaced by others of burnishedsteel, fidgetted to and fro betweenhis study and his office, hisoffice and his drawing-room, scoldinghis clerks, sending away clients,and watching the clock, whose lazyhands, he thought, crept more slowlythan usual round the dial. Noonwas the hour fixed for the reading ofthe will, and as yet it was but nine.It was an anxious morning for theworthy notary. The very pig-tailthat dangled from his nape quiveredwith impatience. The cause of hisexcitement was his doubt whetherthe heir to the castle and fine estateof Hildesheim would continue to employhim. There were other notariesat Mühlstadt, and all were eager tosecure so rich a client. MasterGottlieb had spared no pains to retainthe lucrative employment. Hisdrawing-room chairs, stripped of thecases that usually protected themfrom the pranks of the flies, weredrawn round a table spread with anold scarlet velvet cover; near thistable, another chair, elevated upon atemporary platform, seemed to presideover the absent assembly. Fromtime to time, Master Gottlieb seatedhimself in it, studied his gesturesand attitude, and contemplated hisreflection in a glass, endeavouring tocombine regret and obsequiousness inthe expression of his habitually jovialphysiognomy. His face was to dodouble duty—to deplore the departedand offer his services to the survivors.Further to propitiate the clients hedesired to secure, Master Gottlieb—himselfof a convivial turn, fond of acool bottle and a merry catch—hadprepared, in an adjoining room, anelegant collation. On a cloth ofdazzling whiteness were temptinglydisplayed cold meats, fragrant fruits,and antique flasks, dim with venerabledust. The notary had sparednothing worthily to honour the memoryand regale the heirs of the departedCount.

Count Sigismund Hildesheim hadpassed, almost from his youth upwards,for an oddity, an original,slightly crazed, and only just saneenough to be intrusted with the guidanceof himself and his affairs. Inreality he was none of those things,but a misfortune in early life, actingupon a singularly sensitive and impressionablenature, had decided hiswhole destiny. As a youth, at theuniversity of Heidelberg, he shunnedthe society of the students, and, of anevening, instead of devoting himselfto beer, tobacco, roaring songs andpolitical theories, he loved to walkout and watch the sunset from thesummit of the beautiful hills that enclosethe valley of the Neckar. Returninghome, on a May night, fromone of these solitary rambles, his attentionwas arrested, as he passedthrough the outskirts of the town, bya fresh and melodious voice, proceedingfrom a window decked and entwinedwith flowers. The song wasone of those wild and plaintive ditties,often of great antiquity, heard in remotemountain districts, seldom written,but orally transmitted from generationto generation. Surprised andcharmed, Sigismund paused and listened;then he cast a curious glanceinto the room. A young girl wasseated at a piano, and by the light ofa lamp he distinguished her to be ofgreat beauty. Thenceforward, everyevening, on his return from his walks,the pensive student lingered at thatwindow. He was seldom disappointed;most evenings the younggirl was at her piano; and the songthat at first had fascinated him wasevidently her favourite. At last—howthis came about it is immaterial toinquire—instead of pausing at thewindow, Sigismund went in at thedoor, and became a constant visitorto Michaële and her mother.

The dwelling of the widow and herchild was humble, but elegant in itspoverty. War, which had robbedthem of a husband and father, hadleft them but a scanty pension fortheir support. Sigismund was asmuch attracted by the mother’s kindand graceful manners as he had beenenchanted by the daughter’s brighteyes and sweet voice. He had losthis own mother when an infant; hisfather’s harsh and haughty characterhad repelled his affection. He founda home, congenial to his tastes andsympathies, in the secluded cottagein Heidelberg’s suburbs, and there heand Michaële formed plans of futurehappiness undisturbed by fear of obstaclesto their union. But Michaële’smother, who at first partook theirhopes, could not repress forebodingsof evil when she remembered thatSigismund was the heir of an ancientand wealthy family. Her fears provedtoo well founded. When Sigismund,on quitting the university, spoke tohis father of his projects, he encounteredan insurmountable opposition,and was compelled to postpone them.As often as he could escape from Hildesheimhe hurried to Heidelberg, topass a few days of mingled grief andjoy. Michaële never complained;she had always smiles and lovingwords to welcome Sigismund, but inhis absence and in secret she pinedaway. At last his father died. Aweek after his funeral the youngcount was at Heidelberg. It wastoo late. Michaële was given up bythe physicians; three days afterwardsshe breathed her last. Morethan once, during those three days ofcruel anguish, the dying girl madeSigismund play the melody that hadbeen the origin of their acquaintance,and which they both passionatelyloved. Often, in happier times, theyhad sung it together, with joy andgratitude in their hearts. It was anair that Michaële had learned whena child, in the mountains of the Tyrol.It had fixed itself indelibly in hermemory, and when she died, in Sigismund’sarms, the sweet melody washovering on her lips.

There is something rather Germanthan French in the strain of the earlychapters of Un Héritage, but they area mere prologue to the book, and areunheeded by the dramatist. Afterthe death of his betrothed, CountSigismund abandoned himself to themost passionate and despairing grief.He remained at Heidelberg with Michaële’smother, who would not quitthe spot where she had dwelt withher daughter. She did not long surviveher bereavement. Sigismundfollowed her to the grave, and returnedto Hildesheim, where he livedin complete retirement, avoiding intercoursewith his neighbours. Hewould not be consoled, and lived alonewith his sorrow. When this becamecalmer, he opened his piano andwould have played the Tyrolese airhe and his departed love had so oftenrepeated. But in vain did he rackhis memory and try every note of theinstrument. The melody had fled,and would not return. It had departedwith the soul of her from whomhe had learned it. His long paroxysmof grief had utterly driven it fromhis recollection.

What does M. Sandeau now, butsend his melancholy hero forth, a pilgrimover hill and dale, in quest ofthe lost melody so inextricably intertwinedwith the memory of her hehad so tenderly and deeply loved.After innumerable efforts to seize thefugitive sounds, after bursts of impatience,anger, almost of frenzy, theenthusiastic Sigismund departed, wanderingin search of an old song. Theidea is fantastical; it may be deemedfar-fetched; but it certainly is notunpoetical.

“He set out for the Tyrol; on thesummit of the mountains, in the depthsof the valleys, he listened to the songsof the shepherds: no voice repeatedthe air Michaële sung. After traversingSwitzerland and Italy he returnedto Germany, and his gentle,touching monomania then assumed anew form. He travelled on foot, likea poor student, listening to everyfresh young voice that met his ear ashe passed through the villages; incities, on the public squares, when hesaw a crowd gathered round a bandof itinerant singers, he joined it, andstirred not from the place until thealfresco minstrels had exhausted theirmusical store. Whilst thus persistingin the pursuit of this Tyrolese air,which fled before him as did Ithacafrom Ulysses, it will easily be understoodthat he paid little attention tothe management of his estate. Beforecommencing his travels, whichhad lasted several years, he had installedin his castle two old cousins ofhis mother, Hedwige and Ulrica vonStolzenfels.”

Hereabouts M. Sandeau shelves sentimentand the pathetic, and strikesinto a vein akin to satire, in which, ashe showed us in Sacs et Parchemins,and some others of his books, he is byno means less happy. The two oldStolzenfels are a capital sketch. Inthe whole course of their lives, prolongedto a period it would be ungallantto guess at, they had had but oneaffection—for a scamp of a nephew,who had ruined them, but whom theystill idolised, although hopeless of hisconversion to better courses. Forthis handsome, reckless officer, whoseinnumerable follies were redeemed, intheir partial eyes, by his good looksand prepossessing manners, they hademptied their purses, sold their diamonds,and left themselves with anincome barely sufficient for their support.They would not have given acopper to a beggar; for CaptainFrederick they would have strippedthemselves of their last dollar, andhave deemed themselves more thanrepaid by a visit from him in his fulldressof captain of hussars. WhenSigismund offered them apartments inhis castle, they gladly accepted them,at first merely as a comfortable homefree of cost; but when they observedhis absence of mind and his total neglectof his affairs, they formed otherprojects. By nature and habit haughtyand sour to everybody but their belovedhussar, they forced themselvesto be gentle and humble with Sigismund.Under pretence of watchingover his interests, they gradually assumedthe whole management of hishouse, and soon it might have beensupposed that he was the guest andthat they were his hostesses. Whenhe set out upon his rambles, Frederick,who was in garrison in a neighbouringtown, installed himself at thecastle and disposed of everything asthough it had been his patrimony,keeping horses, dogs, and huntsmencontinually on their legs. The servants,accustomed to obey the two oldladies, and seeing that they obeyedtheir nephew, obeyed him likewise.Meanwhile Hedwige and Ulrica builtcastles in the air for their darling; or,it should rather be said, they graspedin imagination the one already builton the broad domain of Hildesheim.Sigismund, they were convinced,could not live long, leading thestrange, wandering, unhappy life hedid. Why should he not leave part ofhis property to Frederick? Why notall? How could it be better bestowed?The hussar, to do him justice, enteredinto none of their schemes. He drankSigismund’s wine, thinned his preserves,knocked up his horses, andcared for little besides. When Sigismundcame home for a few days, thecaptain made no change in his habits,and the count, for his part, in no wayinterfered with them.

To the infinite consternation of theold maids, there one day arrived atthe castle a distant relative of Sigismund’sfather, of whom they hadheard nothing for many years, andwhom they sincerely trusted had departedfor a better world. Had athunderbolt dropped into their apronsthey could hardly have been morethunderstruck. Major Bildmann, whohad always been rather a loose character,had just lost his last ducat atthe gaming-table. In this extremity,Dorothy, his wife, could think of nothingbetter than to have recourse toCount Sigismund. She was carefulnot to speak to him of her husband’sirregularities, and concocted a littleromance about faithless trustees andinsolvent bankers, which Sigismundimplicitly believed. He was touchedby the tale of her misfortunes.

“My mother’s two cousins,” hesaid, after listening in silence, “occupythe right wing of the castle;come and install yourself with themajor in the left wing. There willstill be plenty of room for me.”

Dorothy took him at his word. Aweek afterwards she returned withMajor Bildmann, and with little Isaac,an abominable brat whom she had forgottento mention. This matterednot. Sigismund had again quittedthe castle in pursuit of his chimera.

The consternation of a pair of magpies,disturbed in the plucking of apigeon by the sudden swoop of a leashof sparrow-hawks, may give some ideaof the feelings of Ulrica and Hedwigeat this intrusion upon their territory.There was deadly hatred between theright wing and the left. When Sigismundreturned home he did not observethis. The two maiden ladiescertainly insinuated that the Bildmannswere no better than theyshould be; and the Bildmanns scruplednot to declare that the Stolzenfelswere no great things; but Sigismund,whilst they spoke, was thinking of hisTyrolese air, and when they paused,he thanked them for having made hishouse the asylum of every domesticvirtue.

Leaving the inmates of Hildesheimto their dissensions and illusions, andpassing over a few chapters, we seeka contrast in an humble dwelling inBavaria’s art-loving capital. It isthe abode of Franz Müller, the musician,Edith his wife, and Spiegeltheir friend. Franz and Spiegel hadbeen brought up together, and hadpassed the flower of their youth inpoverty, working and hoping. Franzstudied music, Spiegel was passionatelyfond of painting; art and friendshipscared discouragement from theirdoors. For the space of three yearsthey wandered on foot, knapsack onshoulder and staff in hand, throughGermany and the Tyrol, stoppingwherever the beauty of the countrytempted them, and purveying, each inhis own manner, for the wants ofthe community. Sometimes Spiegelpainted a few portraits, at othersMüller gave lessons in singing oron the piano; or when they arrivedin a town on the eve of a great festival,he offered to play the churchorgan at the next day’s solemnity.Art and liberty was their motto. Inthe course of their wandering existencethey visited the most beautiful valleys,the most picturesque mountains,opulent cities, splendid picture galleries,and amassed a treasure of reminiscencesfor future fireside conversation.They resolved never to marry,lest domestic cares should interferewith their enthusiastic pursuit of art.Spiegel kept his word, but Franz, in alittle Tyrolese town, saw and lovedEdith. In vain did the painter drawan alarming picture of the inconveniencesof matrimony; Franz married,and thenceforward his frienddeemed him lost to art. It was reservedfor the gentle Edith to convinceSpiegel of the contrary, and totame his somewhat wild and vagabondnature. When first the newly-marriedpair settled at Munich, heseldom went to see them, but graduallyhis visits became more frequent,until one day, he hardly knew how, hefound himself dwelling under theirroof. In a small house Müller hadtaken, he had reserved a bedroom andstudio for his friend. In that modestabode, situated outside Munich, betweena front court whose walls disappearedunder a drapery of vines anda little garden crowded with sweetflowers, happy years flew by. Happy,but not prosperous. At first Spiegelhad painted pictures, with two orthree of which he was tolerably satisfied,whilst Franz pronounced themmasterpieces. But they found nopurchasers, and the artist, once soambitious, cheerfully resigned hishopes of fame, and gave drawing lessons.Müller had composed sonatasand a symphony; they were as unsuccessfulas Spiegel’s pictures. Vanquishedby the innumerable barriersthat interpose between a poor andunknown musician and the public,he, too, submitted to give lessons.With strict economy they managedto live, but they laid by nothing;and Müller was often uneasywhen he thought of the future, and ofthe two beautiful children Edith hadborn him.

“One evening, during Spiegel’s absencefrom Munich, Franz came homewith a more care-laden brow thanusual, and Edith sat down to thepiano and sang a favourite air, whichhad more than once dispelled his momentarymelancholy. The windowwas open, and her voice, fresh, pure,and sonorous, was audible outside thehouse. Franz listened, his gloom graduallysoftening into reverie, whilstHerman and Margaret rolled uponthe carpet like kittens at play. Thatyoung woman, whose fair hair fell inabundant tresses upon her bare shoulders—thosetwo fine children, joyouslygambolling—the dreamer, whosehand sustained his thoughtful brow,composed a charming picture. Suddenlya stranger appeared, and pausedupon the threshold of the apartment.He had entered so gently, thatnone had heard his steps or now observedhis presence. Edith continuedher song; the intruder listened motionless,and in apparent ecstasy,whilst silent tears coursed down hispale cheeks prematurely furrowed bypain or sorrow.”

At the stranger’s entreaty, Edithagain and again repeated the song,which was from her native Tyrol. Helistened with deep emotion. By ordinarypersons he might have beendeemed mad or intrusive, and receivedaccordingly; but he had had the goodfortune to fall amongst artists. Hepassed the evening with them, conversingas kindly and familiarly asthough they had been old friends.He found means to draw out Franz,to make him speak of himself, hishopes and wishes, his discouragementsand disappointments, his long-cherisheddesire for fame, his uneasinessabout the prospects of his children.Then he asked him to play a piece ofhis own composition. Müller playedone of his best sonatas, to which thestranger listened with the attention ofa judge who will not lightly decide.The piece played out, he seemedthoughtful, but said nothing. PoorMüller, who had expected applause,consoled himself by thinking that theeccentric stranger did not understandmusic. Instead of praising the finecomposition he had just heard, the unbiddenguest, so kindly welcomed, turnedto Edith and asked her for a copyof the Tyrolese air. She had neverseen it noted, she said, and doubtedthat it ever had been, but Franzwould note it for him. “Most willingly”was the reply of the good-temperedartist, who could not repress asmile at the ill success of his own performance.In a very few minutes hehad covered a sheet of music-paperwith spots and scratches. Edith graciouslyoffered it to the stranger. Heseized it with an expression of gratefuljoy, glanced hastily over it, pressedEdith’s hand to his lips, cast an affectionateglance at the children, and leftthe house, as he had entered it, swiftand noiseless as a shadow. He hadnot mentioned his name; his kindhosts had not inquired it; they neversaw him again.

On a certain evening, Count Sigismundreturned to Hildesheim Castle,after one of his long absences, hiscountenance lighted up with a mysteriousjoy. He spoke to no one, putaside the servants who crowded roundhim, and shut himself up in his apartment.Soon his piano was heard resoundingunder his fingers; he at lasthad found the air he so long hadsought. But he did not long enjoyhis victory. He had worn himself outin pursuit of his mania. One morning,subsequent to a night during greatpart of which the piano had beencontinually heard, a servant enteredhis room. Sigismund was still seatedat the instrument, one hand restingon the keys, the other hanging by hisside, his eyes closed, his mouth halfopen and smiling. He seemed to sleep,but he was dead.

There were present at the readingof Count Sigismund von Hildesheim’slast will and testament the two ladiesStolzenfels; Major Bildmann, a brokendowngambler of braggadocio air andvinous aspect; his wife Dorothy, whosethin pale lips, and sharp, hooked nose,gave her no small resemblance to abird of prey; and their son Isaac, a horribleurchin with the profile of a frogand a head of scrubby white hair,who, having been ordered by his motherto behave decorously and looksorrowful, had given his features asulky twist, which considerably augmentedtheir naturally evil expression.The opposed camps of Bildmannand Stolzenfels observed each otherwith dislike and distrust. After somewaiting, the gallop of a horse washeard, and Captain Frederick entered,whip in hand, and his boots coveredwith dust. All who were interestedbeing thus assembled, Master Gottliebbroke the seals of the will, whichthe count had deposited in his keepinga month before his death. Divestedof customary formalities and ofpreliminary compliments to the family,the contents of the document were insubstance as follows:—

“My mother’s two cousins, Hedwigeand Ulrica von Stolzenfels, haveat all times shown me the most disinterestedaffection. To leave me moreleisure and liberty, they have kindlytaken the management of my house,and have superintended, with unceasingzeal and activity, that of my estates.Frederick, by his youth andgaiety, has enlivened my dwelling.To him I am indebted for the onlycheerful moments I for many yearshave known. Since their establishmentunder my roof, the Stolzenfelshave proved themselves my affectionateand devoted friends; theirconduct has excited my admirationand respect, and I desire they shouldknow that I duly appreciate it.”

About this time Hedwige and Ulricaseemed to grow several inches taller,and cast a triumphant glance at themajor and Dorothy. As to Frederick,who, since the reading began, had beensketching with the point of his horse-whip,upon the dusty surface of oneof his boots, a likeness of MasterGottlieb, he gave the last touch tohis work, and commenced upon theother foot the portrait of Isaac. Thenotary continued.

“The straightforward frankness andintegrity of Major Bildmann have been,I here declare, a great consolation tome, after the deceptions of all kinds thatI experienced in my youth. Mrs Bildmannhas vied with my mother’s cousinsin zeal and devotedness. Thecomplete absence of all self-interestedviews has given a noble and affectingcharacter to their rivalry. In returnfor so much attention and care, theyneither asked nor expected other rewardthan my affection. The Bildmannshave an equal right with theStolzenfels to my gratitude.”

This became puzzling. A divisionof the property was the most naturalinference. Master Gottlieb, dubiouswhere to seek the rising sun, smiledbenignly on all around. Urged bythe impatient hussar, he resumed thereading of the will.

“At Munich, at No 9, in the streetof the Armourers, lives a young musician,Franz Müller by name. Hehas hitherto contrived, by hard work,by giving lessons, to support his wifeand children, who tenderly love him.But Müller is no ordinary musician;and his genius, to develop itself,needs but leisure. It is to him, FranzMüller, residing at Munich, at No 9,in the street of the Armourers, that Ibequeath my entire property.”

It is highly improbable that MasterGottlieb’s peaceable parlour had everbefore been the scene of such an uproaras this paragraph of the will occasioned.The major, Dorothy, andthe two old maids, were for attackingthe document on the ground of thetestator’s insanity; but Frederick, whocould not restrain his laughter at thiseccentric close to an eccentric life,firmly opposed this, and the bullyingmajor quailed before his resolute toneand mien. Franz Müller not beingpresent, Master Gottlieb no longertroubled himself to smile on anybody;but, in an authoritative tone, calledattention to the closing passages ofthe will.

“Desiring,” the singular documentproceeded, “to insure, after my death,the welfare of my farmers and servants,which I feel that I have neglectedtoo much during my life, Imake it a condition of my bequestthat Franz Müller shall inhabit thecastle for nine months of every year,and dismiss none of my people. As tomy dear relatives, the Stolzenfels andthe Bildmanns, nothing is to be changedin their manner of life, and they are toinhabit the castle as heretofore. Wishingto insure their independence, it ismy will that Müller shall annually payto Ulrica von Stolzenfels one thousandflorins; to Hedwige von Stolzenfelsone thousand florins; to Frederick vonStolzenfels one thousand florins; toMajor Bildmann two thousand florins,with reversion, in case of his death,to Dorothy Bildmann. And that heshould take from his first year’s revenuea sum of ten thousand florins,the interest on which is to be allowedto accumulate until the majority ofIsaac, to whom interest and capitalare then to be paid over.

“I give to Frederick von Stolzenfelsthe free use of my horses and dogs,with right of chase over my estates.

“I annex to the present will aTyrolese air; I desire that it may beengraved on my tomb and serve asmy epitaph.”

After listening to this strange document,which they declared worthy tohave proceeded from a lunatic asylum,the ladies had no appetite for MasterGottlieb’s collation. The major wouldgladly have tried the contents of thecobwebbed bottles, but his wife draggedhim away. Frederick sprang uponhis horse and galloped off, takingwith him upon his boots the portraitsof Isaac and the notary. This functionary,finding himself deserted byhis guests, called in his head clerk tohelp him to drink the health of theabsent legatee.

Poor, well-meaning, simple-mindedCount Sigismund would have turnedin his grave had he known all themischief and unhappiness, envy, hatred,and discord, of which his extraordinarywill sowed the seed and gavethe signal. The journey from Munichto Hildesheim was, for Franz andEdith, a series of enchanting dreams.There was but one drawback to theirjoy; Spiegel had refused to accompanythem. “No more drudgery, no morelessons!” Müller had enthusiasticallyexclaimed, when a letter from MasterGottlieb, expressing a hope of thecontinuance of the Hildesheim patronage,and enclosing a copy of the will,tied with blue ribbons, confirmedthe intimation of good fortune he hadalready gleaned from a newspaperparagraph. “The world belongs tous; we are kings of the earth! Youshall paint pictures, I will composesymphonies and operas; we will fillGermany with our fame.” And heformed innumerable projects. Theirlife thenceforward was to be a fairyscene, a delightful and perpetual alternationof refined enjoyments andartistic toil. Edith partook her husband’senthusiasm; Spiegel at firstsaid nothing, and when he did speakhe gave his friends to understand thathe could not share their prosperity.He did not like new faces; he preferredthe cottage at Munich to the abodeof a castle, and was proof against allentreaties. Franz and Edith secretlyresolved to buy the little house as agift to their friend. In nine monthsthey would return to see him, andperhaps, when they again set out forHildesheim, he would consent to accompanythem. Whilst preparing fordeparture, and burning useless papers,Franz laid his hand upon the onlysymphony he had found time to write.Carefully turning over its leaves, witha disdainful air, he was about to tossit into the fire, when Spiegel seizedhis arm and rescued the composition.

Müller had written to the Hildesheimsteward to announce his arrival,and to forbid all pomp, ceremony, andpublic rejoicings on the occasion.He thought his instructions too literallycarried out, when, upon reaching,some hours after nightfall, the hugegates of the castle, all decorated withstags’ horns, boars’ tusks, and wolves’heads, he found no servant to receivehim, not a light on the walls or in thewindows, not a torch in the gloomyavenues of the park. After the postilionhad cracked his whip and woundhis horn for the better part of half anhour, a glimmering light appeared, aclanking of keys was heard, and thegates, slowly opening, disclosed thesour visage of Wurm the steward, mutteringmaledictions on the untimelyvisitors. Upon learning who theywere, and at the rather sharp injunctionof Müller, who was exasperatedat the delay, he made what haste hecould to awaken the servants, andushered his new master and mistress intotheir apartments—immense rooms,nearly bare of furniture; for, evenduring Sigismund’s lifetime, the Stolzenfelsand Bildmann, taking advantageof his frequent absence of mind,and from the castle, had stripped thatpart of the edifice he had reserved forhis own use. Edith mentally contrastedthe vast gloomy halls with hersnug abode at Munich, and thoughtit would have been but kind had theladies Stolzenfels and Mrs Bildmannbeen there to receive her. But anight’s rest, a brilliant morning, andthe view of the immense lawns andrich foliage of the park, effaced thefirst unpleasant impression, and, havingpreviously sent to know whenthey could be received, she and herhusband presented themselves in theapartments of Hedwige and Ulrica.On their entrance, the two old ladies,who were seated in the embrasure ofa window, half rose from their seats,resumed them almost immediately,and pointed to chairs with a gesturerather disdainful than polite. PoorEdith, who, in the innocence of herheart, had expected smiling countenanceand a friendly welcome, feltherself frozen by their vinegar aspect.She turned red, then pale, and knewnot what to say. Müller, withoutnoticing the ladies’ looks, recited alittle speech he had prepared for theoccasion, expressive of his gratitudeto Count Sigismund for having bequeathedhim, in addition to his estates,his amiable family. He begged andinsisted that they would changenothing in their mode of life, &c. &c.Why should they change anything?was Ulrica’s sharp and haughty reply;the count had left them by his willwhat he had given them in his lifetime;they had their rights and askednothing beyond them. Hedwige pitchedit in rather a lower key. Theirtastes were very simple. They hadsought neither applause nor luxury atHildesheim. Count Sigismund hadalways put his carriage and horses attheir disposal. Müller hoped theywould continue to make use of them.They were lovers of solitude, Hedwigecontinued, of silence and meditation.With Count Sigismund’s consent theyhad planted a quickset hedge rounda little corner of the park—not morethan two or three acres. It wouldpain them, she confessed, to give upthis little enclosure, whither they repairedto indulge their evening reveries.Franz eagerly assured them that noneshould disturb them in their retreat.Having obtained these assurances,and repelled, with chilling stiffness,Edith’s warm-hearted advances, theamiable spinsters relapsed into silence,which all their visitors’ efforts wereinsufficient to induce them to break,until the upset of a table of old china,occasioned by the gambols of Hermanand a black cat, effectually rousedthem from their assumed apathy.The Müllers beat a retreat and wentto call on Major Bildmann and hiswife, whom they surprised in themidst of a domestic squabble—a circ*mstanceof itself sufficient, hadothers been wanting, to secure thema surly reception. Franz’s mild andgentle bearing encouraged the majorto assume his most impertinent tone,whilst his falcon-faced spouse venturedoffensive inuendoes as to the realmotives of Count Sigismund’s will—inuendoeswhose purport was utterlyunsuspected by the pure-hearted Müllers.Here, too, there was an enclosurein the case, where the majorcultivated the flowers his dear Dorothypreferred, and where the infant Isaacloved to disport himself. As an oldsoldier, Major Bildmann added, heloved the chase, which was the imageof war. The count had allowed himthe range of his preserves. Müllereagerly confirmed him in all his privileges.On quitting the Bildmannwing he found Wurm waiting for himto pass the servants in review. Hemade them an affecting little speech,by which they seemed very littleaffected. Then Wurm named them.There were Mrs Bildmann’s waitingmaidand the major’s valet, the servantsof the ladies Stolzenfels, thecooks of the right and left wings,Isaac’s nurse, Major Bildmann’sbutler, Captain Frederick’s groomsand huntsmen, &c. &c. Müller inquiredfor his own servants—thosethat had been Count Sigismund’s.They were all before him. The twowings had swallowed up the body.Wurm felt secretly surprised at amusician’s needing servants when thecount had done without them. Müllerdryly informed him that CountSigismund’s servants were his, andthat he made him responsible fortheir attention to his service. Hesaid nothing to Edith of this strangescene, and tried to dissipate the painfulimpressions she had brought awayfrom their two visits, by praising themajor’s military frankness and thearistocratic bearing of the sisters.But he was at a loss to explain whythe apartments of the Stolzenfels andBildmanns were richly and sumptuouslyfurnished and decorated, whilstthose the owners of the castle occupiedexhibited little beside bare walls.Meanwhile the right and left wings,between whom there had been a sortof hollow alliance since the reading ofthe will, assembled in conclave. Neverwas there such a voiding of venom.The self-same idea had occurred toall these disappointed and charitablerelations. Edith’s beauty at once explainedthe count’s frequent absencefrom home and his unjust will. Shewas the syren that had led him astray.Little Margaret was his very image.It was a crying shame, a burningscandal. The old maids clasped theirhands and rolled their eyes. Ulricawas for attacking the will on theground of immoral influence and captivation.The major had always beenof the same opinion, but Frederickwould not agree, and nothing shouldinduce the major to fight a memberof his family. The fact was, notwithstandinghis Bobadil airs, Major Bildmannhad very little fancy for fightingwith anybody. The council brokeup, all its members declaring theywould quit the castle sullied by thepresence of these adventurers—allfully resolved to remain and to waitthe course of events.

We must compress into a few linesthe leading incidents of the second halfof Un Héritage. Müller had notbeen a month at the castle, whengreat annoyances succeeded to thepetty disagreeables he had encounteredon his first arrival. MasterWolfgang the Hildesheim lawyer washis evil genius. There was a certainlawsuit, that had already lastedthrough three generations, in which,as Count Sigismund’s heir, he foundhimself entangled. The whole matterin dispute was but half an acre ofland, which Müller would gladly haveabandoned, but Wolfgang proved tohim, as clear as day, the improprietyof so doing, the disrespect tothe memory of the late count, and soforth—and, the most cogent argumentof all, he exhibited to him thesum total of the costs he would haveto pay if he admitted himself vanquished.It was an alarming figure,and ready money was not abundantwith Müller, whom the Stolzenfelsand Bildmanns dunned for their firstyear’s annuity and for the legacy tolittle Isaac; who had to pay for extensiverepairs of the castle, for thecostly mausoleum which, in the firsteffusion of his gratitude, he hadordered for Count Sigismund, andvarious other charges. So the lawsuitwent on—the delight of MasterWolfgang, and a daily drain uponMüller’s purse. The harvest was bad,the farmers asked for time, and grumbledwhen worse terms than their ownwere proposed to them. CarelessCount Sigismund had spoiled allaround him by letting them do as theyliked, and Müller’s greater activityand vigilance, and his attempts tocheck fraud and peculation, speedilyearned him the ill-will of the wholeneighbourhood. Gentle-hearted Edith,anxious to expend a portion of hersudden wealth in improving the conditionof the poor, was soon disgustedby their ingratitude, and was utterlyat a loss to understand the chillinglooks, ironical smiles, and mysteriouswhisperings of which she was theobject whenever she went beyond thelimits of her own park, to which shesoon confined herself. Her servantsshowed no sense of the kindness withwhich she treated them; they, too,had adopted and spread the vile rumoursfirst set abroad by the maliceof the two vixen spinsters and of theBildmanns, with respect to the count’sreal motives for bequeathing his estatesto the Müllers. Fortunately it wasimpossible for Edith, who was purityitself, ever to suspect the real cause ofthe ill-will shown to her. CaptainFrederick, when his regimental dutiespermitted him to visit the castle, discoveredat a first interview, with arake’s usual clear-sightedness in suchmatters, the utter falseness of the injuriousreports in circulation. He becamea constant visitor to the Müllers,and was in fact their only friendand resource in the solitude in whichthey lived; for the neighbouringsquires, the hobereaus of the countryaround, had not returned Müller’svisits, nor taken any notice of himbeyond attacking him at law; someupon a question of water-power,which he had innocently diminishedby winding a stream that ran throughhis grounds, others for damage doneto their fields, by the trespasses ofthe Hildesheim hounds, followed byCaptain Frederick and his huntsmen.Nor was this all—there was discord yetnearer home: Müller’s children, havingtrespassed upon the Bildmanns’ privategarden, were brutally ejected bythe major, whom Müller angrily reproached.The major bullied and insistedupon satisfaction, which Franz,exasperated by a long series of annoyances,was perfectly willing to givehim, and a duel would have ensuedhad not the major, when he saw thatthe musician, as he contemptuouslycalled him, meant to fight, sent anapology. It was accepted, but nextday Müller ordered his three gardenersto root up and clear away thehedges of the Stolzenfels and Bildmannenclosures. The knaves remonstratedand finally refused, and,when dismissed, they refused togo, alleging that the late count’swill deprived Müller of the powerof sending them away. Morework for the lawyers. Müller sentfor labourers, and the hedges disappeared.Notices of action from theladies Stolzenfels and Major Bildmann.The villain Wolfgang chuckledand rubbed his hands, upon which hehad now six lawsuits for Müller’s account.In the count’s crack-brainedwill, drawn up by himself, withoutlegal advice, the letter was everywhereat variance with the spirit.Müller’s apartment was encumberedwith law papers; he could not sitdown to his piano, to seek oblivionof his cares in his beloved art, withoutbeing interrupted by Wolfgang’sparchment physiognomy. As for composition,it was out of the question:he had no time for it, nor was hisharassed mind attuned to harmony.He became morose and fanciful, jealousof the hussar’s attention to Edith,who, for her part, grieved to see herhusband so changed, and sighed forthe cottage at Munich, where Spiegel,meanwhile, had worked hard, hadsold some pictures, had paid the rentthat Franz, in the midst of his troubles,had forgotten to remit to him, andhad purchased, with the fruits of hisown toil and talent, the little dwellingof which, when their prosperity firstburst upon them, the Müllers hadplanned to make him a present. Thecontrast was striking between anticipationand realisation.

No schoolboy ever more eagerlylonged for “breaking-up” day, thandid Müller for the termination of hisnine month’s compulsory abode atHildesheim. It came at last, and heand Edith and their children werefree to quit the scene of strife andweariness, and to return to Munichand to Spiegel. On making up theaccounts of the year, Müller foundthat, out of the whole princely revenueof the estates, he had but a thousandflorins left. He had lived little betterthan at Munich (much less happily),and had committed no extravagance;annuities, legacies, repairs, monument,did not account for half the sumexpended; all the rest had gone inlaw expenses. There remained aboutenough to pay travelling charges toMunich. Müller sent for Wolfgang,forbade him to begin any new lawsuitin his absence, and departed.He found a warm welcome at thecottage. Spiegel received his friendswith open arms, and three happymonths passed rapidly away. Uponthe last day, when Edith and Franzwere looking ruefully forward to theirreturn to Hildesheim’s grandeurand countless disagreeables, Spiegelinsisted upon their accompanyinghim to the performance of a new symphony,concerning which the musicalworld of Munich was in a state of considerableexcitement. The piece, itwas mysteriously related, was fromthe pen of a deceased composer, wasof remarkable originality and beauty,and had been casually discoveredamongst a mass of old papers. Theconcert-room was crowded. At thefirst bars of the music, Müller thoughthe recognised familiar sounds, andpresently every doubt was dissipated.It was his own composition—the despisedsymphony he had been aboutto destroy, but which Spiegel hadrescued. The audience, at the closeof each part, were rapturous in theirapplause. When the finale had beenplayed, the composer’s name was calledfor with acclamations. The leaderof the orchestra advanced, and proclaimedthat of Franz Müller.

A few days later, Master Gottliebthe notary received a letter from thelord of Hildesheim. “According tothe stipulations of the will,” Müllerwrote, “I am bound to inhabit thecastle of Hildesheim for nine monthsin the year. I remain at Munich andforfeit my right to the property.”Forthwith began a monster lawsuit,one of the finest Master Wolfgang hadknown in the whole course of his experience.It was between the Bildmannsand the Stolzenfels. It lastedten years. The major and Dorothydied before it was decided, Isaac fellfrom a tree, when stealing fruit, andbroke his neck. The Stolzenfelstriumphed. The hussar redoubled hisextravagance. The estate, alreadyencumbered with law expenses, wassold to pay his debts. Ulrica andHedwige died in poverty.

It ought surely not to have beendifficult for practised dramatists toconstruct a pleasant and piquant comedyout of the leading idea andplentiful incidents of this amusingnovel, which is by no means the lessto be esteemed because it boldlydeviates from the long-establishedroutine, which demands a marriage asthe wind-up of every book of theclass. It is much more common inFrance than in England for play-writersto seek their subjects in novelsof the day, and it is then customary,often indispensable, to take great libertiesboth with plot and characters,and sometimes to retain little besidesthe main idea of the book. Upon thatidea there is of course no prohibitionagainst improving, but authors whovary it for the worse, manifestly dothemselves a double injury, becausethe public, familiar with the merits ofthe book, are disgusted to find it deterioratedin the play. They look forsomething better, not worse, in thesecond elaboration of the subject, andcertainly they have a right to do so,and to be dissatisfied when the contraryis the case. In the present instance,a most unpleasant play hasbeen based upon a good novel. InEmile Augier, M. Sandeau has takento himself a dangerous collaborateur.He should have dramatised Un Héritageunassisted—as he dramatised,with such happy results, his novel ofMademoiselle de la Seiglière. Thatis a most successful instance of theFrench style of adaptation to thestage. There, too, as in the presentcase, great liberties have been taken.In two out of the four acts, scarcelyanything is to be traced of the novel,which has as tragical an ending asthe comedy has a cheerful and pleasantone. But the whole tenor of theplay was genial and sympathetic. Inthe Pierre de Touche, as the presentcomedy is called, the reverse is thecase, and no wonder that its cynicaland exaggerated strain jarred on thefeelings of the usually quiet audienceat the Française, and elicited hissesrarely heard within those decorouswalls, where silence and empty benchesare the only tokens the public usuallygive of its disapprobation. From ouracquaintance with M. Sandeau’s writings,we do not think that he wouldof himself have perpetrated such a repulsivepicture of human nature as hehas produced in combination with M.Augier. They have obliterated ordistorted most of the best features ofthe novel. In Un Héritage, the characterof Franz Müller is at oncepleasing and natural. He is not representedas perfect—he has his failingsand weaknesses like any other mortal,and they are exhibited in the book,although we have not, in the outlinewe have traced of it, had occasion togive them prominence. But his heartis sound to the last. Wealth may momentarilybewilder, but it does notpervert him. He is true to his affections,and has the sense and courageto accept honourable toil as preferableto a fortune embittered by anxietyand dissension. The reader cannothelp respecting him, and feeling painedat his countless vexations and annoyances.No such sympathy is possiblewith the Franz of the play, who isthe most contemptible of mortals. Amore unpleasant character was probablynever introduced into any book,and it is untrue to nature, for it hasnot a single redeeming point. Theauthors have personified and concentratedin it the essences of heartlessness,selfishness, and of the mostpaltry kind of pride. Somewhat indolent,and with a latent spark ofenvy in his nature, the needy artist,converted into a millionaire, suddenlydisplays his evil instincts. Theirgrowth is as supernaturally rapid asthat of noxious weeds in a tropicalswamp. The play opens in the cottageat Munich. Edith, Franz’scousin, is not yet married to him.An orphan, she had been brought upby his father, at whose death Franztook charge of her. She was then achild, and Franz and Spiegel hardlyperceived that she had become a womanuntil they were reminded of it bythe passion with which she inspiredboth of them. Spiegel, a noble character,generously sacrifices to hisfriend’s happiness his own unsuspectedlove. Edith (the names are changedin the play, but we retain them toavoid confusion) is affianced to hercousin, and on the eve of marriage.Just then comes the fortune. Theauthors have substituted for the Bildmannsand Stolzenfels an elderlyspendthrift baron and an intriguingmargravine and her pretty daughter.The love passages in the life of thedeceased count are cancelled, and heis represented as an eccentric oldgentleman, passionately fond of music,and cherishing a great contempt forhis very distant relations, to whomhe leaves only a moderate annuity.They have scarcely become acquaintedwith Franz when they discern theweak points in his character and conspireto profit by them. Treated withcutting contempt, as a mere parvenu,by the haughty nobility of Bavaria,Franz’s pride boils over, and he consentsto be adopted by the baron andconverted into the Chevalier de Berghausen,at the immoderate price ofthe payment of the old roué nobleman’sdebts. He finds Spiegel awearisome Mentor; to his diseasedvision Edith appears awkward contrastedwith the courtly dames henow encounters. Their marriage ispostponed from week to week, byreason of the journeys and other stepsnecessary to establish Franz in theranks of the nobility of the land.Titled, and with armorial bearingsthat date from the crusades, how muchmore fitting an alliance, the baronperfidiously suggests, would be that ofthe margravine, who graciously condescendsto intimate her possible acceptanceof him as a son-in-law.We are shown the gangrene of selfishnessand vanity daily spreadingits corruption through his soul. Hequarrels with his honest, generousfriend, slights his affianced bride, andfinally falls completely into the clutchesof the intriguers who beset him.His very dog, poor faithful Spark,(his dog and Spiegel’s)—which, as thepainter, with tears in his eyes and acheek pale with anger and honest indignation,passionately reminds him—hadslept on his feet and been his comfortand companion in adversity—iskilled by his order because he didnot appreciate the difference betweencastle and cottage, but took his easeupon the dainty satin sofas at Hildesheimas upon the rush mat atMunich. Edith, compelled to despisethe man she had loved, preserves herwomanly dignity, and breaks off theprojected marriage just as the lastglimmer of honour and affection areon the point of being extinguished inher cousin’s bosom by the dictates ofa despicable vanity. The curtainfalls, leaving him in the hands of hishollow friends, and allowing the spectatorto foresee the union of Edithand Spiegel. Not one kindly touch ofnatural feeling redeems Franz’s faithlessnessto his friend, and to his lovehis ingratitude—for he would many aday have been hungry, if not houseless,but for the generous toil ofSpiegel, who had devoted himself tothe drudgery of teaching, that Franzmight have leisure to mature thegenius for which his partial friendgave him exaggerated credit—his falsepride and his ridiculous vanity. He isleft rich, but miserable. That whichhe has wilfully lost can be dispelledneither by the enjoyments wealthprocures, nor by the false friends whohang on him but to plunder him. Intheir vindication, the authors insiston “the terrible morality” of theirdenouement. We admit it, but do notthe less persist in the opinion thattheir play, although by no means devoidof wit and talent, leaves a mostpainful and disagreeable impressionupon the mind. It presents theparadoxical and complicated phenomenonof a comedy which has beencensured by press and public and yetcontinues to be performed; whichdraws tolerably numerous audiences,and is invariably received with symptomsof disapprobation.

“The Ayrshire Ploughman,” gloriousBurns, tells us that the muse ofhis country found him, as Elijah didElisha, at the plough, and threw herinspiring mantle over him. GratefulCaledonia sent her inspired child toan excise office! and in the discriminatingpatronage the wits of GrubStreet found material for interminablesneers. Did the Southerns, however,reward the author of the “Farmer’sBoy,” and indicate their appreciationof the many fine passages that gracehis “News from the Farm,” by awiser or more generous patronage?The minister of the day (Lord Sidmouth,if we remember rightly) didbestow upon the poet some mostpaltry and ungenial office; but alas!poor Bloomfield died neglected in thestraits of penury, and under the cloudsof dejection. It had been better indeed,in every way, could it have beenso arranged that the marvellous Robinshould have been allowed to sing hislyrics

and that Bloomfield had been permittedto indite more “News from theFarm” amid the pleasant rural scenesthat nursed his pastoral muse. Butthe patronage of genius has neverbeen successful. Unusual peril seemsthe heritage of high gifts, and tominister rightly to such a man asBurns or Bloomfield is no easy task.It is not so with ordinary men, whoseintellectual and imaginative powersharmonise with the common duties oftheir station, and raise no splendidincongruities to be subdued and regulated.But it is not with inspiredploughmen that our country gentlemenand tenant-farmers are calledupon to deal, but with men of commonclay—with the brawny peasantswho till their fields and tend theirherds, and whose toil has turned thesterile North into a garden of Ceres.Have our agricultural labourers beenneglected—have their physical wellbeingand their moral and educationaltraining been overlooked and left uncaredfor, while the classes above themand around them have had their comfortsand privileges, moral and social,infinitely multiplied? This were indeedsad “news from the farm;”but although this were unhappilyproved to be true, we are not thenprepared to pronounce sweeping censureupon the parties apparently mostnearly implicated in the degradationof our rural population. Many, verymany, of the owners and occupantsof the soil, we know, are deeply aliveto the duties which they owe to thelabouring poor who live under them,and discharge them to the best oftheir ability, although not, it maybe, to the extent their benevolentwishes would desire. The questionthat may be raised on such a subjectis not, Have our rural labourers beenleft stationary while the classes abovethem have all been elevated in theirsocial condition? but rather, Are theyworse off, and do they enjoy feweradvantages, than those in the sameclass of life—the industrious poor whoinhabit our large cities and manufacturingtowns and villages? Is theploughman in his bothy unfurnishedwith table or chair, and the peasantin his “clay-built biggin,” damp andsmoky though it be, more miserablyaccommodated with the comforts andconveniences of life than the haggardsons of toil, who are doomed to burrowin the murky lanes and blind alleysof our teeming seats of merchandise?Does the brawny arm and ruddy complexionof the ploughman bespeakdeficient food or raiment, and manifestsuch dubious symptoms of health asthe pinched countenance and pallidcomplexion of the attenuated artisanswho live in “populous city pent?”Yes, responds promptly the inhabitantof the city; but that robust health isnot due to the miserable bothy and themud cabin, but to the pure air of thecountry, and the breezy gales of incense-breathingmorn, and the healthfultoil of the open field, which are theunchartered boons of a graciousHeaven, and in no respect the giftsof the lords of the soil. In the rejoinderof Mr Urbanus there is nodoubt substantial truth; but thatvery rejoinder, perhaps, contains anexplanation of the neglect pointedat. The robust health of the peasanthas not admonished the countrygentleman of duty neglected, andno emaciated frame and loopholedraggedness have appealed to hissympathies and rebuked his indifference.The opulent inhabitants of ourcities have been addressed in a differentstrain, and the deadly typhus andthe inscrutable plague of Asia havebeen the stern preachers to whichthey have been doomed to listen. Ifthey have led the van in reformatoryand sanitary measures for improvingthe social condition of the industriouspoor, it is not very evident that theirphilanthropy has been quite spontaneous,or that it has been altogetheruninfluenced by considerations suggestedby a regard to their own personalsafety and selfish interest.Those who may be disposed to rangethe country against the town, orcurious to strike the balance of meritin the field of philanthropic enterprisebetwixt our merchant princes and ourcountry gentlemen, may prosecutesuch inquiries as have been indicatedif they please; but for ourselves, wehave no taste for such unprofitableinvestigation, and would rather lenda helping hand to a most interestingmovement that has been lately originatedtowards improving the socialcondition of our agricultural labourers—amost loyal and peaceful race,forming, upon the whole, the best-conditionedpart of the industriousclasses of the kingdom.

Thanks to the Rev. Harry Stuart,of Oathlaw, if not for having originatedthe movement, for having atleast given it a most unquestionableimpetus, and for indicating the directionwhich it ought to take. Wehave read his Agricultural Labourers,&c., with remarkable interestand pleasure—a pleasure very different,and we believe much higher, thanthe most elaborate writing of the mostbrilliant pamphleteer could have givenus. Mr Stuart, indeed, has nothing ofthe littérateur about him, and his styleis the very reverse of artistic. Hetells us that his appeal has been “gotup in great haste,” but we scarcelythink it could have been better hadmore time been devoted to its composition.It had been no improvement,in our estimation, had his Essaybeen tricked out in rhetorical embroidery,and been embellished with well-poisedand finely-polished periods.We are quite sick of the flash andsparkle of the journalists, of theirstilted eloquence and startling antithesis.The editor of every countrynewspaper writes nowadays as grandlyas Macaulay, and apes to the very life“the long-resounding march andenergy divine” of Burke and Bolingbroke.It is really a relief in thesetimes to be spoken to in plain, natural,homespun English. When an honestgentleman has anything of importanceto communicate, for ourselves we arevery well pleased that he should usethe vernacular, and address us insimple Anglo-Saxon. This is exactlywhat Mr Stuart has done. He writesfrom a full heart, and is manifestly sopossessed with his theme that he hashad no time to think of the belles-lettresand the art rhetorical. Theminister of Oathlaw is peradventureno popular orator, and has neverprobably paraded himself on the platform,and his name is in all likelihoodunknown to the sermon-fanciers ofEdinburgh, but nevertheless he isquite a pastor to our taste. Livingwithout pride amongst his people,going from house to house, knowingwell the trials of every household, apatient listener to the homely annalsof the poor, catechising the young,exhorting the unruly, helping theaged to trim their lamps and gird uptheir loins, we can understand howwell and how quietly this worthyclergyman discharges the duties of thepastorate, reaping a nobler guerdonin the love of those amongst whom helives and labours than ever the noisytrump of fame blew into ambition’sgreedy ear. We rejoice to think thatthere are many such pastors in ourcountry parishes, who, with theirfamilies, constitute sympathetic linksof kindly communication betwixt therich and the poor, and from whom, asfrom centres of civilisation, are shedon all around the gentle lights of literaryrefinement and Christian charity.These are the men who form thestrength of our Established Church,and not her doctors and dignitaries;and, indeed, over our retired ruralparishes it is evident that nothingbut an endowed resident parochialclergy can permanently exert thebeneficent influence of the pastoraloffice.

The origin of Mr Stuart’s addresshe states as follows: He became amember of the Forfarshire AgriculturalAssociation upon the understanding,that the improvement of thesocial condition of the agriculturallabourers was to be one of the objectsto which the Association should directit* attention. Such seems to havebeen the intention of the society, orat least its committee were so readyto welcome the idea, that they forthwithasked Mr Stuart to addressthem upon the subject, and he did soaccordingly. His auditors were sopleased, and, it may be, so instructed,that they requested the author topublish his address; and under theauspices of the Forfarshire Associationit has been given to the world.

We have often thought that each ofour counties has a distinct characterof its own, and is distinguished byfeatures peculiar to itself. While theForfarshire coast has its populoustowns, the seats of mercantile enterprise,and of thriving manufactures, thecounty has likewise been long eminentfor its agriculture. By the symmetryand beauty of his Angusshire “doddies,”Hugh Watson of Keillor hasmade the county famous for its cattle.In Forfarshire, Henry Stephens practisedthe art which he has so admirablyillustrated in his book. The sonof a small farmer in this county, whilea student at college, invented andelaborated, without aid or patronage,in a rude workshop, that reaper whichAmerican ambition has now so coveredwith fame. Forfarshire gentlemen,although non-resident, are notdisposed to forget the claims of theirnative county, and by means of “theAngusshire Society” they annuallydistribute among its schools numerousprizes, thus countenancing the causeof education throughout the county,stimulating its ingenious youth to exertion,and animating its teachers intheir honourable toil. And now theForfarshire Agricultural Society, underthe mild appeals of the Pastor of Oathlaw,have led the way in organisingan association for raising the socialcondition of the agricultural labourersof the kingdom. So all hail to oldAngus!—and may her proprietors,pastors, and tenant-farmers long beeminent in their spheres of duty, andcordially unite in the field of benevolententerprise.

Mr Stuart’s pamphlet has beenextensively read by landed proprietorsand the better classes of ourfarmers. We wish it were universallyso by these parties; and we wish, too,it were read and inwardly digested bythe factors and agents to whom ourlarge proprietors have committed theconduct of their business, and the careof their properties, and the welfare ofthose who cultivate them. It is impossibleto read the speeches of themost interesting meeting held here onthe 10th January last, and presidedover by his Grace the Duke of Buccleuch,without feeling that Mr Stuart’spamphlet has literally proved“news from the farm” to very manyof the owners and occupiers of thesoil—the very parties who ought toknow best the habits and discomfortsof our agricultural labourers. It isvery remarkable, indeed, that the Dukeof Buccleuch seems accurately informedupon the subject; that he haspersonally inspected the dwellingsof the agricultural labourers on hisestate; and that he has personallyissued instructions regarding the improvementof their cottages. Consideringthe territorial extent of hisGrace’s estates, and the varied andmomentous interests that claim andreceive his Grace’s attention, his conductand example, as well as his benevolentand patriotic words, willcarry a severer reproof to those landownerswho shall hereafter continueindifferent to the comfort and welfareof the labourers, than the most bitingspeech of the most pungent pamphleteer.Why, it may be asked, hasMr Stuart been left to make sucha discovery? Why did the tenant-farmers,who are daily witnessingwith their own eyes the discomfortsof the agricultural labourers, who aremost deeply interested in their physicaland moral condition, and to whomProvidence has more immediatelycommitted the care of their interests—whydid they not complain, and callfor some amelioration of an evil sodiscreditable? But the fact is, thatsuch men as Messrs Watson, Finnie,Cowie, and many others we mightname, have never ceased to availthemselves of every opportunity ofdirecting attention to the condition ofour agricultural labourers, but theyhave heretofore, for the most part,addressed themselves to unpreparedand reluctant audiences. Moreover,for many years our tenant-farmershave been struggling with such difficultiesof their own, as have left themlittle time or inclination for devisingexpedients for improving the conditionof their labourers. And it is likewiseto be remembered that many ofthe farmers are themselves so littleelevated above the peasantry in pointof education and habits and domestictastes, that it would be idle to expectthat they should see any necessity forelevating the condition of the agriculturallabourers.

This class of tenants must considerthe present movement as fantastic,and absurd, and uncalled for, and theywill prove, we fear, the greatest obstructivesin the way of its success.So that if the truth is to be spoken,many proprietors would require firstto improve the habits and elevate thecharacter of their tenantry, before theyattempt to elevate the social conditionof their agricultural labourers. Thenearer the tenant approaches the labourerin point of education and socialhabits, the more careless and indifferentis the former to the comforts ofthe latter, and the less inclined toameliorate his condition. We thinkit by no means an impossible thingthat there are not a few farmersthroughout Scotland who are lookingupon the present movement in behalfof our rural labourers not only as savouringof idle sentimentalism, butwho are contemplating it with a jealouseye, as an attempt of the proprietorsto place the condition of the servantupon the same platform with that ofthe master. There is, indeed, a classof small farmers, highly estimable andworthy, and quite fit, in respect ofcapital, for their position, who cultivatetheir possessions by means oftheir own families, aided by perhapsone or two servant-lads. In thesecases the servants live truly as membersof the family, and are treated assuch; and this is the farm-servicewhich, above all others, virtuous andthoughtful parents desire for theirchildren.

The tenant-farmers are, probably,likewise prepared to rebut any chargeof indifference brought against them,by stating that they have found sogreat difficulty in getting proper house-accommodationfor their own families,and suitable and enlarged farm-buildingsto enable them satisfactorilyto carry on the business of the farm,and to meet the requirements of animproved husbandry, that the idea ofasking a better style of cottagesfor their labourers would have beenUtopian. The farmer, too, has buta temporary interest in the land,and but a temporary connection withthe agricultural labourers upon hisfarm; and with more immediatewants and difficulties of his own tocontend with, to suppose that he shouldexpostulate with a reluctant proprietor,and set himself devotedly to improveand remodel the houses of hislabourers, is to expect from him anextent of philanthropic enthusiasmquite uncommon, and, therefore, quiteunreasonable. The landowner occupiesa very different position—but,however inexplicable it may seem, hehas not hitherto had his attentiondirected to the cottages of the labouringpoor upon his estate. This confessionof previous ignorance was ingenuouslymade by the speakers at theEdinburgh meeting, and we believethat they did not misrepresent theinformation upon the subject that hadhitherto generally prevailed amongthe landed proprietors of Scotland.Lord Kinnaird, at a meeting of the“Dundee Model Lodging-House Association,”on 13th January, expressedhimself as follows: “Until he hadread that pamphlet (Mr Stuart’s), hehad had no right idea of the bothieson his estate. Thinking such a matterwas an arrangement purely betweenthe farmer and his labourers, he hadnot visited them till lately; but havingnow done so, he felt they were a reproachto him, and must be improved.”And yet Lord Kinnaird resides for themost part upon his estate—he takesan anxious and most kindly interestin the moral, educational, and physicalwellbeing of the people who live uponit,—and having such an acknowledgmentfrom a nobleman so benevolentand active, the irresistible inferenceis, that other proprietors in his positionare not only ignorant of thebothies, but of the condition of thecottages upon their properties.

It appears from Mr Stuart, that theparochial clergy, the body to whichhe belongs, have for many years hadtheir attention anxiously directed towardsthe case of the agriculturallabourers. He tells us that the synodsof Perth, Stirling, Aberdeen, and Angusand Mearns have instituted inquiriesregarding their condition—these inquiriesbeing chiefly intended, asmight have been expected, to ascertainthe moral, religious, and educationalstate of our labourers, although theeffects of the bothy system and of feeing-marketsupon the social conditionof servants are likewise investigated.Through the courtesy of a clerical correspondent,we have before us reportsfrom twenty-seven parishes in Morayshire,in answer to a series of questionscirculated by the synod of Moray in1848, as well as a copy of the ElginCourant, April 1848, containing a veryfull discussion by that ecclesiasticalcourt on the moral and social conditionof the agricultural labourers ofthat province. The synod of Angusand Mearns instituted an investigationof the same kind some fifteen yearsago, and a most elaborate report, basedupon the information collected, wasdrawn up. Measures were suggestedfor elevating the condition of the farm-servants;and in some counties pastoraladdresses were read from thepulpits of the Established Churchupon the subject. It appears, however,that this agitation of the questionby the Church met with no countenanceor encouragement from the laity.We know, indeed, that Sir JohnStuart Forbes, and two or threeother proprietors, took then an interestin the inquiry, and were alive to itsimportance—but, generally speaking,the proprietors and farmers seem tohave been quite unprepared to take upthe subject.

It is very curious, nevertheless, toobserve that the very evils pointed outby Mr Stuart in his pamphlet, andthe very remedies suggested by him,are all embraced and expounded inthe reports of the ecclesiastical courtsnow before us.[6] It is a remarkableinstance, apparently, of the well-knownmental phenomenon, that themind previously must have undergonesome preparation for the reception ofthe truth, before the truth can suitablyaffect it. Mr Stuart has had thesagacity, or good fortune, to fix uponthe opportune moment for making hisappeal, and to find a benevolentlydisposed auditory. He has done whathis brethren, in synods assembled,could not do. He has effectually hitthe nail upon the head—and we hopehe will reiterate the blow again andagain, until he sees the objects of hisbenevolent wishes in some good measureobtained.

It appears to us that on such a subjectas the present every thing approachingto exaggeration should be mostanxiously avoided. There is a danger,now that the attention and interestof the public have been so awakened,that overdrawn pictures of the degradedcondition of our Scottish peasantrywill be indulged in; and thisis all the more likely, as proving acceptableto the democratic classes,and as reflecting disgrace on the characterof landed proprietors. In pointof fact, we believe that it is unquestionablethat our rural population,both in respect of their sanitary andmoral condition, occupy a positionvery superior to that of the manufacturingclasses of our towns. By thecensus of 1841, for every two deathsin agricultural districts there weremore than three in our towns; andin towns exclusively manufacturing,such as Leeds and Birmingham, therewere seven deaths for every two inagricultural localities. Glasgow isthe only Scottish town where the statisticsof mortality are noted, andthere ten would die out of a populationof three hundred, while out ofthe same number in agricultural countiesthere would be only three deaths.In the matter of moral statistics bythe same census the commitmentsin manufacturing districts, comparedwith agricultural, were as five to one.We believe the statistics of drunkennesswould report likewise in favourof the superior sobriety of our ruralpopulation, so that our agriculturallabourers, it seems, are truly morehealthy, more sober, more virtuous,at least in the eye of the criminal law,than those of the labouring classes inour towns. We believe that the agriculturallabourers are better fed andbetter clothed, and, in many aspectsof the case, as well housed as the labouringclasses in our large townsand cities. In this fashion, if hepleases, the landowner may evade allappeals to his benevolence, and mayscornfully reject all reproachful insinuationsof having neglected thecondition of the labouring poor uponhis estates. He may well inquirehow far he has contributed to raisethe poor on his estate to a highersocial condition in respect of healthand sobriety, when contrasted withthe poor of our towns; and if thishas not been so much the necessaryresult of their circ*mstances and mannerof life, that a very slender portionof the merit can be appropriated byhim. The opulent inhabitants of ourcities are not bound by any especialtie of social duty to the degraded anddissipated poor of the cities. Theyare not their tenants, nor are theyengaged in their employment. Thoughliving in close proximity with them,the rich are, for the most part, profoundlyignorant of the condition oftheir poorer fellow-citizens, whobreathe the mephitic exhalationsof unventilated lanes, and whosehomes are but dismal cellars, intowhich the meridian sun, strugglingthrough dense masses of hoveringvapour, fails to transmit anythingstronger than a murky twilight.

If the country gentleman can persuadehimself that he holds no nearerrelationship to the tenantry and labourersupon his estate, than thewealthy citizen does to the industriouspoor who live within the samemunicipal bounds, but who otherwiseare totally unconnected with them,it would be unreasonable to expectfrom such a one those expressions ofregret which have fallen so gracefullyfrom the lips of others, or that he willfind any difficulty in escaping all appealsaddressed to him, not only ashe is not conscious of having overlookedany duty, but because he isprepared to deny that he has anyduty to discharge in the matter. Orif the country gentleman can take upthe very elevated position which a certainschool of economists have of latebeen expounding and pressing upon hisattention, then he will have reacheda region so pure, and so superterrestrialas to be infinitely raised above allvulgar care about the comfort andwelfare of those who till the glebeand tend the herds of that “dim spotwhich men call earth.” Accordingto this high philosophy, the landowneris taught to look upon his land as amere article of commerce, and thatthe great question with him ought tobe to discover how, with the leastpossible outlay, he can raise from itthe greatest possible revenue. Toexamine into the condition of thecottages upon the estate—to buildnew ones, and to improve the old—todo this personally, or, as that maybe impossible, to order it to be doneby some competent and responsibleparty—all this seems out of his departmentas the owner of the land andthe recipient of the rent. If the farmeris content that his labourers shouldlive in miserable hovels, where theirphysical energies must be debilitated,and where the decencies of their moralcondition must suffer wrong, wheretheir fitness for their daily toil is beingimpaired by the discomforts of theirhomes, and where, from the samecause, the period in the ploughman’slife of complete capability for his workmust infallibly be abridged, what signifiesall this to the landowner? Hispolitical economy saves him from allcompunction. If the thews and sinewsof the ploughman, by such treatment,become prematurely useless, it mattersnot—the wheels and pinions canbe replaced, and other thews and sinewswill be found to work the work. Itis a devout hallucination upon thepart of Mr Stuart to fancy that he canpersuade such a landowner as this,that, on mere pecuniary grounds, itwould prove a wise economy in himto build new cottages and to remodelthe old, and to improve and add tothe bothy accommodation. Mr Stuart’sargument on such a subjectwould necessarily be largely leavenedwith moral considerations, which theeconomics of the landlord did not embrace,and the mere money-profitlooms dubiously in the distance. MrStuart would have no chance withsuch a stern philosopher as this, whocould demonstrate by an irrefragablearithmetic that he could do the thingcheaper! We are sorry to think thatany such party should be in the positionof a landed proprietor. ’Tis apity such a man had not had hismoney invested in the Three per Cents,or in a street of three-storeyed tenementssuitable to accommodate themiddle classes of society, who wouldtake care of themselves, and, peradventure,of the laird likewise. Weknow no situation in human life soenviable as that of a country gentleman.His privileges are manifold,and his appropriate recreations andpleasures exquisite. His peculiarduties are indeed very responsible,but they are deeply interesting anddelightful. Surely a country gentlemanis knit by dearer and more sacredties to the people that live upon hisestate, and that cultivate his fields,than the rich man of the city to thepoor artisan, to whom he is united bythe accident of his living in the neighbouringstreet. Nay, we hope thatno country gentleman would care tobe thought actuated by no warmer orkindlier feelings towards the pendiclersand poor cottagers that dwell on hisestate, than the potent noblesse of thecotton-mills can reasonably be expectedto be towards the shadowytroops of sallow girls that, like somany animal automata, ply theirnimble fingers o’er the power-loomsand spinning-jennies of their tall-chimneyedtemples. If the accursedcommercial element is henceforth tobe the sole ruling motive in themanagement of landed property, thecountry gentleman will speedily sinkto the level of a commercial gentleman.The charms of his positionwill die away—the honours now sospontaneously rendered to him will bewithheld—and the ancestral influenceof his house and name will becomethe poet’s dream. We have contrastedthe condition of the labouringpoor in the country with that of thelabouring poor in the town, but therecan be no just comparison betwixt theposition of a landed proprietor, andthe duties which it entails towardsthe agricultural labourers on his property,and the position of a mill-spinnertowards the people whom heemploys; and we should be sorry ifany landowner should seek in thisway to vindicate his subsequent neglectof the duties which Providencehas manifestly laid upon him. If ourlanded proprietors are not imbuedwith some just sense of the responsibilitiesof their station, and actuatedby some steadfast determination topractise self-denial in other matters,that they may improve the conditionof the industrious poor upon theirproperties, we despair utterly of anypermanent practical good resultingfrom the present movement. If ourfarmers are, as a body, not preparedat present heartily to enter upon thework of reformation, we have to thankone class of politicians who have foryears been industriously indoctrinatingthe farmer with the dogma that hisbusiness, in its highest phase, was justthe manufacture of certain agriculturalproducts from the soil. Thefarmer long listened in wonder to thelecturer, not knowing well what thehigh-sounding philosophy might mean.But he at last embraced the doctrine,and he now, we fear, too often entertainsthe feelings which the doctrinewas so likely to engender. As a manufacturer,the farmer cannot for his lifesee that he has any more concernmentthan any other manufacturer with thecondition, character, and habits of hisoperatives. For a year he hires them,and they go, and he sees them nomore. The root of the evil Mr Stuartcorrectly traces up to the altered feelingsand conduct of proprietors andtenants towards their dependants.

Mr Stuart, in speaking of ouragricultural labourers, “as thingswere” some sixty years ago, advertsto a period when the servants lived infamily with their masters—when themaster sat patriarchally at the headof his table, surrounded by his childrenand domestics, and when allknelt at the same family altar to offerup the evening prayer. The socialcharacteristics of the people of thatday were excellent; but their creaturecomforts were few, and their agriculturewretched. It was the era ofrun-rig, of outfield and infield—theformer being scourged as the commonfoe—while on the latter our agriculturalsires practised high farming.During the summer the men werehalf idle, and in the winter they werewholly so, saving that occasionallyin the forenoon that venerable implementthe flail, wielded by a lustyarm, might be heard dropping itsminute-guns on the barn-floor. Thewomen wrought the work in summer,and plied the wheel in winter. Weare old enough to remember the spinning-wheel,and are disposed to echothe sentiment of the poet—

Mr Stuart reverts to this bygoneage in a strain of tenderness; but hefaithfully depicts its grievous physicaldisadvantages as they were experiencedby the poor. There is a dashof romance in Mr Stuart’s genialnature, and he has interwoven hisnarrative with some quaint old-worldreminiscences; but his excellent senseconducts him always to the soundconclusion. He does not idly sighfor that which has passed away; andhe sees that the habits of a formerage, if they could be recalled, wouldnot suit the taste of the present generation,nor meet the exigencies of theexisting agriculture. In certain districtsof Aberdeenshire and elsewhere,the farm-servants may be said yet tolive in the family—that is, they gettheir food in the kitchen, and by thekitchen-fire they sit in the winterevenings until they retire to theirbeds, which are generally in thestable. But the master and his familyare meanwhile in the parlour. Themaster’s restraining presence is notin the kitchen; and upon the testimonyalike of farmers and of clergymen,now lying upon our table, theresults of the system are so deplorable,that bothies are asked for and preferredas the least of two evils.

In portraying the progress of agriculturalimprovement, Mr Stuart discoversthe origin of the bothy andbondager systems. The throwing twoor three farms into one, and the gradualdecay of the cot-houses, and theaversion of the proprietor to build newones, from a mistaken economy, originatedboth modes of accommodatingfarm-servants. But if such were thecauses of the evil, its cure is self-evident.We have only to retraceour steps, and we will recover theposition which we have abandoned.It took, however, half a century todevelop the evil, and not in a day canwe hope to see the remedy accomplished.In building more cottages,then, you take the sure way of mitigatingthe evils of both systems; andby proceeding in this work, if you donot ultimately exterminate the evil,you will so circ*mscribe and diminish*t that it must become all but innocuous.The practice of enlargingfarms has gone far enough, but if theexpense of their subdivision were notintolerable, we would not in this itemundo what we have done. There canbe no doubt that our large farmershave been the great improvers; notonly have they led the way in improvingthe cultivation of the soil and thestock of the country, but they havebeen the parties who have introducedto public notice the new manures, andthe new and better implements ofhusbandry, and to them we now lookas indispensable and powerful auxiliariesin elevating the social conditionof the labourers. On the large farm,all that is wanted is a proportionate increaseof cottages to accommodate thestaff of agricultural servants, with afew houses on the outskirts of thefarm for jobbers and day-labourers,whose assistance, with that of theirfamilies, may be got at a busy seasonon the farm.

At all times, and in all places, andby all sorts of people, the bothy iscondemned. Mr Stuart condemnsit, and laments the evils which it originates,and the habits which it induces,and the immoralities which itcherishes; but we are sorry to thinkthat he writes so hopelessly about thepossibility of its extinction. Wewould have been better pleased hadhe pronounced its doom, and had heproclaimed against it, in unmistakableaccents, a war of extermination,gradual but sure, and inexorable. Itmerits nothing but hearty and unhesitatingcondemnation. We are wellacquainted with bothy economics, andwe never knew but one that was evendecently conducted. Mr Stuart seemsto think the evil necessary and irremovable,and that the only thing leftto the philanthropist is to mitigateits horrors. But why so? The bothysystem is partial and local. Thereare large provinces of the kingdomwhere it is totally unknown. Wehave the ocular demonstration, then,that it is not indispensable. ButMr Stuart says, that in escapingCharybdis, you sail the good shipAgriculture straight into the boilingquicksand of Syrtis—that, the bothyabandoned, you irretrievably encounterthe evils of the bondager system.We are humbly of opinion, however,that our excellent friend somewhatoverstates the evils of this lattersystem. There are inconveniencesand disadvantages connected with it,but these are not for a moment to becompared with the discomforts, andwith the temptations to nocturnalrambling and loose living, with whichthe bothy system is so beset. Thebondager system does not affect youngploughman lads in the slightest degree;it is limited to young women,and to them the system is the sameas domestic service in the farmer’shouse, when field-work is associatedwith that service. But Mr Stuartseems to confound the bondager withthe cottage system, while in realitythey have no necessary connection.There are two bugbears in the way ofabolishing the bothy—the one the landlords,and the other the tenants. Thelandlord is alarmed at the expense ofbuilding the necessary cottages. Thiswill be got over. The tenant isalarmed at the expense of maintainingthe ploughman in the cottagewhen built—a most remarkable mistake.But so it is that, be-north theForth, many farmers, from long habit,and from ignorance of the cottagesystem as it exists in the Bordercounties, have become so wedded tothe bothy, that in accomplishing itsabolition we expect more resistancefrom them than from landlords. Themodel bothy, in mere material accommodation,will effect nothing unless ithas separate apartments, furnishedwith fire and light, and other necessaryappliances; and if it be so, wherewill be its superior economy to eitherlandlord or tenant, when contrastedwith the expense of a separate cottage?Abrogate the bothy system entirely,for otherwise moralists may lamentin vain, and parents bewail theruined virtue of their children.

Considering apparently the systemtoo firmly rooted to admit of eradication,Mr Stuart strenuously inculcatesthe instant improvement of thebothy accommodation. But if he succeeds,will he not have stereotypedthe bothy as a permanent part of theeconomy and constitution of the farm;and what, then, has been achieved?The physical discomforts of the bothywill have in a good measure disappeared,but the place is not disinfectedof the moral contagion which the systemcommunicates. Let half-a-dozenof ploughman lads be associated in abothy, and however tidy and snugand commodious the apartments, yetwhen their age and circ*mstances areremembered—when it is consideredthat they are without a head, to control,counsel, and direct them, thateach is his own master—we confessthat to us it seems chimerical to expectthat any desirable measure of decency,or sobriety, or order, will prevailwithin the walls of the bothy. Itis in vain to tell a well-disposedlad that he can escape the pollutionof a wicked associate in the bothy, byretiring to his own apartment. Howcan he sit there on a winter evening(winter is the season when bothywickedness takes its swing), unaccommodatedas it is either with fire orlight? We fear, therefore, that the“model bothy” even would notarrest or extinguish the moral mischiefthat emanates from this system.It is remarkable that the speakersat the Edinburgh meetings do notsay that they contemplate theimprovement of the bothy system.Their resolution to encourage themultiplication of suitable cottages forthe labourers on the farm, they saw,involved in due time the extinction ofthe bothy system. Moreover, wefancy that neither the Duke of Buccleuchnor the Marquis of Tweeddalehas a single bothy upon their estates,unless one for the journeymen gardenersin the vicinity of their residences.Once erect a sufficiency of cottages, andthe unmarried lads will find a sister,or aunt, or some female relative to keephouse for them. Having such an objectbefore them, they will be taught habitsof economy, and will save money, thatthey may be ready to furnish a cottage.Once in it, they have a home and property,and will become attached totheir situation. The bothy turnsploughmen into nomads, and givesthem restless, undomestic, and migratoryhabits. Erect a sufficiency ofcottages, and the bothy will die a naturaldeath. No proprietor or tenantwill erect or maintain a bothy for asolitary ploughman, who happens tohave no female friend who can cookhis food and keep his cottage. Infalliblyhe will find other accommodation.The boy, to whom the bothy isa very school of corruption, ought tolive in family with the master, and itshould be the master’s duty to watchover his morals, and to aid in somemanner in his education. If he is aparent, let him say how he wouldlike his own boy, when he leavesthe paternal roof, to be neglected,tempted, corrupted.

Mr Stuart quotes from Mr Laing’sbook on Norway a description of theNorwegian borststue or bothy, whichis commodious and comfortable, andwell supplied with all conveniences;and then he asks, “Now, I wouldhold such to be a model bothy; andcannot the farming in Scotland affordto give what it affords to give in Norway?”No doubt of it, providedyou demonstrate that the bothy is indispensable;but to that premise wedemur. Mr Laing communicates nothingto us of the moral effects of theborststue, which would be modified bythe social habits of the people, and bythe degree of kindly intercourse subsistingbetween master and servant.But in fact the example of Norway,neither in the matter of cottages norbothies, is truly applicable to ourcountry. In Norway the cottage is aloghouse, and costs nothing but thenails and the window-glass, whileevery Norwegian knows enough ofloghouse-carpentry to erect a cottagefor himself. With regard to theborststue, there is a necessity for itin Norway that does not exist here.The outdoor farm-work, which meetswith but partial interruptions in ourclimate, is at an absolute standstillin Norway for six months of theyear, from the severity of a protractedwinter. The result is, thatthe outdoor work must be accomplishedduring a few weeks in spring,and of course a more numerous staffof servants must be maintained thanwith us; for, from the military andpassport system prevailing in Norway,it is impossible to summon in an additionalsupply of workers to suit theemergency. The tenant-farmer isthus more dependent on the agriculturallabourers; and we believe thatthere prevails in Norway more ofthat friendly interchange of sympathyand of kindness between master andservant than now unhappily characterisesour social condition, which,nevertheless, sweetens all toil, andturns aside the poisoned arrow oftemptation, and plucks the stingfrom suffering, whether experiencedin Scottish bothy or Norwegian borststue.For ourselves, we have only oneprescription for the bothy system, andthat is, raze it. The system is toopregnant with all moral evil to betemporised with. We cannot consentto any parley, to negotiate fordelay, and to write protocols anentit* possible improvement. We arealmost certain that the minister ofOathlaw agrees with us, but that hehas thought it prudent to soften hisvoice when speaking of the bothy, inthe fear that it would alarm his auditorsat the revolutionary extent ofhis demands. But now that he hascaught the ear of the noble and thegood of the land, and awakened ingenerous hearts so magnanimous aresponse, let the lute become a trumpetin his hand, and let him blow ablast so loud and clear as shall scatterthis disgrace of Scottish agricultureto the winds of heaven.

Most earnestly do we press uponour readers that our Scottish peasantry,and agricultural labourers, andcommon ploughmen, are highly deservingof consideration and kindness,and of every attempt that can bemade to increase their comforts and toameliorate their moral and social condition.There is an incredible andmost criminal ignorance not onlyamong the higher, but among themiddle classes of society, regardingat once the habits and hardships ofthis important class of the community.The newspaper paragraphist, in his selectvocabulary, describes the ploughmanas a clown, a clodpole, a lout.That smart draper, with the exquisitely-tiedcravat and his inimitablyarranged hair, all redolent of musk,smiles complacently when he seesJohn the hind rolling along the pavementon his huge hobnailed boots,and considers him the very impersonationof stolidity. John’s dress isappropriate, however, to his calling,and to see the draper in pumps andsilk stockings floundering through anew-ploughed field, or picking hissteps daintily through a feeding-byre,where the musk must yield to theammonia, would, we fancy, be a phenomenonnot less provocative of laughter.Nothing is so ridiculous as thevery prevalent idea that our Scottishagricultural labourers are a stupidrace. They are shrewd, sagacious,and intelligent about their own business;and because they are so, theyare continually being drafted away toEngland and Ireland. The employmentsof a common ploughman arevarious, and of a nature calculated tocultivate his powers of observationand of thought. Mr Stephens, afterdescribing the extent of observation,of judgment, and of patience, requiredin a good ploughman, adds—“Tobe so accomplished implies thepossession of talent of no mean order.”—Bookof the Farm, vol. i. p. 163.Talent necessary for a ploughman!exclaims the incredulous and amazedcitizen, and fancies that the authormust speak ironically. Nay; he neverwrote soberer truth in his lifetime,and in your ignorance you wonder.

There is another reason why notonly the comforts, but why the moraland intellectual powers of the agriculturallabourer should be cared for.The common ploughman has committedto his trust property which, ona very moderate computation, may bevalued at £100. This property, of anature so likely to receive injury fromcarelessness and inattention, is dailyin his hands, and under his charge,and at his mercy. We need scarcelyadd, too, how deeply he may in otherrespects injure his employer, as, forinstance, by the imperfect ploughingor careless sowing of a field. To whatcommon servant, in any sphere oflife, is property so valuable so exclusivelyintrusted? It is plain that aparty so confided in, as a ploughmanmust be, ought not to have his senseof responsibility and of moral obligationblunted and impaired by barbarousneglect. Hitherto our agriculturallabourers have not occupied themselveswith discussing “the rights oflabour and the duties of capital.” Butif landlords and tenants are resolvedto consider the whole management ofland as a mere matter of commerce,we cannot see why these operativesshould not be led to philosophise aswell as others. The labourer mayapply in all equity that principle tohis own case which the landlord andtenant are severally applying to theirs.The severance between employer andemployed has of late been developedto an extent never before witnessedin any age, and it threatens, at thismoment, to throw a terrific chasmathwart the whole structure of society.Not only among mill-masters and men,but among many other classes verydifferently circ*mstanced, have wewitnessed combination and counter-combination,and their disastrous consequences.A slight agrarian grumblingmight possibly do good; and,from all that we can learn, thereis a sulky discontent slumbering inmany an honest fellow’s bosom, thatcould easily be fanned, by a skilfulexperimenter, into a visible flame.It will be better, in every respect, toanticipate and ward off the evil. Itscauses and its cure have been wellexpounded by Mr Stuart. But ifour agricultural labourers are too patientsufferers to complain, too sensibleto imbibe the pestilent doctrinesof Messrs Newton and Cowel, and toowide apart to have it in their powerto combine, whether for good or forevil—and if, on these accounts, thereis no ground for alarm, is it wise, isit kind of you, to take advantage oftheir peaceful dispositions, and of theirpowerlessness to unite in proclaimingtheir wrongs, and in vindicating theirrights? There is a remedy within thereach of many of them, and of whichthey are silently availing themselves.They can emigrate. They are doingso quietly, determinedly. They arenot absolutely astricti glebæ. Thecanker of neglect is eating away theties that bind them to their Fatherland.Multitudes of the best of themhave gone, and thousands would followif they had the means. Emigration,if it proceeds unchecked, willrender “strikes” unnecessary, evenif we are inclined to consider suchthings as visionary and impossibleamong an agricultural population.

They who have not read Mr Stuart’sappeal, may conclude, from the professedobject of that Association towhich his appeal has conducted, thathe has inculcated nothing more thanthe improvement of existing cottages,and the building of many new onesmore commodious and comfortable.His philanthropy, however, is morecomprehensive. With an excursivepen he reviews the whole moral, educational,and social characteristics ofthe agricultural labourer’s condition,and sketches the remedies for its variousevils. When, therefore, MrStuart merely proposed at the meetingof the 10th January, as the mainfeature of the proposed Association,the establishment of an office in Edinburghfor the reception of plans andmodels, and improved fittings and furnishingsfor cottages, accessible to allinquirers, it seemed to us, retaining aswe did a delightful reminiscence of hispamphlet, a most impotent conclusion.He appeared to have descended fromthe high moral arena into the mortar-tub,and we were in terror lest somejournalist, in a slashing leader, shouldcover his scheme with inextinguishableburlesque. It seemed likewisea mystery to us how there could besuch extreme difficulty in erecting acommodious and comfortable cottage,as that an office in our metropolisshould be required for the exhibitionof right models. It might have lookedthat, instead of a labourer’s cottage, itwas a medieval temple of most intricatecomposite that was required, andfor the conception of which the geniusof Scottish architecture was unequalwithout the aid of unusual patronage.We feared, too, that the Associationmight be described by some malignantpen as a company of Scottish proprietorsresolving to raise the marketablevalue of their estates by addingto the buildings thereupon. Suchsilly caricatures might perhaps havebeen anticipated, and in fact somesmall sneers were dropped by one ortwo of the Radical newspapers; butthe admirable tone of the speeches atthe meeting, when the Association wasformed, seemed for the time to havestayed the old hatred of the democraticpress towards our landed proprietors.That our readers may understandcorrectly the intentions andviews of “The Association for promotingimprovement in the dwellingsand domestic condition of agriculturallabourers in Scotland,” we recommendto their perusal the report ofthe committee now published, andwhich we hope may be widely circulated.The noblemen and countrygentlemen composing the Associationhave combined, not for the purposeof raising their rentals, but for thepurpose of improving the domesticcondition of the agricultural labourers,by improving their dwellings. Theyhave united together for the purposeof directing attention to the subject,and of encouraging and aiding othersin removing an evil which they candidlyconfess they have hitherto overlookedand neglected. The evil is oflong standing and of gigantic dimensions,and it has been felt that thebenevolent zeal and efforts of individualsrequired to be concentred intothe potent agency of one nationalassociation, to effect its abatementand to work out its final extinction.In the matter of house accommodationfor our agricultural labourers,while on many estates a very greatdeal has been done to improve it, yetvery generally over the kingdom it isa notorious fact that no improvementin their dwellings has taken place forthe last half-century. One article offurniture in the cottages of our Scottishpeasantry has excited the indignationof all but those who reposetheir weary limbs on it—we refer tothe box-bed. The medical facultytime immemorial have denounced itas a very “fever case.” Mr Stuartand his reverend brethren have lamentedthe stifling insalubrity of theformidable structure. Fine ladies andgentlemen have wondered at thestupid attachment of the Scottish peasantto a dormitory so barbarous.The Duke of Buccleuch has solvedthe riddle. He tells us, that when heordered the box-bed to be taken outof the cottage down came the roof!And thus that which has been thestay and support of many a totteringtenement has been most ignorantlycondemned. Nor is this all. So verydamp and cold are too many of thecottages, that in order to excludethese evils in some measure by night,the box-bed is indispensable duringeight months of the year; and we predictthat unless comfortable cottages,rightly roofed, lathed, and floored areerected, the box-bed will provestronger than Mr Stuart, and willretain its hold on the affections of thelabourer, upholding at once its ownposition and the roof of the dwellingthat affects to shelter it from theelements. That there is likewise alack of cottages in our agriculturaldistricts is unquestionable. Theyhave been allowed to decay and disappear,from economical considerationsentirely delusive, to an extentextremely prejudicial. The diminishedpopulation of our rural parishesproves the fact; and if any one willcontrast the census papers of 1841with those of 1851, which exhibit thenumber of the inhabited houses inthe several counties of Scotland, theywill find a demonstration that mayprobably startle them. The Associationtakes it for granted that an improveddomestic condition will followin the wake of improved dwellingsbeing given to the poor, and nothoughtful and observing person willdoubt this. It has been beautifullysaid, “Between physical and moraldelicacy a connection has been observed,which, though founded by theimagination, is far from being imaginary.Howard and others have remarkedit. It is an antidote againstsloth, and keeps alive the idea ofdecent restraint and the habit of circ*mspection.Moral purity and physicalare spoken of in the same language;scarce can you inculcate orcommand the one, but some share ofapprobation reflects itself upon theother. In minds in which the leastgerm of Christianity has been planted,this association can scarce fail of havingtaken root: scarce a page of Scripturebut recalls it.” It is of the veryessence of every good system to developthe virtues necessary to its success;and to the humanising influenceof a comfortable and commodiouscottage, old habits of filthiness andsloth would gradually yield, and wouldevery day become a lessening evil.Such cottages would secure at oncethe services of the best class of workmen,and thus a mercenary self-interestwould find it to its advantage tofollow where benevolence had led theway. The influence of example uponthe rich, and the influence of superiorhouse-accommodation upon the socialcondition of the poor, must be gradual.This has been duly contemplated.

It is scarcely necessary, we fancy,to expound this part of the case. Itis now pretty generally understood.If, however, any of our readers havenot considered this subject, or continueto entertain some lingeringdoubts regarding the effects of improvedhouse-accommodation uponthe social, sanitary, and moral conditionof the people, we most anxiouslyrecommend to their perusal Dr SouthwoodSmith’s “Results of SanitaryImprovement, illustrated by the operationof the metropolitan societiesfor improving the dwellings of the industriousclasses, &c.” The pamphletcosts twopence, and it may take aquarter of an hour to read it; butnever, we believe, were statistics evergiven to the world so surprising andso encouraging,—matter at once sosuggestive of deep thought, and soanimating to the aspirations of practicalphilanthropy. Lord Shaftesburyis at present circulating this mostpregnant epitome of the effects ofsanitary improvement among the parochialboards of Scotland. It is amost seasonable missive—vindicatingthe speculations of Mr Stuart, andplacing on the basis of demonstrationthe certainty of the effect of the intendedoperations of the Duke of Buccleuch’sassociation. The pecuniaryelement will be thought our maindifficulty, but we are quite satisfiedthat the tendency is to exaggerate it.Be it remembered that we want nocottages ornées, and (with your leave,Mr Stuart) no model bothies, butmerely warm, dry, convenient housesfor honest ploughmen to live in. Letwealthy proprietors, if they please,adorn their estates with picturesquevillas, crowned with projecting roofsand ornamental chimneys; but theAssociation over which the Duke ofBuccleuch presides does not desire asingle sixpence to be spent which willnot contribute to the comfort of thecottage. The reformatory changemay proceed by degrees, and in noone year need the outlay be serious;but on this part of the subject werefer our readers to the views of SirRalph Anstruther, as contained in hisspeech on the 10th January, and morefully explained in his letter (Courant,January 20th). While the Associationprofesses, in the mean time (and wethink wisely and judiciously), to limitit* attention to the improvement ofthe dwellings of agricultural labourers,and thereby to raise their domesticcondition, it seems evident thatthe basis of its operations may beeasily extended, and that the benevolentobject in view will almost naturallywiden that basis. That objectis to ameliorate the domestic conditionof the labourer; but if othercauses as well as that of improvedhouse-accommodation will contributetowards the wished-for amelioration,these, it may be expected, in due timewill come to be embraced within thebenevolent range of its fostering influence.To prevent misapprehensionand remove ignorance, we wouldrespectfully suggest the propriety ofthe Association instituting a statisticalinquiry into the physical, moral, andeducational condition of the agriculturallabourers of the kingdom. Suchstatistics would form a valuable supplementto the agricultural statisticscollected under the instruction of MrHall Maxwell. Information seemsnecessary to enable the Associationrightly to exercise its influence, evenin improving the dwellings of the poor.In some parts of the west of Scotlanda sort of mud cottage is raised at anexpense of £3! and a fit model forone county may be utterly unfit foranother. All requisite informationwe believe could be obtained, by addressinga schedule of inquiry to theparochial clergy, who are manifestlyready to lend their aid. In any event,our landed proprietors cannot wellafford to have more “news from thefarm” thrust upon them by the spontaneousexertions of volunteer philanthropists.The public, indeed, seemto have been infinitely surprised thatour landed proprietors should havebeen so ignorant of the condition ofthe dwellings and of the circ*mstancesof the people upon their estates; andthe inference is, that there must havebeen something grievously wrong inthe management of their affairs. Noman, of course, can expect that theproprietor of a large landed estateshould know minutely the conditionof every cottage on it, and the discomfortsof its poor inhabitant. Butthe ignorance confessed goes greatlybeyond this. It was surely the moreimmediate duty of the tenant-farmerto have protected his dependants, andto have represented their disadvantagesto the proprietor. And whathas the factor been doing in the meantime? General Lindsay, at the meetingof the 10th January, in a speechoverflowing with admirable feeling,said, that “the factor was afraid of increasinghis expenditure.” Quite right;but why was he not afraid, too, of misrepresentingthe kindly feelings of hisconstituent towards the industriouspoor upon his estate—of concealingfrom him knowledge which, if hewished to do his duty, it was indispensablefor him to possess—of alienatingfrom him and his house the loveand veneration of his people—of renderinghis privileges odious now, andof imperilling his position on anycoming convulsion of the commonwealth?We have not only now theevil of non-resident proprietors, but,in many cases, the evil of non-residentfactors. The door of communicationbetwixt landlord and tenant is thuseffectually shut up; and the poor cottager,who was wont to have accesseven to “his honour,” finds things soaltered that an audience with the factoris become impossible. The accountantis as ignorant as his constituent“of the dwellings and domesticcondition of the agriculturallabourers,” and thus there is a completeabnegation of all the peculiarduties and responsibilities which Providencehas manifestly laid on theowners of land. It is impossible todeny, on the other hand, that verymany of the tenant-farmers, imitatingthe manners of their betters, havebecome sadly neglectful of the dutieswhich they owe their dependants.To give as little and get as much ashe can, is now, in too many cases,the short and simple rubric of thatcode which guides the landlord in hiscontract with the tenant. The tenantextends the principle, and looks uponthe labour of his ploughman as a merepurchaseable article, that supplementsthe deficiency of machinery, and isnecessary to guide the muscular energiesof the horse. With the ploughman,however, the sale of his labouris the sale of himself—the devotionof his sentient nature, with feelings,affections, sympathies, as lively asthose of his master, and with a prideand self-esteem as sensitive to unkindnessand wrong. It was in every respectseemly that the present movementshould originate with the proprietors,for the house-accommodationmust plainly be given by them; butnow that they have intimated, in sokind words, their good wishes andbenevolent intentions, we hope thefarmers will consider whether expressionsof “repentance” for the pastare not due from them as well asfrom others, and whether works “meetfor repentance” should not instantlybe undertaken by them. Because thelandlord has made his “confession,”it is conceivable that the tenant maynow fancy that nothing remains butthat he should make a clamorous onseton the laird for more cottages.We hope he will not be unreasonable,but will perceive that he must put hisown shoulder to the work, and be preparedto make some sacrifices, and topractice some self-denial. We fearthat some of the tenantry require tobe instructed, stimulated, and watchedin discharging that part of the dutywhich falls to them in promoting thedesired reformation. We are quiteof the opinion of the Duke of Buccleuch,that more cottages should notbe let with the farm than the numbernecessary to accommodate the servantsrequisite for the work of thefarm. The other cottagers shouldrent their holdings immediately fromthe landlord.

We know no class of workmen whohave so few holidays, and so few opportunitiesfor rational recreation, asour ploughmen. They may have theright to go to some annual feeing-market,and out of this solitary feastthe poor fellows try naturally to extractas much pleasure as they can,turning the day into a carnival ofmany-coloured evil. All other classesof workpeople have their occasionalholiday—their trip by an excursion-train—theSaturday afternoon, in aslack season, to see friends and kindred;but no such pleasures fallto the ploughman’s lot. In the winter,indeed, he is on “short time,”but what is done to make his eveninghours pleasant, profitable, instructive?In the agricultural world weshall certainly have no “lock-out,”and perhaps no “strike,” but it maybe wise, at least, to anticipate possiblecontingencies by acts of kindness andof well-considered indulgence. Theyawning gulf betwixt the high andthe low of the land is the most ominousevil of these times, and should bebridged over by sympathetic communicationwhilst it can. The wintryneglect of his superiors is worse to beborne by the labourer than the coldof his miserable cottage. Let us listento Mr Stuart on an evil which seemsto have entered like iron into hiskindly soul. Addressing landlords,he says—

“Let their visits and their smile befrequently seen in the house of the poorestcottar, although he be but a hired labourer;for not fifty years ago, that sameman would have been a crofter, or a smallfarmer, waiting on ‘his honour,’ andwelcomed by ‘his honour,’ with his rentor his bondage. That he is not so now, isowing more to ‘his honour’s’ change ofcustoms for his own profit, than to thecottar’s own fault, or to the profit of thecottar’s own social position and feelings.Let there be some upmaking, then, forthis change, so far as such things can bemade up for, not in the shape of money,but in that which his forefathers valuedmuch more than money, and which hewill value as highly again, if ‘his honour’will only but give him time and meanswhereby he may recover his self-esteemand his proper training; and one of themost powerful and most valued of all thesemeans would, in a little time, be ‘hishonour’s’ friendly visits to his humbledwelling.”

Now that the Scottish people knowthat the Duke of Buccleuch findstime to inquire personally into the conditionof the peasantry on his estates,no proprietor, however ancient hislineage and proud his name, will beexcused who fails to go and do likewise,or who fails at least to acquainthimself with the condition of the labourerswho cultivate his fields. Personalinquiry we would recommend,although it should not lead to the renderingof one cottage more comfortablethan it was before. We recommend itfor the proprietor’s own behoof. “Themost certain softeners of a man’s moralskin, and sweeteners of his blood, are,I am sure, domestic intercourse in ahappy marriage, and intercourse withthe poor,” writes Arnold; and, as ifhe had felt the virtue flowing out ofsuch intercourse, he repeats the thoughtthus in another place, “Prayer, andkindly intercourse with the poor, arethe two great safeguards of spirituallife.” One-half the world does notknow how the other half lives, andone-half of the bitternesses of humanlife arises from our not understandingone another. Little do the great onesof the earth know how much they loseby avoiding kindly acquaintance withpoor and humble neighbours.

We know of no public meeting thathas taken place in our time, where thespeeches delivered possessed a highermoral value than those that fell fromthe speakers at the meeting of the 10thJanuary last. The turbulent, disrupted,and gloomy condition of themanufacturing classes, rendered themadmirably seasonable. They haveshed a benignant influence over theagricultural community. They haveawakened hopes that were growingfaint, and fine old Scottish feelingsthat were dying out, and have proveda healing anodyne to a wound thatwas rankling in many a bosom. Theopening speech of the noble chairmanwe have read more than once, andever with renewed delight. Many anhonest labourer has read it too, withglistening eye and joyful heart, andits perusal has prepared him for fightingmore heroically the battle of hislife. Some of the sentiments of thenoble Duke we cannot withhold fromour columns:—

“He thought it would not be disputedthat, generally speaking, throughoutScotland, the habitations of these labourerswere very defective, especially in thoseaccommodations for comfort and delicacy.In former days the farm-servant was accommodatedin the farmer’s house, wherehe took his meals, and so was under themoral control of his employers. But nowthe farm-labourer was put into a bothy,generally a most wretched place to livein, and often the worst building on thefarm. He could not blink the questioninvolved in the subject. They had notcome there to bandy compliments to oneanother, but to speak the truth. Itmight be said to him and those who camethere to find fault with the present system:You ought to come with cleanhands, and be able to say that all thebothies on your estate were such as theyought to be. He confessed with shamethat he could show as bad specimens onhis property as could be found in Scotland.He would not conceal it that thecondition of many of the cottages on hisestate was as bad as could be. How thisstate of things had arisen it was not difficultto see.... He examined anumber of their cottages himself, andfound many of them quite in a falling-downstate. In one of them, when hetook a box-bed out of it, down came theroof. Such things would be found notso very uncommon if these cottages werelooked into. Then what an evil effectsuch houses had upon the moral feelingsof those who occupied them! Many ofthe persons who lived in them were highlyeducated, and it might well be conceivedthat a person of refinement living in aplace fit for a pig would be discontented,as well as unhappy. How could theyexpect, when they saw men, women, andchildren all living and sleeping in oneapartment, that they could be otherwisethan demoralised? Could they wonderthat all their delicacy of feeling was destroyed?Mothers had said to him, howcould they bring up their daughters withrespectability when there was not thatseparation of rooms which there ought tobe? Then there was a great disinclinationon the part of the tenantry to thelandlord taking these cottages into hishand. They said they must have everysingle thing under their own control. Itwas all very well for them to say that asregarded the lodgment of their domesticand special farm-servants, but it did notfollow that it was absolutely necessarythat all the cottages of the agriculturallabourers should belong to the farmer.He did not think that it was right thatthe farm-labourer should be bound downto work for one man only. But the personwho really benefited by the landlordtaking the cottage into his own handswas the farm-labourer himself; and hehad seen the moral effect produced byproviding better houses for this class oflabourers, in a quarter where thieving andpoaching had formerly been the disgraceof the people; but since their houseswere improved, there was a great andbeneficial reformation in these respects.It was really gratifying to see the changewhich took place in the feelings of thesepeople towards their landlord, when theyknew he was taking an interest in theirwelfare. Here, when he passed, theyshowed they regarded him as their friend,and were not filled with unpleasant suspicionsabout him.”

The gems in the ducal coronet neveremitted a tenderer or more fascinatingray than when its noble owner enteredthe lowly cottage on his missionof kindness, and since the precedingsentiments were spoken, we believethat from many a Scottish heart thefervent prayer has been sent to heaven’sgate, that “the good Buccleuch”may long be spared to his country.

Some time ago a volume of poemsappeared, over which there arose agreat roar of critical battle, like theconflict over the dead Valerius, when“Titus pulled him by the foot, andAulus by the head.” Many hailedthe author as a true poet, and prophesiedhis coming greatness; others fastenedon obvious defects, and mousedthe book like Snug the joiner tearingThisbe’s mantle in his character of lion.Now that the hubbub has subsided,our still small voice may be heard.

The poet in question has at oncedeprecated and defied criticism in asonnet, (p. 232).

Alexander Smith is partly right andpartly wrong. It is true that, thronedin his judicial chair, the critic, moreintent on displaying his own powersthan on doing justice to his subject,is apt to drop the mild and equalscales, and brandish the trenchantglittering sword. He ought to say inhis heart, Peradventure there shall befound ten fine lines in this book—I willnot destroy it for ten’s sake.

But, on the other hand, there is aclass to which forbearance would bemisapplied and criminal. It wouldtoo much resemble our prison discipline,where Mr William Sykes, aftera long course of outrages on humanity,is shut up in a palace, treated likea prodigal son, and presently convertedto Christianity. An absurd monomaniac,who, like Joanna Southcote,mistaking a dropsical disorder for thedivine afflatus, and demanding worshipon no better grounds than thegreatness of his own blown conceit,may, by mere force of impudent pretension,induce a host of ignorant followersto have faith in him, ought tobe exposed and ridiculed. Not savagely,perhaps, for the first offence;the pantaloons should be loosed witha paternal hand, and the scourgemildly applied. If he still persists inmisdoing, it should be laid on till theblood comes.

But Alexander Smith is far fromcoming under the latter denomination.A writer, especially a young writer,should be judged by his best; andthere is enough excellence in the volumeto cover many more sins than itcontains, though they are numerous.And while it is a mistake to supposethat a fine poetic soul, however sensitive,will “let itself be snuffed outby an article,” yet there have beeninstances where undue severity hasdefrauded a writer of his just fame formany a long year; and though thecritic, in the end, has been compelledto render up the mesne profits of applause,yet that is small consolationfor the sense of wrong, and the deprivationof merited influence and reputation.

While foreign writers sketch us asthe most matter-of-fact and pudding-eatingof peoples—while we piqueourselves on sturdy John Bullism,and cheerfully accept the portrait ofan absurd old gentleman in a blackcoat, and a broad-brimmed hat andgaiters, with his hands in his well-filledbreeches pockets, as a just impersonationof the genius of the nation,it is an obvious fact that a poetnever had such a certainty of beingappreciated in England as now. Fitaudience is no longer few. Let himsound as high a note as he can forthe life of him, he will yet find echoesenough to constitute fame. Thereare homes in England almost as commonas hothouses, where fine criticismis nightly conversation—whereappreciators, as true as any who reviewin newspapers, hail a good andgreat writer as a personal friend.Here may be found all the elementsnecessary for the recognition of meritand the detection of imposture. Sturdygood sense refuses to believe ingaudy pretension; keen logic exposesemptiness; enthusiastic youth glowsat the high thought, the splendidimage; and the soft feminine natureresponds, with ready tears and unsuppressedsighings, to all legitimateappeals to the heart.

With such tribunals more plentifulthan county courts, a man is no longerjustified in decrying fame, or appealingfor justice to posterity. It mustbe an untoward accident, indeed, thatcheats an author of his due, when somany are eager to exchange praisefor his fine gold. The demand forexcellence in authorship exceeds thesupply; and there are plenty of keenreaders who, having traversed therealms of English poesy, yet thirstfor fresh fields and pastures new.Therefore, if an ardent spirit finds theworld deaf to his utterances, let himsearch uncomplainingly for the faultin his own mind, and never rashlyconclude that for his fondly believed-inpowers of thought and expressionthere is, as yet, no sympathetic public.Especially in poetry is the appetiteof the time unsatisfied; mediocrity,which should be inadmissible, is indulgentlyreceived, and the poets ofestablished reputation are on everyshelf. Editions of Shakespeare appearin perplexing numbers, and therusty armour in which a champion forhis text appears, is contended for as ifit were the heaven-forged panoply ofAchilles.

Mr Smith leaves his feelings on thesubject of fame open to doubt. Onemight almost fancy him a poet who,having desired fame too ardently inhis hot youth, had discovered its emptinessin riper age. A sonnet is devotedto the depreciation of fame;whereas Walter, in the Life-drama,is more than enthusiastic to achieveit. We have no doubt the ardentwishes which Mr Smith expressesthrough his hero are genuine, and thatthe philosophy of the sonnet is a philosophyhe only fancies he has acquired.Combativeness may inspirethe soldier to achievement, rivalrythe statesman; both may be, in somemeasure, indifferent to other famethan the applause of their contemporaries.But it is in vain for the poetto express indifference to the opinionof the world and of posterity. Whyhas he written, except that thoughtsbearing his impress may sound in theears of the future, and that the echoesthey arouse may convey to him, inhis silent resting-place, tidings of thecheerful day, assuring him of a tenurein the earth he loved, and a lastingposition among the race who were hisbrothers? What would not man doto secure remembrance after death?For this Erostratus burnt Diana’stemple; for this the Pyramids werebuilt, and built in vain; for this kingshave destroyed nations; for this thecare-worn money-getter gives his lifeto the founding of a wealthy name;and if a man may gain it more effectuallyby the simple publishing ofthoughts, whose conception was tohim a pleasure, let him be thankfulthat what all so ardently desire wasgranted to him on such easy terms,and that he may continue to be a realpresence on this earth, when most ofhis contemporaries are as though theyhad never been.

Taking it for granted, then, thatwhen a young poet publishes a workwherein the hero expresses an ardentdesire for fame, the poet is himselfspeaking through the character, it willbe interesting to see how he proposesto achieve it. Mr Smith tells us,through his hero, that his plan forimmortalising himself is “to set thisage to music.” That, he says, is thegreat work before the poet now.

To set this age to music!—’tis aphrase we have heard before of lateyears. Never was an age so intentupon self-glorification as this. Likethe American nation, it spends half itstime looking in the glass; and, likeit, always with the same loudly-expressedapprobation of what the mirrorreveals. It has long been its habitto talk its own praises, and now theymust be sung. When polkas werefirst introduced, many familiar soundswere parodied, to give character totunes of the new measure. Amongthese was the Railway-polka, in whichthe noise of the wheels and the clatterof machinery were admirably imitated;while a startling reality was givento the whole, by the occasional hoarsescream of the engine. Now, we fearthat the effort of a poet to set the ageto music would result in somethingresembling the railway polka—somethingmore creditable as a work of ingenuitythan of art, and embodyingmore appeals to the sense than to theheart or the imagination. To himwho stands apart from the rush androar, the many voices of the age conveya mingled sound that wouldscarcely seem musical even to thedreaming ear of a poet.

We see the spirit of the middle ages—thespirit of religious intolerance andsuperstitious faith—of deepest earnestness,and of bigotry springing out ofthat earnestness—reflected in Dante’spage. Spenser shows us the days ofthe plume and the spear, when thebeams of chivalry yet gilded the earth,when the motto of noble youth was—Godand my lady. Another phase ofthe same era—the era of romanticdiscovery and adventure, when therewere yet fairies on the green, and enchantedisles in the ocean—reappearsin the works of Shakespeare. Pope hasfixed for ever the time of courtliness,of external polish and artificial graces—thetime when woman was no moredivine—when Una had degeneratedinto Chloe—when love had given placeto intrigue, devotion to foppery, faithto reasoning; yet a pleasant andgraceful time. And it is no wonderthat the poet, now, feeling that he toopossesses “the vision and the facultydivine,” should long to leave his name,not drifting over space, but anchoredfirmly on the times he lived in.

But none of these old poets went towork with the deliberate intention ofsetting his age to music. Where that,so far as we can see the meaning ofthe phrase, has been done, it is becausethe poet lived so much amongthe characteristic men and scenes ofhis age, that his mind, more impressionableand more true in its impressionsthan others, was imbued withits spirit, and moulded to its forms; sothat, whatever his mind transmittedwas coloured by those hues, andswayed by those outlines. The poetdid not hunt about for the characteristicsof his age, and then deliberatelyembody them: he chose a congenialtheme when it offered itself, and it,unconsciously to him, became a pictureof a phase of the time. Whenour age, too, is set to music, if ever,it will be in this way.

If ever—For ages of the world, asworthy of note perchance as this, andmore rich in materials for poetry, havepassed away without being set to music.Every great change of society,and of mankind’s opinions, does notnecessarily call for a poet to sing it.It may be more suitably reproducedthrough some other medium thanverse—in newspapers, for instance, orin advertising vans. Of course, noman in his senses would say a wordagainst this age of ours; he couldexpect nothing less than to be immediatelybonneted, like an injudiciouselector who has hissed the popularcandidate; yet we would have likedAlexander Smith to indicate the directionin which he intends to seekhis materials. Does he see anythingheroic in an ardent desire to secureease and comfort at the cost of manyold and once respectable superstitions,such as honour and duty? Can hethrow over the cotton trade “the lightthat never was on sea or shore?” Or,is popular oratory distinguished by“thoughts that breathe and wordsthat burn?” Will the railway stationand the electric telegraph figure picturesquelyin the poet’s dream? Yet,when the age is set to music, thesechords will be not the most subduedin the composition. Mr Macaulay saidabout as much as could be said forthe spirit of the age, when he drew acontrast in popular prose between thepresent and the past. Had he triedthe subject in poetry, he would havefound the task much less congenialthan when he sung so manfully “howwell Horatius kept the bridge, in thebrave days of old.”

Alexander Smith has one characteristicin common with Tennyson, theauthor of Festus, and some otherpoets of the time. All seem to havegreat power in the regions of thedreary. Their gaiety is spasmodic;when they smile, ’tis like Patience ona monument, as if Grief were sittingopposite. If this is their way of settingthe age to music, ’tis, if mostmusical, yet most melancholy. Tennyson,who possesses the power ofconveying the sentiment of drearinessbeyond most poets that ever lived,generally selects some suitable subjectfor the exercise of it, such as Marianain the Moated Grange; but Mr Smith’shero, and Festus, are miserable fromchoice, and revel in their unaccountablewoe, like the character in Peaco*ck’snovel, whose notion of makinghimself agreeable consists in saying,“Let us all be unhappy together.”Not thus, O Alexander! sounds thekeynote of the genial soul of a greatpoet.

Our author’s notion of what constitutesa crushing affliction is altogetherpeculiar. A particular friend of hishero, after becoming quite blasphemousbecause he wanted “to let loosesome music on the world,” andcouldn’t (p. 137), commits suicide ona mountain, though whether by rope,razor, or prussic acid, we are not informed.However, being deranged,he no doubt received Christian burial.And Mr Smith, speaking for himselfin the sonnet already quoted, saysthat—

The chiefest woe!—the chiefest,Alexander! Neither Job nor Jeremiahhave enrolled it among humanafflictions. Is there no starvation,nor pain, nor death in the world?Is the income-tax repealed? Weappeal from Alexander in travailof a sonnet, with small hope of safedelivery, to Alexander in the toothache,and we are confident he willchange his opinion. Let him lookat Hogarth’s “Distressed Poet,” andsee what it is that moves his sympathythere. Not the perplexity of thepoor poet himself—that raises only anirreverent smile—but the poor goodpretty wife raising her household eyesmeekly and wonderingly to the loudmilkwoman, their inexorable creditor—thepiece of meat that was to formtheir scanty dinner, abstracted bythe felonious starveling of a cur,—thesetouch on deeper woes than thehead-scratching distress of the unproductivepoet.

To return to Mr Smith’s idea ofsetting the age to music. The firstrequisite clearly is, that the musicianshall be pre-eminently a man of theage. It is at once evident that oldfashionedpeople, with any lingeringremnants of the heroic or dark agesabout their ideas, would be quite outof place here. None but liberals andprogressionists need apply. These areso plentiful that there will be no difficultyin finding a great number whoembody the most prominent characteristicsof the time. Having got theman of the age, a tremendous difficultyoccurs. We are very muchafraid there will not only be nothingpoetical in the cast of his ideas, butthat he will be the embodiment ofeverything that is prosaic. Call tomind, O Alexander! the qualities essentialto a poet—at the same time,picture to yourself a Man of the Age—andthen fancy what kind of musicyou will extract from him. Set theage to music, quotha! Set the Stocksto music.

Having thus signally failed to pointout how the thing is to be done, wewill tell Alexander how it will not bedone. Not by uttering unmeaningcomplaints against Fate and Heaven,and other names of similar purportwhich we will not set down here, likea dog baying the moon. Not by utteringprofane rant, which, as it wouldnot have been justified by the maddespair of a Lear or an Othello, ishorribly nonsensical in the mouth ofa young gentleman who ought to havetaken a blue pill because his liver wasout of order. Not by pouring forthfloods of images and conceits whichafford no perception of the idea theirauthor would convey. Not by makingthe moon and the sea appear in sucha variety of ridiculous characters thatwe shall never again stroll by moonlighton the shore without seeingsomething comical in the aspect ofthe deep and the heavenly bodies.Not by——But we have just lightedon a passage which proves that MrSmith knows what is right as well asanybody can tell him:—

And again—

That is the point. Not to dismissimages unprotected on the world, likeMr Winkle’s shots—which, we are informed,were “unfortunate foundlingscast loose upon society, and billetednowhere”—but to mature a worthyleading idea, waiting, watching, fosteringit till it is full-grown and symmetricalin its growth; and fromwhich the lesser ideas and imagesshall spring as naturally, necessarily,and with as excellent effect of adornment,as leaves from the tree.

Whether Alexander can do this,yet remains to be proved. Some ofthe requisites he possesses in a highdegree. Force, picturesqueness ofconception, and musical expression,all of which he has displayed, will dogreat things when giving utterance toa theme well chosen and well designed;but at present they only tell us,like a harp swept by the wind, of themelodies slumbering in the chords.Such is the Æolian character of theLife-drama—fitful, wild, melancholy,often suggestive of something exquisitelysweet and graceful, but faint,fugitive, and incoherent. When ourpoet sounds a strain worthy of theinstrument, our pæans shall accompanyand swell the chorus of applause.

The sonnets, as conveying tangibleideas, and such as excite interest andsympathy, have greatly exalted ouropinion of the poet’s powers. Theyhave not been much quoted as yet byany of his discerning admirers, perhapsbecause there is little or nothing inthem but what a plain man may understand,and they contain few allusionsto the ocean or any of the planets.But here is one showing a fine picture—apicture that appeals to theimagination and the heart. It is atonce manly and pathetic, representinga friendless, but independent andaspiring genius:—

As Mercutio says, “Is not thisbetter, now, than groaning? Nowart thou sensible—now art thou Romeo.”We hope he will be “one ofthose,” and think he may. Only hemust believe that, however fine andrare the poetic faculties he has evinced,they cannot produce anything for posterityof themselves, but must build ona foundation of thought and art.

We are afraid, though we have notdescended to verbal criticism, buthave only indicated essential faults,that Alexander will think we havetreated his book in an irreverentspirit; but, nevertheless, it is a trulypaternal one. Even in such mooddid we deal, of late, with our own belovedfirst-born, heir of his mother’scharms and his father’s virtues—afine, clever fellow, in whom his parentstake immense pride, though we judiciouslyconceal it for fear of increasingthe conceit which is already somewhatconspicuous in his bearing. We ratherthink he had been led astray by theexample of that young scoundrel,Jones, who threatened to hang himselfif his mother didn’t give him five-and-twentyshillings to pay his scoreat the pastry-cook’s, and so terrifiedthe poor lady into compliance. Howeverthat may be, our offspring,George, being denied, of late, someunreasonable requests, straightwaywent into sulky heroics—spoke ofhimself as an outcast—stalked aboutwith a gloomy air in dark corners ofthe shrubbery with his arms folded—smiledabout twice a-day, in a witheringand savage manner, though hisnatural disposition is cheerful and inclinedto fun—and begged to declineto hold any further intercourse withhis relatives. He kept up the broodingand injured character with greatconsistency (except that he alwayscame regularly to meals, and eatthem with his customary appetite,which is a very fine and healthy one),and was encouraged in it by hisgrandmother, who, between ourselves,reader, is a rather silly old woman,much given in her youth to maudlinsentimentalism, and Werterism,and bad forms of Byronism. Shewould take him aside, pat his head,kiss his cheek, and call him her poordear boy, and slip money into hispocket, which he neither thanked herfor, nor offered to refuse; and he becamemore firmly persuaded than ever,that he was one of the most ill-usedyoung heroes that ever existed. Thiswe were sorry to see—like Mrs Quickly,we cannot abide swaggerers—andwe bethought ourselves of a remedy.Some parents would have got in arage and thrashed him—but he is aplucky young fellow, and this wouldonly have caused him to considerhimself a martyr; others would havemildly reasoned with him—but thiswould have given his fault too importantand serious an air, so we treatedhim to a little irony and ridicule—caustic,not contemptuous, and morecomical than spiteful. Just beforebeginning this course of treatment, wehappened to overhear him makinglove, in the library, to Charlotte Jones(sister of the before-mentioned admirerof confectionary), a great, fat,lymphatic girl, who was spending afew days with his sisters, and whohas no more sentiment or passion inher than so much calipee. However,he seemed to have quite enough forboth, and poured forth his romanticdevotion with a fervid fluency whichI suspect must be the result of practice—forthe young scamp is precocious,and conceived his first passion,at the age of nine, for a fine youngwoman of four-and-twenty. Charlotte,working away the while at agreat cabbage-rose, not unlike herself,which she is embroidering inworsted, listened to his raptures witha lethargic calmness contrastingstrongly with the impassioned air ofthe youth, who was no doubt ready,like Walter, Mr Smith’s hero, for theconsideration of a kiss (if the placidobject of his affections would haveconsented to such an impropriety), to“take Death at a flying leap”—whichis undoubtedly the most astonishinginstance of agility on record since thecow jumped over the moon to thetune of “Hi, diddle, diddle.” Ourentrance, just as he had got on hisknees, and was going to take herhand, somewhat disconcerted him;and we turned the incident to suchadvantage, that our very first jest athim in the presence of the familycaused him (the boy has a fine senseof humour) to retire precipitately fromthe room, for fear he should compromisehis dignity by exploding inlaughter. He strove to preserve hisgloomy demeanour for a day or two;but finding it of no effect to maintaina stern scowl on his forehead, while hismouth expanded in an unwilling grin, hegave up the attempt; and now greetsany allusion to his former tragedy airswith as hearty a laugh as anybody.

Our impression is very strong thatMr Smith is not himself satisfied withhis work, and that the undiscriminatingapplause he has met with insome quarters will not deceive him.He must know that the ornaments ofthe Life-drama are out of all proportionto the framework, and that the latteris too loosely put together to floatfar down the crowded stream of time.He has a strong leaning to mysticism,a common vice of the times, and shouldtherefore exclude carefully all ideaswhich he cannot render clear to himself,and all expressions which fail toconvey his meaning clearly to others.He should remember that, though afine image may be welcomed for itsown sake, yet, as a rule, similes andimages are only admissible as illustrations,and if they do not render theparent thought more clear, they renderit more cloudy. His great wantis a proper root-idea, and intelligibletheme which shall command the sympathiesof other minds: these obtained,he will shake his faults like dewdropsfrom his mane; and he willfind that his tropes, thus disciplined,will not only obtain double force fromtheir fitness, but will also be intrinsicallyfiner than the random growthsof accident. It is true that Mr Smith,through his spokesman, Walter, mentionsa plan for a poem, his “lovedand chosen theme,” (p. 38). He says,

A prospect, the mere sketch of whichfills us with concern. If we thoughthe would listen, we would say—No,Mr Smith; don’t begin in the oldest—leavethe “dead eternities” alone,and don’t let your “first chorus,” onany account, be “the shouting of themorning stars.” Rather begin, asyou propose to end, with “silence,”than in this melancholy way. Letyour thoughts be based on the unalterableemotions of the heart, not on thewild driftings of the fancy. Observeall that strongly appeals to the feelingsof others and of yourself—let art assistyou to select and to combine—yourwarm imagination will give life to theconception, and your powers of fancyand language will vividly express it.Don’t set down any odd conceit thatmay strike you about the relation ofthe sea and the stars, and the moon;but when you conceive an imagewhich, besides being fine in itself,shall bear essential, not accidental,relation to some part of your theme,put it by till your main subject, inits natural expansion, affords it afitting place.

Following this course, we trust thatAlexander will prove worthy of themany illustrious scions of the houseof Smith who have distinguishedthemselves since Adam, and maintainits precedence over the houses ofBrown, Jones, and Robinson. Sydneythe Reverend—Horace and Jamesof the Rejected Addresses—and William,of the modest and too obscuredramas (noticed by us before), mightwell become prouder of the patronymicto which they have already lent lustre,when Alexander, mellowed by time,and taught by thought and experience,shall have produced his nextand riper work.

This extremely interesting work ofDr Hecker’s consists of three severaltreatises, or historical sketches, publishedat different times, and here collectedin a single volume. They aretranslated and published under thedirection of the Sydenham Society—asociety which has been the means ofintroducing to the medical profession,and to the English reader, some of themost eminent works of German physiciansand physiologists. It is seldom,indeed, that their publications are ofthe popular and amusing descriptionof the one we have selected for notice;but, speaking of them as a series, theyare of that high philosophic characterwhich must render them acceptableto every man of liberal education.How far they are accessibleto the public at large we have not themeans of knowing, nor whether thepurchase of any single volume is apracticable matter to a non-subscriber;but, at all events, means, we think,ought to be taken to place the wholeseries on the shelves of every publiclibrary.

The great plague of the fourteenthcentury, called in Germany The BlackDeath, from the dark spots of fatalomen which appeared on the bodiesof its victims; the Dancing Mania,which afterwards broke out both inGermany and Italy; and the SweatingSickness, which had its origin inEngland, but extended itself alsowidely upon the Continent—theseform the three subjects of Dr Hecker’sbook. The dancing mania, known inGermany as St John’s or St Vitus’sDance, and in Italy as the poison ofthe Tarantula or Tarantism, will bemost likely to present us with noveland curious facts, and we shallbe tempted to linger longest uponthis topic. Readers of all kinds,whether of Thucydides, or Boccaccio,or Defoe, are familiar with the phenomenaand events which characterisea plague, and which bear a greatresemblance to each other in allperiods of history. We shall, therefore,refrain from dwelling at anylength upon the well-known terrorsof the Great Mortality or the BlackDeath.

Yet the subject is one of undyinginterest. The Great Plague is, inthis respect, like the Great Revolutionof France; you may read fiftyhistories of it, and pronounce it to bea topic thoroughly worn out and exhausted;and yet when the fifty-firsthistory is put into your hands, thechance is that you will be led on, andwill read to the very last page withalmost undiminished interest. Thecharm is alike in both cases. It isthat our humanity is seen in its momentsof great, if not glorious excitement—ofplenary inspiration of somekind, though it be of an evil spirit—seenin moments when all its passions,good and bad, and the badchiefly, stand out revealed in full unfetteredstrength. And the history,in both cases, is of perpetual valueand significance to us. Plagues, asour own generation can testify, areno more eradicated or banished fromthe cities of mankind than politicalrevolutions. They read a lesson tous which, terrible as it is, we are stillslow in learning.

We are often haunted with thedread of over-population. This fearmay perhaps be encountered by anotherof a quite opposite description,when we read that in the fourteenthcentury one quarter at least of thepopulation of the Old World wasswept away in the short space of fouryears! Such is the calculation whichDr Hecker makes, on the best sourcesof information within his reach. Ifsuch devastating plagues arise, as ourauthor thinks, from great physicalcauses over which man has no control,from an atmospheric poison nottraceable to his ignorance or vice,and which no advancement in sciencecan prevent or expel, there is indeedroom for an undefined dread of periodicaldepopulations, putting to the routall human calculations and all humanforethought. But on this point wehave our doubts.

“An inquiry into the causes of theBlack Death,” says our author, “willnot be without important results in thestudy of the plagues which have visitedthe world, although it cannot advancebeyond generalisation without enteringupon a field hitherto uncultivated,and, to this hour, entirely unknown.Mighty revolutions in the organism ofthe earth, of which we have credibleinformation, had preceded it. FromChina to the Atlantic the foundationsof the earth were shaken—throughoutAsia and Europe the atmosphere wasin commotion, and endangered, by itsbaneful influence, both vegetable andanimal life.” When, however, DrHecker proceeds to specify the earthquakesand volcanic eruptions, andother terrific events which shook thefoundations of the earth from Chinato the Atlantic, we do not find thatthe enumeration at all bears out thisgeneral description. A large proportionof such disastrous phenomena ashe has been able to collect relate toChina; and although the plagueshould be proved to have travelledfrom the East, it is not traced, as anidentical disease, so far eastward as toChina, and therefore is but vaguelyconnected with the great droughtsand violent rains which afflicted thatregion of the earth. Nearer at home,in Europe, we have mention made of“frequent thunderstorms,” and aneruption of Ætna, but thunderstormsand a volcanic eruption have not, onother occasions, given rise to a plague;not to add, that if the atmosphere ofEurope was tainted from causes ofthis kind, springing from its own soiland its own climate, it would be quitesuperfluous to trace the disease to theEast at all. We should merely say thata similar disease broke out in differentcountries at the same time, demonstratingsome quite cosmical or universalcause. The most importantfact which is mentioned here, as provingsome wide atmospheric derangement,is the “thick stinking mist seento advance from the East and spreaditself over Italy.” But Dr Hecker himselfadds, that at such a time naturaloccurrences would be transformed orexaggerated into miracles; and weare quite sure that any really extraordinaryevent, occurring simultaneouslywith the plague, would, withoutfurther inquiry, be described asthe cause of it. An unusual mist,just as a comet or any unusual meteor,appearing at the time, would becharged with the calamity.

On so obscure a subject we haveno desire to advance any dogmaticopinion. There are facts connectedwith this and other great epidemicswhich, to men of cautious research,have seemed to point to some widespreadingpoison, some subtle, deleteriousmatter diffused through theair, or some abnormal condition of theatmosphere itself. Such there may be,acting either as immediate or predisposingcause of the disease. But toour apprehension, all plagues andpestilences have been bred from twowell-known and sufficient causes—famineand filth. Scanty and unwholesomediet first disorders anddebilitates the frame, fevers ensue,the foul atmosphere of crowded unventilateddwellings becomes impregnatedby breathings that have passedthrough putrid lungs; and thus thedisease, especially in a hot climate,attains to that malignity that thestricken wretch, move him where youwill, becomes the centre of infectionto all around him, and from his pestiferousdwelling there creeps a poisonwhich invades even the most salubriousportion of the town; which,stealing through the garden-gate andover the flower-beds, enters even intothe very palace itself. Doubtlessother causes may co-operate, as unusualrains and fogs; the fact that amurrain amongst cattle sometimes accompaniesor precedes a plague, indicateslocal causes of this description;but the true source of the disease liesin the city man has built, in his improvidenceor injustice, his ignoranceor his sloth.

It is thus that Dr Hecker speaks ofthe manner in which the disease maybe propagated, so far as the agency ofman is concerned:—we do not seemto want any quite cosmical influence.

“Thus much from authentic sources ofthe nature of the Black Death. The descriptionswhich have been communicatedcontain, with a few unimportant exceptions,all the symptoms of the Orientalplague, which have been observed in moremodern times. No doubt can obtain onthis point. The facts are placed clearlybefore our eyes. We must, however,bear in mind that this violent diseasedoes not always appear in the same form;and that, while the essence of the poisonwhich it produces, and which is separatedso abundantly from the body of the patient,remains unchanged, it is proteoform in itsvarieties, from the almost imperceptiblevesicle, unaccompanied by fever, whichexists for some time before it extends itspoison inwardly, and then excites feversand buboes, to the fatal form in whichcarbuncular inflammations fall upon themost important viscera.

“Such was the form which the plagueassumed in the fourteenth century, for theaccompanying chest affection, which appearedin all the countries whereof wehave received any account, cannot, on acomparison with similar and familiarsymptoms, be considered as any other thanthe inflammation in the lungs of modernmedicine, a disease which at present onlyappears sporadically, and owing to aputrid decomposition of the fluids is probablycombined with hemorrhages fromthe vessels of the lungs. Now as everycarbuncle, whether it be cutaneous or internal,generates in abundance the matterof contagion which has given rise to it,so therefore must the breaths of theaffected have been poisonous in thisplague, and on this account its power ofcontagion wonderfully increased; whereforethe opinion appears incontrovertiblethat, owing to the accumulated numbersof the diseased, not only individual chambersand houses, but whole cities, were infected;which, moreover, in the middleages, were, with few exceptions, narrowlybuilt, kept in a filthy state, and surroundedwith stagnant ditches. Flight was in consequenceof no avail to the timid; forsome, though they had sedulously avoidedall communication with the diseased andthe suspected, yet their clothes were saturatedwith the pestifierous atmosphere,and every inspiration imparted to themthe seeds of the destructive malady which,in the greater number of cases, germinatedwith but too much fertility. Addto which the usual propagation of theplague through clothes, beds, and athousand other things to which the pestilentialpoison adheres,—a propagationwhich, from want of caution, must havebeen infinitely multiplied; and since articlesof this kind, removed from theaccess of air, not only retain the matterof contagion for an indefinite period, butalso increase its activity, and engender itlike a living being, frightful ill consequencesfollowed for many years after thefirst fury of the pestilence was passed.”

It may be worth noticing that DrHecker, or his translator, uses theterms contagion and infection indiscriminately;nor is the question enteredinto whether the disease is capableof being propagated by mere contact,without inhaling the morbific matter,or becoming inoculated with it throughsome puncture in the skin. Dr Heckernowhere gives countenance to such asupposition. The poison would hardlypenetrate by mere touch through asound and healthy skin. Such abelief, however, was likely enough toprevail at a time when we are toldthat “even the eyes of the patientwere considered as sources of contagion,which had the power of actingat a distance, whether on account oftheir unwonted lustre or the distortionwhich they always suffer inplague, or whether in conformity withan ancient notion, according to whichthe sight was considered as the bearerof a demoniacal enchantment.”

Avignon is here mentioned as thefirst city in which the plague brokeout in Europe. We have a report ofit from a contemporary physician,Guy de Chauliac, a courageous man,it seems, who “vindicated the honourof medicine by bidding defiance todanger, boldly and constantly assistingthe affected, and disdaining theexcuse of his colleagues, who held theArabian notion, that medical aid wasunavailing, and that the contagionjustified flight.” The plague appearedtwice in Avignon, first in the year1348, and twelve years later, in 1360,“when it returned from Germany.”On the first occasion it raged chieflyamongst the poor; on the secondmore amongst the higher classes,destroying a great many children,whom it had formerly spared, andbut few women. We presume thaton the second occasion the plaguewas re-introduced at once amongstthe merchant class of the city, andthis would account for fewer womenfalling victims to it, because men ofthis class could take precautions forthe safety of their wives and daughters.But why a greater number of childrenshould have died, when thewomen were comparatively spared, iswhat we will make no attempt toexplain.

How fatal it proved at Florence,Boccaccio has recorded. It is fromhim we learn with certainty that otheranimals besides man were capable ofbeing infected by the disease—a factof no little interest in the history ofthe plague. He mentions that hehimself saw two hogs, on the rags ofa person who had died of plague,after staggering about for a shorttime, fall down dead as if they hadtaken poison. A multitude of dogs,cats, fowls, and other domesticatedanimals, were, he tells us, fellow-suffererswith man.

In Germany the mortality was notso great as in Italy, but the diseaseassumed the same character. InFrance, it is said, many were struckas if by lightning, and died on thespot—and this more frequently amongthe young and strong than the old.Throughout England the diseasespread with great rapidity, mendying in some cases immediately, inothers within twelve hours, or atlatest in two days. Here, as elsewhere,the inflammatory boils andbuboes were recognised at once asprognosticating a fatal issue. It firstbroke out in the county of Dorset.Few places seem to have escaped; andthe mortality was so great that contemporaryannalists have reported(with what degree of accuracy wecannot say) that throughout the wholeland not more than a tenth part ofthe inhabitants had survived.

The north of Europe did not escape,nor did all the snows of Russia protecther from this invasion. In Norwaythe disease broke out in a frightfulmanner. Nor was the sea a refuge;sailors found no safety in their ships;vessels were seen driving about onthe ocean and drifting on the shore,whose crews had perished to the lastman.

It is a terrible history, this of aplague. Nevertheless, if we werecapable of surveying such eventsfrom an elevated position, where pastand future were revealed to our view,and the whole scheme of creation unfoldedto our knowledge, we shoulddoubtless discover that even plaguesand pestilences play their parts forthe welfare and advancement of thehuman race. Nor are we withoutsome glimpses of their utility. Viewingthe matter, in the first place, in aquite physiological light, let us supposethat disease has been generatedin a great city, that debilitated parentsgive birth to feeble offspring, that thefever, or whatever it may be, iswasting the strength of whole classesof the population, is it not better thatsuch disease should attain a powerand virulence that will enable it tosweep off at once a whole infectedgeneration, men, women, and children,leaving the population to be replacedby the healthier who would survive?would not this be better than to allowthe disease to perpetuate itself indefinitely,and thus to continue to multiplyfrom an infected stock? Thepoison passes on, and searches outother neighbourhoods where the liketerrible remedy is needed. Ay, butit passes, you say, into cities anddistricts where no such curative process,no such restoration of the breed,was called for. But it is always thuswith the great laws of nature, or ofProvidence. Thus far, and no farther!is said to the pestilence as well as tothe ocean; but the line along thebeach is not kept or measured withthat petty precision which a land-surveyorwould assuredly have suggested.Man’s greatness arises in partfrom this struggle with an externalnature, which threatens from time totime to overwhelm him. There is,according to his measurement ofthings, a dreadful surplus of powerand activity, both in the organic andthe inorganic world. Nowhere are theforces of nature exactly graduated tosuit his taste or convenience. Happilynot. Man would sink into the tamenessand insipidity of an Arcadianshepherd, or the sheep he feeds andfondles, if every wind that blew wereexactly tempered to his own susceptibility.

But the moral effects of plague andpestilence—what good thing can besaid of them? A general dissoluteness,an unblushing villany, for themost part prevails: a few instancesof heroic virtue brighten out abovethe corrupted mass. Well, is it nothing,then, that from time to time ournature should be fully revealed to usin its utmost strength for good or forevil? A very hideous revelation itmay sometimes be, but not the lesssalutary on this account. The maskof hypocrisy is torn off a whole city;in one moment is revealed to a wholepeople what its morality, what itspiety is worth. Of the island ofCyprus, we are told, that an earthquakeshook its foundations, and wasaccompanied by so frightful a hurricanethat the inhabitants, who hadslain their Mahometan slaves in orderthat they might not themselves besubjected by them, fled in dismay inall directions. Who had slain theirMahometan slaves! Their Christianityhad brought them thus far on theroad of moral culture! At Lübeck,the Venice of the North, the wealthymerchants were not, in this extremity,unmindful of the safety of their souls;they spent their last strength in carryingtheir treasures to monasteries andchurches. Useless for all other purposes,their gold would now purchaseheaven. To such intelligent viewsof Christianity had they attained!But the treasure had no longer anycharm for the monks; it might beinfected; and even with them thethirst for gold was in abeyance.They shut their gates upon it; yetstill it was cast to them over theconvent walls. “People would notbrook an impediment to the last piouswork to which they were driven bydespair.”

Did all desert their post, or belietheir professions? No; far from it.Amongst other instances, take that ofthe Sisters of Charity at the HotelDieu. “Though they lost their livesevidently from contagion, and theirnumbers were several times renewed,there was still no want of fresh candidates,who, strangers to the unchristianfear of death, piously devotedthemselves to their holy calling.”

But how cruel had their fears madethe base multitude of Christendom!They rose against the Jews. Theysought an enemy. The wells werepoisoned; the Jews had poisoned them.Sordid natures invariably strive to losethe sense of their own calamity in avindictive passion against some supposedauthor of it. For this reasonit is, that, whatever the nature of thepublic distress may be, they alwaysfasten it upon some human antagonist,whom they can have the luxury ofhating and reviling. If they cannotcure, they can at least revenge themselves.

“The noble and the mean fearlesslybound themselves by an oath to extirpatethe Jews by fire and sword, and to snatchthem from their protectors, of whom thenumber was so small, that throughoutall Germany but few places can be mentionedwhere these unfortunate peoplewere not regarded as outlaws, and martyredand burnt. Solemn summonseswere issued from Berne, to the towns ofBasle, Freyburg, and Strasburg, to pursuethe Jews as prisoners. The burgomastersand senators, indeed, opposedthis requisition; but in Basle the populaceobliged them to bind themselves byan oath to burn the Jews, and to forbidpersons of that community from enteringtheir city for the space of two hundredyears. Upon this all the Jews in Basle,whose number could not be inconsiderable,were enclosed in a wooden building,constructed for the purpose, and burnt togetherwith it, upon the mere outcry ofthe people, without sentence or trial,which indeed would have availed themnothing. Soon after the same thing tookplace at Freyburg. A regular diet washeld at Bennefeeld, in Alsace, where thebishops, lords, and barons, as also deputiesof the counties and towns, consultedhow they should proceed with regard tothe Jews: and when the deputies ofStrasburg—not, indeed, the bishop of thistown, who proved himself a violent fanatic—spokein favour of the persecuted,as nothing criminal was substantiatedagainst them, a great outcry was raised,and it was vehemently asked why, if so,they had covered their wells and removedtheir buckets?” [The wells were notused in the mere suspicion that they werepoisoned, and then the covering of themup became a proof with these reasonersthat they had been poisoned]. “A sanguinarydecree was resolved upon, ofwhich the populace, who obeyed here thecall of the nobles and superior clergy, becamebut the too willing executioners.Wherever the Jews were not burnt theywere at least banished, and so beingcompelled to wander about, they fellinto the hands of the country people, whowithout humanity, and regardless of alllaws, persecuted them with fire andsword. At Spires the Jews, driven todespair, assembled in their own habitations,which they set on fire, and thusconsumed themselves with their families.”

The atrocities, in short, that werecommitted against this unhappypeople were innumerable. At Strasburg2000 men were burnt in theirown burial-ground. At Mayence,12,000 are said to have been put to acruel death. At Eslingen the wholeJewish community burned themselvesin their own synagogue. Those whomthe Christians saved they insistedupon baptising! And, as fanaticismbegets fanaticism, Jewish motherswere seen throwing their children onthe pile, to prevent their being baptised,and then precipitating themselves intothe flames. From many of the accusedthe rack extorted a confessionof guilt; and as some Christians alsowere sentenced to death for poisoningthe wells, Dr Hecker suggests that itis not improbable the very belief inthe prevalence of the crime had inducedsome men of morbid imaginationreally to commit it. When afaith in witchcraft, he observes, wasprevalent, many an old woman wastempted to mutter spells against herneighbour. The false accusation hadended in producing, if not the crimeitself, yet the criminal intention.

When we remember what took placein England under the reign of oneTitus Oates, we shall not concludethat these terrible hallucinations of thepublic mind are proofs of any verypeculiar condition of barbarism. Then,as at the later epoch to which we havealluded, a very marvellous plot wasdevised and thoroughly credited. Allthe Jews throughout Christendomwere under the control and governmentof certain superiors at Toledo—asecret and mysterious council ofRabbis—from whom they receivedtheir commands. These prepared thepoison with their own hands, fromspiders, owls, and other venomousanimals, and distributed it in littlebags, with injunctions where it wasto be thrown. Dr Hecker gives us,in an appendix, an official account ofthe “Confessions made on the 15thSeptember, in the year of our Lord1348, in the castle of Chillon, by theJews arrested in Neustadt on thecharge of poisoning the wells, springs,and other places, also food, &c., withthe design of destroying and extirpatingall Christians.” These confessionswere, of course, produced bythe rack, or by the threat of torture,and the manifest inutility of any defenceor denial. Nor must it be forgotten,that the official report wasdrawn up after the whole of the Jewsat Neustadt had been burnt on thisvery charge. Amongst these confessionsis one of Balaviginus, a Jewishphysician, arrested at Chillon “inconsequence of being found in theneighbourhood.” He was put for ashort time upon the rack, and, afterbeing taken down, “confessed, aftermuch hesitation, that, about ten weeksbefore, the Rabbi Jacob of Toledosent him, by a Jewish boy, some poisonin the mummy of an egg: it wasa powder sewed up in a thin leathernpouch, accompanied by a letter, commandinghim, on penalty of excommunication,and by his required obedienceto the law, to throw the poisoninto the larger and more frequentedwells of Thonon.” Similar letters hadbeen sent to other Jews. All Jews,indeed, were under the necessity ofobeying these injunctions. He, Balaviginus,had done so; he had thrownthe poison into several wells. It wasa powder half red and half black. Redand black spots were produced by theplague; it was right that this poisonshould partake of these two colours.

Conveyed over the lake from Chillonto Clarens to point out the wellinto which he had thrown the powder,Balaviginus, “on being conducted tothe spot, and having seen the well,acknowledged that to be the place,saying, ‘This is the well into which Iput the poison.’ The well was examinedin his presence, and the linencloth in which the poison had beenwrapped was found. He acknowledgedthis to be the linen which hadcontained the poison; he describedit as being of two colours—red andblack.” We follow in imaginationthis Jewish physician. Taken fromthe rack to his cell, he repeats whateverabsurdity his unrelenting persecutorsput into his mouth. RabbiJacob of Toledo—mummy of an egg—whatyou will. Conducted to thewell—yes, this was the well; shownthe very rag—yes, this was the rag;—andthe powder? yes, it was redand black. What scorn and bitternessmust have mingled with theagony of the Jewish physician!

Amidst all this we hear the scourgeand miserable chant of the Flagellants,stirring up the people to freshpersecutions, and infecting their mindswith a superstition as terrible as thevice it pretended to expiate. Thiswas not, indeed, their first appearancein Europe; nor did the Flagellantsdo more, at the commencement,than exaggerate the sort of piety theirown church had taught them. Happily,as their fanaticism rose, theyput themselves in opposition to thehierarchy, and were thus the soonerdispersed. In their spiritual exultationthey presumed to reform or todispense with the priesthood. Theyfound themselves, therefore, in theirturn subjected to grave denunciations,and pronounced to be one cause ofthe wrath of Heaven.

All this time what were the physiciansdoing? In the history of theplague, written by a physician, thetopic, we may be sure, is not forgotten.But the information we gleanis of a very scanty, unsatisfactorycharacter. As to the origin of theplague—“A grand conjunction of thethree superior planets, Saturn, Jupiter,and Mars, in the sign of Aquarius,which took place, according to Guyde Chauliac, on the 24th March 1345,was generally received as its principalcause. In fixing the day, this physician,who was deeply versed inastrology, did not agree with others;wherefore there arose various disputationsof weight in that age, but ofnone in ours.” The medical facultyof Paris pronounced the same opinion.Being commissioned to report on thecauses and the remedies of this GreatMortality, they commence thus:“It is known that in India, and thevicinity of the Great Sea, the constellationswhich emulated the rays ofthe sun, and the warmth of theheavenly fire, exerted their powerespecially against that sea, and struggledviolently with its waters.” Hencevapours and corrupted fogs; henceno wholesome rain, or hail, or snow,or dew, could refresh the earth. Butnotwithstanding this learning, quitepeculiar to the age, they were notmore at fault than other learnedbodies have been in later times, inthe practical remedies they suggestedagainst the disease. They were not entirelyoccupied in fixing the day whenJupiter, Mars, and Saturn, had combatedthe sun over the great IndianOcean. “They did,” as Dr Heckersays, “what human intellect could doin the actual condition of the healingart; and their knowledge of the diseasewas by no means despicable.”When fevers have attained to thatmalignancy that they take the nameof plagues, they have escaped, wesuspect, from the control of the physician;—justas when fires take thename of conflagrations, you must devoteall your efforts to the saving ofwhat is yet unconsumed, and checkingthe extension of the flames.

Amongst the consequences of theplague, Dr Hecker notices that thechurch acquired treasures and largeproperties in land, even to a greaterextent than after the Crusades; andthat, on the subsidence of the calamity,many entered the priesthood,or flocked to the monasteries, whohad no other motive than to participatein this wealth. He adds, also,that,—

“After the cessation of the BlackPlague, a greater fecundity in womenwas everywhere remarkable—a grandphenomenon, which, from its occurrenceafter every destructive pestilence, provesto conviction, if any occurrence can doso, the prevalence of a higher power inthe direction of general organic life.Marriages were, almost without exception,prolific, and double and treblebirths were more frequent than at othertimes; under which head we should rememberthe strange remark, that afterthe ‘great mortality’ the children weresaid to have got fewer teeth than before;at which contemporaries were mightilyshocked, and even later writers have feltsurprise.

“If we examine the grounds of thisoft-repeated assertion, we shall find thatthey were astonished to see children cuttwenty, or at most twenty-two teeth,under the supposition that a greaternumber had formerly fallen to theirshare. Some writers of authority, as, forexample, the physician Savonarola, atFerrara, who probably looked for twenty-eightteeth in children, published theiropinions on this subject. Others copiedfrom them without seeing for themselves,as often happens in other matters whichare equally evident; and thus the worldbelieved in a miracle of an imperfectionin the human body, which had beencaused by the Black Plague.”

That a fresh impetus would begiven to population seems to us quitesufficiently accounted for, withoutcalling into aid any “higher powerin the direction of general organiclife.” Men and women would marryearly; and the very fact of their havingsurvived the plague would, ingeneral, prove that they were healthysubjects, or had been well and temperatelybrought up. There wouldbe the same impetus to populationthat an extensive emigration wouldcause, and an emigration that hadcarried away most of the sick andthe feeble. The belief that doubleand treble births were more frequentthan at other times, may perhaps beexplained in the same manner as thebelief that there were fewer teeth thanbefore in the human head. No accurateobservations had been at all madeupon the subject.

We come next in order to TheDancing Mania—an epidemic of aquite different character. Not, indeed,as the name might imply, thatthe convulsive dance was a veryslight affliction—it was felt to be quiteotherwise; but because it belongs tothat class of nervous maladies inwhich there is great room for mentalor psychical influence. Such disordersspring up in a certain conditionof the body, but the form theyassume will depend on social circ*mstances,or the ideas current at thetime. And thus Dr Hecker finds nodifficulty in arranging the Convulsionnairesof France, or the early Methodistsof England and Wales, in thesame category as the maniacal dancersof Germany. It was in all thecases a physical tendency of a similarcharacter, brought out under the influenceof different ideas.

Dr Hecker mentions a case which,from the simplicity of the facts,would form a good introduction toothers of a more complicated character.In the year 1787, at a cotton-manufactoryat Hodden Bridge, inLancashire, a girl put a mouse intothe bosom of another girl, who had agreat dread of mice. It threw herinto a fit, and the fit continued, withthe most violent convulsions, fortwenty-four hours. On the followingday three other girls were seized inthe same way; on the day after sixmore. A report was now spreadthat a strange disease had been introducedinto the factory by a bag ofcotton opened in the house. Otherswho had not even seen the infected,but only heard of their convulsions,were seized with the same fits. Inthree days, the number of the sufferershad reached to twenty-four. Thesymptoms were, a sense of greatanxiety, strangulation, and verystrong convulsions, which lasted fromone to twenty-four hours, and of soviolent a nature that it required fouror five persons to prevent the patientsfrom tearing their hair, and dashingtheir heads against the floor andwalls. Dr St Clare was sent for fromPreston. Dr St Clare deserves tohave his name remembered. Theingenious man took with him a portableelectrical machine. The electricshock cured all his patients withoutan exception. When this was known,and the belief could no longer holdits ground that the plague had beenbrought in by the cotton bag, nofresh person was affected.

If we substitute for the cotton baga belief in some demoniacal influence,compelling people to dance againsttheir will, we have the dancingmania of Germany. Unhappily therewas no St Clare at hand, with hiselectrical machine, to give a favourableshock to body and mind at once,and thus disperse the malady beforeit gathered an overpowering strengthby the very numbers of the infected.

“The effects of the Black Death,”writes Dr Hecker (whose account of thedisorder we cannot do better than give,with some abridgments), “had not yetsubsided, when a strange delusion arosein Germany. It was a convulsion whichin the most extraordinary manner infuriatedthe human frame, and excited theastonishment of contemporaries for morethan two centuries, since which time ithas never reappeared. It was called theDance of St John, or of St Vitus, onaccount of the Bacchantic leaps bywhich it was characterised, and whichgave to those affected, whilst performingtheir wild dance, and screaming and foamingwith fury, all the appearance of personspossessed. It did not remain confinedto particular localities, but waspropagated by the sight of the sufferers,like a demoniacal epidemic, over thewhole of Germany and the neighbouringcountries to the north-west, which werealready prepared for its reception by theprevailing opinions of the times.

“So early as the year 1374, assemblagesof men and women were seen atAix-la-Chapelle, who had come out ofGermany, and who, united by one commondelusion, exhibited to the public,both in the streets and in the churches,the following strange spectacle. Theyformed circles hand in hand, and, appearingto have lost all control over theirsenses, continued dancing, regardless ofthe bystanders, for hours together, inwild delirium, until at length they fellto the ground in a state of exhaustion.They then complained of extreme oppression,and groaned as if in the agoniesof death, until they were swathed inclothes, bound tightly round their waists,upon which they again recovered, andremained free from complaint until thenext attack. This practice of swathingwas resorted to on account of the tympanywhich followed these spasmodicravings; but the bystanders frequentlyrelieved patients in a less artificial manner,by thumping or trampling upon theparts affected. While dancing, theyneither saw nor heard, being insensibleto external impressions through thesenses, but were haunted by visions,their fancies conjuring up spirits, whosenames they shrieked out; and some ofthem afterwards asserted that they feltas if they had been immersed in a streamof blood, which obliged them to leap sohigh. Others, during the paroxysm, sawthe heavens open, and the Saviour enthronedwith the Virgin Mary, accordingas the religious notions of the age werestrangely and variously reflected in theirimaginations.”

The disease spread itself in twodirections. It extended from Aix-la-Chapellethrough the towns of theNetherlands, and also through theRhenish towns. In Liege, Utrecht,and many other towns of Belgium,the dancers appeared with garlands intheir hair, and their waists alreadygirt with a cloth or bandage, thatthey might receive immediate reliefon the attack of the tympany. Itseems that the crowd around wereoften more ready to administer reliefby kicks and blows than by drawingthis bandage tight. The most oppositefeelings seem to have been excitedin the multitude by these exhibitions.Sometimes an idle and viciousmob would take advantage of them,and they became the occasion of muchriot and debauchery. More frequently,however, the demoniacal origin of thedisease, of which few men doubted,led to its being regarded with astonishmentand horror. Religious processionswere instituted on its account,masses and hymns were sung, andthe whole power of the priesthood wascalled in to exorcise the evil spirit.The malady rose to its greatest heightin some of the towns on the Rhine.At Cologne the number of the possessedamounted to more than fivehundred, whilst at Metz the streetsare said to have been filled (numberingwomen and children together) witheleven hundred dancers. Even thoseidle vagabonds who, for their ownpurposes, imitated their convulsivemovements, assisted to spread thedisorder; for in these maladies thesusceptible are infected quite as easilyby the imitation as by the reality.

The physicians stood aloof. Acknowledgedas a demoniacal possession,they left the treatment of thedisease entirely to the priesthood;and their exorcisms were not withoutavail. But it was necessary to thisspecies of remedy that the patientsshould have faith in the church andits holy ministers. Without faiththere would certainly, in such a case,be no cure; and, unhappily, the reporthad been spread by some irreverendschismatics that the disorder itselfwas owing—to what will our readerssuppose?—to an imperfect baptism—tothe baptism of children by thehands of unchaste priests. Wherethis notion prevailed, the exorcism,we need not say, was unavailing.

The malady first bore the name ofSt John’s Dance, afterwards that ofSt Vitus’s. This second name it tookfrom the mere circ*mstance that StVitus was the saint appealed to forits cure. A legend had been framedwith a curious disregard—even for alegend—of all history and chronology,in which St Vitus, who suffered martyrdom,as the church records, underthe Emperor Domitian, is describedas praying, just before he bent hisneck to the sword, that he mightprotect from the Dancing Mania allthose who should solemnise the day ofhis commemoration, and fast upon itseve. The prayer was granted; avoice from heaven was heard saying,“Vitus, thy prayer is accepted.”He became, of course, the patronsaint of those afflicted with thedancing plague. But the name underwhich it first appeared, of St John’sDance, receives from Dr Hecker anexplanation which points out tous a probable origin of the diseaseitself, or of the peculiar form which itassumed.

“The connection,” he says, “whichJohn the Baptist had with the dancingmania of the fourteenth century, was of atotally different character. He was originallyfar from being a protecting saintto those who were attacked, or one whowould be likely to give them relief froma malady considered as the work of thedevil. On the contrary, the manner inwhich he was worshipped afforded animportant and very evident cause for itsdevelopment. From the remotest period,perhaps even so far back as the fourthcentury, St John’s day was solemnisedwith all sorts of strange and rude customs,of which the original mysticalmeaning was variously disfigured amongdifferent nations by superadded relics ofheathenism. Thus the Germans transferredto the festival of St John’s day anancient heathen usage—the kindling ofthe ‘hodfyr,’ which was forbidden themby St Boniface; and the belief subsistseven to the present day, that people andanimals that have leaped through theseflames, or their smoke, are protected for awhole year from fevers and other diseases,as if by a kind of baptism by fire.Bacchanalian dances, which have originatedfrom similar causes among all therude nations of the earth, and the wildextravagancies of a heated imagination,were the constant accompaniments ofthis half-heathen, half-christian festival.”

In a note at a subsequent page DrHecker cites some curious passages toshow what in the middle ages tookplace at “St John’s fires.” Bones,horns, and other rubbish were heapedtogether to be consumed in smoke,while persons of all ages danced roundthe flames as if they had been possessed.Others seized burning flambeaus,and made a circuit of thefields, in the supposition that theythereby screened them from danger;while others again turned a cartwheel,to represent the retrogrademovement of the sun. The last circ*mstancetakes back the imaginationto the old primitive worship of thesun; and perhaps the very fires of StJohn might date their history fromthose kindled in honour of Baal orMoloch. Dr Hecker suggests thatmingling with these heathen traditionsor customs a remembrance of thehistory of St John’s death—thatdance which occasioned his decapitation—mightalso have had its share indetermining the peculiar manner inwhich this saint’s day should be observed.However that may be, as wefind that the first dancers in Aix-la-Chapelleappeared with St John’sname in their mouths, the conjectureis very probable that the wild revelsof St John’s day had given rise, if notto the disease, yet to the type or formin which it appeared.

At a subsequent period, indeed,when the disorder had assumed, if wemay so speak, a more settled aspect,the name of St John was no otherwiseassociated with it than the nameof St Vitus. People danced uponhis festival to obtain a cure. Andthese periodical dances, while theyrelieved the patients, assisted also toperpetuate the malady. Throughoutthe whole of June, we are told, priorto the festival of St John, many menfelt a disquietude and restlessnesswhich they were unable to overcome.They were dejected, timid, andanxious; wandered about in an unsettledstate, being tormented withtwitching pains, which seized themsuddenly in different parts; theyeagerly expected the eve of St John’sday, in the confident hope that, bydancing at the altars of this saint, theywould be freed from all their sufferings.Nor were they disappointed. Bydancing and raving for three hoursto the utmost scope of their desires,they obtained peace for the rest ofthe year. For a long time, however,we hear of cases which assumed themost terrific form. Speaking of aperiod which embraced the close ofthe fifteenth century, Dr Heckersays:—

“The St Vitus’s dance attacked peopleof all stations, especially those who led asedentary life, such as shoemakers andtailors; but even the most robust peasantsabandoned their labours in thefields, as if they were possessed by evilspirits; and thus those affected wereseen assembling indiscriminately, fromtime to time, at certain appointed places,and, unless prevented by the lookers-on,continuing to dance without intermission,until their very last breath was expended.Their fury and extravagance of demeanourso completely deprived them of theirsenses, that many of them dashed theirbrains out against the walls and cornersof buildings, or rushed headlong into rapidrivers, where they found a waterygrave. Roaring and foaming as theywere, the bystanders could only succeedin restraining them by placing benchesand chairs in their way, so that, by thehigh leaps they were tempted to take,their strength might be exhausted.”

Music, however, was a still betterresource. It excited, but it hastenedforward the paroxysm, and doubtlessreduced it to some measure andrhythm. The magistrates even hiredmusicians for the purpose of carryingthe dancers the more rapidly throughthe attack, and directed that athleticmen should be sent among them, inorder to complete their exhaustion.A marvellous story is related on theauthority of one Felix Plater: Severalpowerful men being commissionedto dance with a girl who had thedancing mania till she had recoveredfrom her disorder, they successivelyrelieved each other, and danced onfor the space of four weeks! at theend of which time the patient felldown exhausted, was carried to anhospital, and there recovered. Shehad never once undressed, was entirelyregardless of the pain of herlacerated feet, and had merely satdown occasionally to take some nourishmentor to slumber, and even then“the hopping movement of her bodycontinued.”

Happily, however, this mania grewmore rare every year, so that in thebeginning of the seventeenth centurywe may be said to be losing sight ofit in Germany. Nor shall we followout its history further in that country,because the same disorder, under adifferent form, made its appearancein Italy, and we must by no meansneglect to notice the dancing maniawhich was so universally attributedto the bite of the tarantula. Whateverpart the festival of St John theBaptist performed in Germany, as anexciter of the disease, that part wasstill more clearly performed in Italyby the popular belief in the venom ofa spider.

We shall not go back with DrHecker into the fears or superstitionsof classical times as to the bite ofcertain spiders or lizards; we mustkeep more strictly to our text; wemust start from the period whenmen’s minds were still open to painand alarm on account of the frequentreturn of the plague.

“The bite of venomous spiders, orrather the unreasonable fear of its consequences,excited at such a juncture,though it could not have done so at anearlier period, a violent nervous disorder,which, like St Vitus’s dance in Germany,spread by sympathy, increasing in severityas it took a wider range, and still furtherextending its ravages from its long continuance.Thus, from the middle of thefourteenth century, the furies of TheDance brandished their scourge overafflicted mortals; and music, for whichthe inhabitants of Italy now probably forthe first time manifested susceptibilityand talent, became capable of excitingecstatic attacks in those affected, andthus furnished the magical means ofexorcising their melancholy.”

Does the learned doctor insinuatethat the Italians owed their naturaltaste for music to this invasion ofTarantism?

“At the close of the fifteenth centurywe find that Tarantism had spread beyondthe boundaries of Apulia, and that thefear of being bitten by venomous spidershad increased. Nothing short of deathitself was expected from the wound whichthese insects inflicted; and if those whowere bitten escaped with their lives, theywere said to be pining away in a despondingstate of lassitude. Many becameweak-sighted or hard of hearing; somelost the power of speech; and all were insensibleto ordinary causes of excitement.Nothing but the flute or the cithernafforded them relief. At the sound ofthese instruments they awoke as if byenchantment, opened their eyes, and movingslowly at first, according to the measureof the music, were, as the timequickened, gradually hurried on to themost passionate dance. It was generallyobservable that country people, who wererude and ignorant of music, evinced onthese occasions an unusual degree of grace,as if they had been well practised inelegant movements of the body; for it isa peculiarity in nervous disorders of thiskind that the organs of motion are in analtered condition, and are completelyunder the control of the overstrainedspirits.”

This increased agility and grace ofmovement is by no means to be discreditedby the reader. It is a symptomwhich distinguishes one class ofepileptic patients. Some have attributedit to an over-excitement of thecerebellum. However that may be,there are greater wonders than thiscontained in our most sober and trustworthybooks on the disorders of thenervous system. We continue theaccount:—

“Cities and villages alike resoundedthroughout the summer season with thenotes of fifes, clarinets, and Turkishdrums; and patients were everywhere tobe met with who looked to dancing astheir only remedy. Alexander ab Alexandro,who gives this account, saw ayoung man in a remote village who wasseized with a violent attack of Tarantism.He listened with eagerness and a fixedstare to the sound of a drum, and hisgraceful movements gradually becamemore and more violent, until his dancingwas converted into a succession of franticleaps, which required the utmost exertionof his whole strength. In the midstof this overstrained exertion of mind andbody the music suddenly ceased, and heimmediately fell powerless to the ground,where he lay senseless and motionlessuntil its magical effect again aroused himto a renewal of his impassioned performances.”

We have put the expression “mindand body” in italics, because we mayas well take this opportunity to observe,that although convulsions ofthis kind are excited, and assume acertain form on account of the predominanceof some idea, yet, whenonce called forth, they are almostentirely mechanical in their nature.Mere animal excitability—what iscalled the reflex action, or otherautomatic movements quite as littleassociated with the immediate operationsof “mind”—carry on the rest ofthe process. And it is some consolationto think that the appearance ofpain and distress which marks convulsivedisorders of all descriptions,is, for the most part, illusory. Thepremonitory symptoms may be verydistressing, but the condition of thepatient, when the fit is on, is that ofinsensibility to pain.

The general conviction was, thatby music and dancing the poison ofthe tarantula was distributed overthe whole body, and expelled throughthe skin; but, unfortunately, it wasalso believed that if the slightest vestigeof it remained behind the disorderwould break out again. Thusthere was no confidence excited in aperfect cure. Men who had dancedthemselves well one summer watchedthe next summer for the returningsymptoms, and found in themselveswhat they looked for. Thus—

“The number of those affected by itincreased beyond belief, for whoever hadactually been, or even fancied that hehad been once bitten by a poisonousspider or scorpion, made his appearanceannually whenever the merry notes ofthe Tarantella resounded. Inquisitivefemales joined the throng and caught thedisease—not indeed from the poison of thespider, but from the mental poison whichthey eagerly received through the eye;and thus the cure of the Tarantati graduallybecame established as a regularfestival of the populace.”

It was customary for whole bandsof musicians to traverse Italy duringthe summer months, and the cure ofthe disordered was undertaken on agrand scale. This season of dancingand music was called “The women’slittle carnival,” for it was womenmore especially who conducted thearrangements. It was they, too, itseems, who paid the musicians theirfee. The music itself received its dueshare of study and attention. Therewere different kinds of the Tarantella(as the curative melody was called)suited to every variety of the ailment.

One very curious circ*mstance connectedwith this disease must not passunnoticed—the passion excited bycertain colours. Amongst the Germans,those afflicted by St Vitus’sdance were enraged by any garmentof the colour of red. Amongst theItalians, on the contrary, red colourswere generally liked. Some preferredone colour, some another, but the devotionto the chosen colour was oneof the most extraordinary symptomswhich the disease manifested in Italy.The colour that pleased the patienthe was enamoured of; the colour thatdispleased excited his utmost fury.

“Some preferred yellow, others wereenraptured with green; and eyewitnessesdescribe this rage for colours as so extraordinarythat they can scarcely find wordswith which to express their astonishment.No sooner did the patients obtaina sight of their favourite colour thanthey rushed like infuriated animals towardsthe object, devoured it with theireager looks, kissed and caressed it in everypossible way, and, gradually resigningthemselves to softer sensations, adoptedthe languishing expression of enamouredlovers, and embraced the handkerchief,or whatever article it might be whichwas presented to them, with the most intenseardour, while the tears streamedfrom their eyes as if they were completelyoverwhelmed by the inebriatingimpression on their senses.

“The dancing fits of a certain Capuchinfriar in Tarentum excited so much curiositythat Cardinal Cajetano proceeded tothe monastery that he might see with hisown eyes what was going on. As soon as themonk, who was in the midst of his dance,perceived the spiritual prince clothed inhis red garments, he no longer listened tothe tarantella of the musicians, but withstrange gestures endeavoured to approachthe cardinal, as if he wished to count thevery threads of his scarlet robe, and toallay his intense longing by its odour.The interference of the spectators, andhis own respect, prevented his touchingit, and thus, the irritation of his sensesnot being appeased, he fell into a state ofsuch anguish and disquietude that hepresently sunk down in a swoon, fromwhich he did not recover until the cardinalcompassionately gave him his cape.This he immediately seized in the greatestecstasy, and pressed, now to his breast,now to his forehead and cheeks, and thenagain commenced his dance as if in thefrenzy of a love fit.”

Another curious symptom, whichwas probably connected with thispassion for colour, was an ardentlonging for the sea. These over-susceptiblepeople were attracted irresistiblyto the boundless expanse of theblue ocean, and lost themselves in itscontemplation. Some were carriedso far by this vague passionate longingas to cast themselves into thewaves.

The persuasion of the inevitableand fatal consequences of being bittenby the tarantula was so general thatit exercised a dominion over thestrongest minds. Men who in theirsober moments considered the disorderas a species of nervous affectiondepending on the imagination, werethemselves brought under the influenceof this imagination, and sufferedfrom the disorder at the approach ofthe dreaded tarantula. A very strikinganecdote of this kind is told of theBishop of Foligno. Quite scepticalas to the venom of the insect, heallowed himself to be bitten by atarantula. But he had not measuredthe strength of his own imagination,however well he had estimated thereal malignancy of the spider. Thebishop fell ill, nor was there any curefor him but the music and the dance.Many reverend old gentlemen, it issaid, to whom this remedy appearedhighly derogatory, only exaggeratedtheir symptoms by delaying to haverecourse to what, after all, was foundto be the true and sole specific.

But even popular errors are noteternal. This of Tarantism continued,our author tells us, throughoutthe whole of the seventeenth century,but gradually declined till itbecame limited to single cases. “Itmay therefore be not unreasonablymaintained,” he concludes, “that theTarantism of modern times bearsnearly the same relation to the originalmalady as the St Vitus’s dancewhich still exists, and certainly hasall along existed, bears, in certaincases, to the original dancing maniaof the dancers of St John.”

In a subsequent chapter, our authorinforms us that a disease of a similarcharacter existed in Abyssinia, or stillexists, for the authority he quotes isthat of an English surgeon who residednine years in Abyssinia, from1810 to the year 1819. We cannotpretend to say that we have ever seenthe book, which the learned Germanhas, however, not permitted to escapehim—we have never seen the Lifeand Adventures of Nathaniel Pearce,written by himself; but, judging bythe extract here given, NathanielPearce must be a person worth knowing,he writes with so much candourand simplicity. The disease is calledin Abyssinia the Tigretier, because itoccurs most frequently in the Tigrècountry. The first remedy resortedto is the introduction of a learnedDofter, “who reads the Gospel of StJohn, and drenches the patient withcold water daily.” If this does notanswer, then the relations hire a bandof trumpeters, drummers, and fifers,and buy a quantity of liquor; all theyoung men and women of the placeassemble at the patient’s house, andshe (for it is generally a woman), arrayedin all the finery and trinketsthat can be borrowed from the neighbours,is excited by the music todance, day after day if necessary, tillshe drops down from utter exhaustion.The disease is attended with a greatemaciation; and the doctor says “hewas almost alarmed to see one nearlya skeleton move with such strength.”He then proceeds to recount his owndomestic calamity in a strain of themost commendable candour:—

“I could not have ventured to writethis from hearsay, nor could I conceiveit possible until I was obliged to put thisremedy in practice upon my own wife,who was seized with the same disorder.I at first thought that a whip would beof some service, and one day attempteda few strokes when unnoticed by anyperson, we being by ourselves, and I havinga strong suspicion that this ailmentsprang from the weak minds of women,who were encouraged in it for the sakeof the grandeur, rich dress, and musicwhich accompany the cure. But howmuch was I surprised, the moment Istruck a light blow, thinking to do good,to find that she became like a corpse;and even the joints of her fingers becameso stiff that I could not straighten them.Indeed, I really thought that she wasdead, and immediately made it known tothe people in the house that she hadfainted, but did not tell them the cause;upon which they immediately broughtmusic, which I had for many days deniedthem, and which soon revived her; andI then left the house to her relations, tocure her at my expense. One day I wentprivately with a companion to see mywife dance, and kept at a short distance,as I was ashamed to go near the crowd.In looking steadfastly upon her, whiledancing or jumping, more like a deerthan a human being, I said that it certainlywas not my wife; at which mycompanion burst into a fit of laughter,from which he could scarcely refrain allthe way home.”

The capability of sustaining themost violent exercise, for a long timetogether, and on very little food, isnot one of the least perplexities attendantupon these nervous or epilepticdiseases. The partial suspension ofsensation and volition, by sparing thebrain, may have something to do withit. But into scientific perplexities ofthis kind we cannot now enter. Oneplain and homely caution is derivablefrom all these histories. Good senseis a great preservative of health. Donot voluntarily make a fool of yourself,or your folly may become in turnthe master of your reason. Epilepsyhas been brought on by the simulationof epilepsy. We doubt not that aman might dance to his own shadow,and talk to it, as it danced before himon the wall, till he drove himself intoa complete frenzy. A sect in Americathought fit to introduce certaingrimaces, laughing, weeping, and thelike, into their public service. It wasnot long before their grimaces, insome of their numbers, became involuntary;the muscles of the face hadescaped the control of the will. Adecided tongue-mania was exhibiteda short time amongst the Irvingites.Happily, in the present state of society,men’s minds are called off into somany directions, that a predominantidea of this kind has little chance ofestablishing itself in that tyrannousmanner which we have seen possible inthe middle ages. But it is better not toplay with edged tools. If people willstand round a table, fixing theirminds on one idea—that a certainmysterious influence will pass throughtheir fingers to move the table—theywill lose, for a time, the voluntarycommand over their own fingers,which will exert themselves withoutany volition or consciousness on theirpart. They are entering, in fact, intothat state which, in the olden time,was considered a demoniacal possession;so that, speaking from thispoint of view, one may truly say that“Satan does turn the table,” but it isby entering into the table-turner.When we have been asked whetherthere is anything in mesmerism, wehave always answered—a great dealmore than you ought, without medicaladvice, to make trial of. Nor do weat all admire the performance of theso-called electro-biologist. Experimentsin the interest of science arepermissible; but is it fit that any oneshould practise the art of inducing atemporary state of idiocy in personsof weak or susceptible nerves, for thepurpose of collecting a crowd, andpassing round the hat?

The subject of the third treatise ofDr Hecker is the Sweating Sickness.This third part is more miscellaneousthan its predecessors, and we have nospace to do justice to its varied andsometimes disputable matter. DrHecker describes the sweating sicknessas a legacy left us by the civilwars of York and Lancaster. It firstdeveloped itself in Richmond’s army,which had been collected from abroad,over-fatigued by long marches in avery damp season, and probably illsupplied with rations. Its rapid extensionthrough the cities he attributesto the intemperance of the English,to their overfeeding, and the want ofcleanliness in their houses. Gluttony,and the filth of the rush-covered floors,he detects even amongst the wealthiestof the land. For a minute descriptionof the disease, and the Doctor’sinvestigation into the nature of it, wemust refer to the book itself.

On the physicians, and the mannerin which they addressed themselvesto the encounter of this strange calamity,there is a passage which it maybe instructive to peruse:—

“The physicians could do little ornothing for the people in this extremity.They are nowhere alluded to throughoutthis epidemic, and even those who mighthave come forward to succour their fellow-citizen,had fallen into the errors ofGalen, and their dialectic minds sankunder this appalling phenomenon. Thisholds good even of the famous ThomasLinacre, subsequently physician in ordinaryto two monarchs, and founder ofthe College of Physicians in 1518. Inthe prime of his youth he had been aneyewitness of the events at Oxford, andsurvived even the second and third eruptionof the sweating sickness; but innone of his writings do we find a singleword respecting this disease, which is ofsuch permanent importance. In fact, therestorers of the medical science of ancientGreece, who were followed by all themost enlightened men in Europe, withthe single exception of Linacre, occupiedthemselves rather with the ancient termsof art than with actual observation, andin their critical researches overlooked theimportant events that were passing beforetheir eyes. This reminds us of the laterGreek physicians, who for four hundredyears paid no attention to the smallpox,because they could find no description ofit in the immortal works of Galen!”

Who shall say, in reading suchpassages, that the New Philosophy ofBacon, which reads now like old common-sense,was not sadly wanted, ifthe learned physician, while feelinghis patient’s pulse, could see only withthe eyes of Galen? In the fourteenthcentury we see the physician busiedwith his astrology, and laboriouslyfixing the day when Saturn, Jupiter,and Mars, did battle with the sunover the great Indian Ocean; in thesixteenth we find him, with quitedialectic mind, absorbed in the studyof his classical authorities; at thepresent time we may truly say thatthere are no inquiries conducted witha more philosophical spirit, or withgreater zeal and energy, than thosewhich relate to the human frame, itsfunctions and its diseases. The extremecomplexity of the subject rendersour progress slow. And yet progresscan hardly be said to have been slow.Let any one take up that admirablelittle manual on The Nervous System,by Dr Herbert Mayo, and compare itwith any work a hundred years old:it is a new science; and that not onlyfrom the new facts which a RobertBell and a Marshall Hall, and otherdistinguished men in France andGermany, have added to our knowledge,but from the fine spirit of philosophicalinquiry which presides overthe whole. We have not only leftastrology behind, we have not onlyleft behind the undue reverence to classicalauthority, but we have thrownaside that dislike and depreciation ofphysiology which the metaphysicianhad done his part to encourage, andhave entered, as with a fresh eye anda beating heart, upon the study of thewonders of the human frame.

We feel compelled to address ourselvesto an ungracious and disagreeabletask. At this moment but onethought ought to be encouragedthroughout the British empire—thatof encountering and beating back thenew and formidable aggressor on theliberties of Europe. We shall notenter now upon the history of pasttransactions. We shall not stop toinquire whether the Ministry actedfoolishly or not in allowing themselves,in spite of repeated warningsand most pregnant instances, to bedeceived, cajoled, and outwitted bythe agents of Russian diplomacy. Itis enough for us that the war has, toall intents and purposes, begun—thatwe are sending forth our armamentsand making our preparations for sucha struggle as has not been knownduring the lifetime of the present generation—andthat we have, directly,the most colossal force in Europe tocope with, to which possibly may beunited a central power of the Continent,with an army at its disposal morethan twice as numerous as our own.

Gladly do we hail the spirit whichat present animates the nation. Itassures us that we have not degeneratedduring the long period of peacewhich we have enjoyed. It showsthat we are still alive to our dignityas a people, to our duty as the enemiesof outrage and aggression—that wehave heart enough and will enough,at any sacrifice, to maintain our highposition—and that the love of Mammonhas not so occupied our souls asto render us insensible to the partwhich we are bound to take, as thefreest state and most advanced communityin Europe. We deny, on thepart of the people of Great Britain,that they have either been rash orheadstrong in this matter; they havesubmitted, with remarkable patience,to negotiations protracted beyondhope, and with advantage to theenemy; and, so far from being precipitateor impetuous towards war, theyhave urged nothing upon the Ministryuntil, after unparalleled vacillation,the latter have been compelled to seethat no other course was open tothem but a final rupture with Russia.

This session of Parliament beganas leisurely and lazily as though therewere no combustible elements visiblein Europe—as though there had beenno aggression—as though no severeblow had been struck by Russia atTurkey, almost in the presence of andin defiance of our fleet. Had we beenat peace with all the world, Ministerscould not have shown less symptomsof excitement. The meeting of Parliamentwas postponed to the last day;possibly on account of negotiationsstill pending, after Wallachia andMoldavia had been occupied by theRussian troops—after engagementshad taken place upon the Danube—andafter a Turkish fleet had beenassailed and annihilated within theTurkish harbour of Sinope. Negotiationis long-lived. The Premier haseven now such faith in protocols thathe professes to believe the peace ofEurope maybe preserved—an opinion,the gallantry of which cannot be questioned,inasmuch as he stands alone;and for which he will certainly beentitled to immortal credit, if theCzar chooses to yield and withdrawafter all that has taken place. Butwith Lord Aberdeen’s opinions or convictionswe have nothing, at the presentmoment, to do. We think that,considering the important nature ofthe crisis, and the vastness of the interestsat stake, it was the duty ofMinisters to have advised an earliermeeting of Parliament, so that thenatural anxiety of the nation mightnot be prolonged, nor any feeling ofdistrust engendered. Such a stepwould at all events have been satisfactoryto the public, as an impliedassurance that it was intended toobliterate, by a decided course ofaction, the memory of the apatheticindifference and vacillating policy ofthe latter half of the bygone year.

Pass we from that, however, to theactual meeting of Parliament. Nosooner were the members assembled,and, as it were, shaken into theirplaces, than Lord John Russell, aCabinet Minister, announced that itwas his intention to move for leave tobring in a bill for amending the representationof the country; and, notwithstandingthe urgent dissuasionsboth of friend and foe, grounded uponthe exceeding impolicy, under presentcirc*mstances, of forcing on a measurefor which there has been no callor necessity, he, on the evening of the13th February, proceeded to develophis scheme.

Now, it is perfectly true that, in thecourse of last session, Lord John Russell,and, if we mistake not, LordAberdeen, stated that it was the intentionof Ministers to bring forwardsome measure of the kind. It is truealso that the former seems resolved,with characteristic obstinacy, to effectsome great change in the representation,and that his resolution is not ofyesterday’s date; for in 1852, justtwo years ago, he obtained leave tobring in a bill for the same object, butwith provisions and machinery entirelydifferent from this. It is not ourintention in the present paper to comparethe two schemes propounded bythis consistent statesman for amendingthe representation. Whether,however, the present bill is insistedon or not, we certainly shall take anopportunity of instituting such a comparison,were it merely for the purposeof exposing, beyond the possibilityof refutation or defence, thereckless, inconsistent, and almost crazytamperings of the noble Lord with thefabric of our constitution. We shallnot judge him by any other test thanhis own words and his own measures.He must either admit—and we shallchallenge his warmest adherent oradvocate to deny this—that he regardsthe British constitution as somethingthat may be altered and adjusted tosuit special circ*mstances and partyends; or that, in 1852, he, thenFirst Minister of the Crown, introduced,with culpable want of consideration,a measure, the details of whichhe now repudiates. It has been thefashion, on the strength of a flippantsaying of the late Sydney Smith, totalk of Lord John Russell as a manadequate, in his own conceit, to theconduct of any affair or enterprise,and rigidly and unalterably weddedto his own opinions. We cannot givehim even that dubious credit now. Heeither committed a gross blunder inhis former bill, which is no slight imputationupon the judgment of aPrime Minister, or he is acting justnow under the direct dictation of others.Nothing has occurred, during the lasttwo years, to make the Reform Bill of1854 totally and entirely different,not only in details, but in principle,from that which was proposed in 1852;and yet the new measure is utterlyinconsistent with the older one. Weall remember that, in 1852, Lord Johnfailed to engage the public support—canit be that he is now playing thebad and unpatriotic game of which hewas formerly suspected—that he isbidding for popularity and partypower, irrespective altogether of thetrue interests of the country?

That comparison, however, we shallreserve for a future article. We havesaid already that it was intimated lastsession, on the part of the Ministry,that a bill for amending the representationwould be introduced. Thequestion now is, whether it is for theadvantage of the country that such aresolution should be adhered to. ThatMinisters ought to keep faith with thepublic is a proposition which we shallnever question. If it can be shownthat the public, in any proper sense ofthe term, has become aware of theexistence of a grievance, and has demandeda remedy or relief; and if,therefore, Ministers, toward the endof a session, have admitted the justnessof the demand, but have beennecessitated to postpone the remedy,they are certainly, under ordinarycirc*mstances, bound to come forwardand redeem their pledge. But, evenin such a case as that which we havesupposed, when non-fulfilment of thepledge would naturally create dissatisfaction,circ*mstances may ariseto justify Ministers in declining, onpublic grounds, to pursue a line ofaction which otherwise they wouldwillingly adopt. The present is noteven a case of that kind. There wasno demand at all upon the part of thenation for any immediate measure ofreform of representation; and although,beyond all question, there areserious points yet to be settled—forexample, the relative representationof Scotland as compared with England—Ministerswere not urged to undertakeany specific measure, and theresponsibility of having done so mustrest entirely on themselves.

But we ask, in the name of commonsense, is this a time to breed dissensionin the country? Set aside suchmatters as this, which are not clamouredfor in any way, and there isabsolutely no party feeling among us.All that has been absorbed in thenational and British feeling; and weare now sending forth our navy andour army—parting with our sons andour brothers—not knowing whetherthey may again return to us, butbelieving that they have gone to supporta just cause, and knowing that,in the worst event, they will bemourned by more than ourselves.We shall be called upon, and we areready, one and all, to submit to increasedtaxation, and to perform thepart which our fathers performed whenthe integrity of the land was threatened.But is it the part of Ministers,now, at the very opening of the campaign,to do all in their power to exciteangry feelings among us, to awakeparty jealousies, and to rouse antagonismbetween town and country?

In England, the proposed disfranchisem*ntof nineteen boroughs, returningtwenty-nine members, and thereduction of thirty-three others, nowreturning two, to one member each,will, beyond all question, excite a vastdeal of animosity and discussion. Weare not by any means so bigotted orbesotted in our admiration of the presentsystem as to deny that a plausibleargument maybe maintained in favourof much of this disfranchisem*nt andreduction; for the old Reform Act waseminently a party measure, and dealttenderly with existing interests wheneverthese belonged to the Whigs.But when we look to the simple facts,that our system and arrangementsfor the distribution of the franchise,such as they are, stood the triumphanttest of 1848, when every otherstate in Europe was rocking beforethe whirlwind of revolution—and thatno clamour has been heard for theiralteration—we humbly venture tothink that this is not the time for anyextensive experiment. Nor are weby any means convinced that thesuppression of small constituencies infavour of larger ones which are alreadyrepresented, would be a practicalimprovement. We would muchrather see large existing constituenciessubdivided, so that no electorshould be allowed to vote for morethan one member. This might veryeasily be effected. Edinburgh, forexample, would still return two members,but these would be elected bytwo distinct bodies of voters in differentwards. In like manner, wherethere are two or more members for acounty, these should be returned byseparate votes in three departmentsor districts of parishes, which, indeed,would be simply an extension of thesystem now followed in the largerEnglish counties. This would at oncesupersede the necessity of having recourseto such ridiculous and fantasticdevices as “the representation ofminorities,” which is contemplatedby the present bill, and which isgrossly unfair, inasmuch as its operationis only practicable in the case ofconstituencies returning three members.From what we have seen oftheir working, we are not at all enamouredof large constituencies. Theyhave at present more power thanthey are entitled to; for we maintainit to be contrary to the just principleof representation that any electorshould have more than one representative.If the other system, whichLord John Russell practically advocates,is a good one, why should notthe three Ridings of Yorkshire beunited, so that electors in the countymight vote for six representatives?It is just as easy to divide a town asa county. The machinery is alreadysupplied by the municipal arrangements;and if that system were to beadopted—and we earnestly recommendit for consideration—we shouldhear nothing more of the tyranny ofmajorities. Until some such plan,founded on principle and recommendedby reason, is matured, weoppose the disfranchisem*nt of anyof the boroughs. But let us againrevert to the time which has beenselected for propounding these sweepingchanges.

We have been told, in ridiculouslypompous language, that Great Britainwill present a magnificent spectacleto the world, if, while engagingin a deadly struggle with the mostcolossal power of Europe, she appliesherself, at the same time, to the remodelmentof her own constitution.With all deference to the speaker, wenever listened to more atrocious nonsense.What should we think of thesanity of the man who, at the verymoment when his house was attackedfrom without, should set fire toit within, for the purpose of exhibitingthe “sublime spectacle” of simultaneousexternal defence and internalextinguishment? Of course weshould consider him as mad, clap ablister on his head, and have him instantlyconveyed to bedlam. Andyet that is, just now, the precise languageof Ministers. We really aresurprised that any of them shouldhave the audacity to hazard such anargument; if, indeed, that can becalled an argument which is no betterthan a preposterous hyperbole. Theyknow, perfectly well, that this measureof theirs cannot be persevered in withoutexciting very general dissatisfactionin various parts of the country—thatit must necessarily lead to protracteddiscussion, and a strong demonstrationof party feeling in bothHouses of Parliament; that if they areunsuccessful in carrying it through,they will have weakened their owninfluence at a time when it is most desirablethat the hands of Governmentshould be strengthened; and that if,on the contrary, they are successful,an immediate dissolution of Parliament,and new general election, musttake place. These are the obviousand inevitable consequences, if theypersist in their present course; andwe hesitate not to say that faction,in its worst spirit, could devise nomore dangerous scheme for disturbingthe unanimity of the country. “But,”say some of the Whig and Liberal journals,“it is obvious that the presentmove is a mere indication of what maytake place hereafter. Lord JohnRussell has no serious intention ofpushing through this bill at the presenttime, nor would his colleaguespermit him to do so—this is merely tobe regarded as the fulfilment of hispledge, and in due time it will bewithdrawn.” If we are to take thatas the true interpretation of the business—ifwe are to suppose that thismeasure has been introduced as asham, without serious intentions ofcarrying it into execution, the soonerLord John Russell retires from publiclife the better for his own reputation.Sham bills, we are aware, are not novelties.Of late years we have seen,with infinite sorrow and disgust, thisspecies of deception practised uponthe public, but never at such a timeand under such circ*mstances as now.It is no valid excuse to say that thisis the mere redemption of a pledge,and that Lord John Russell could notact otherwise with honour. What isLord John Russell, that considerationspersonal to him should be allowedto disturb the unanimity of the Britishpeople at such a crisis; or that hisgratuitous pledges and random promisesshould interfere with the publicweal? If such a step, in such a juncture,had been taken by a Tory insteadof a Whig minister, the offence wouldnot have been allowed, even on thefirst night, to pass without a stormof reprobation. Lord John himselfwould have risen, with an unblushingfront, and a total disregard ofantecedents, to prove from Whig traditionthat any attempt to divide thecountry, at the moment when it wascollecting its energies for action, wasa crime worthy of impeachment. MrMacaulay would have been hurriedfrom his books at the Albany to explain,in sonorous language, whatcourse would have been taken by theRoman senate, in regard to any onewho might have proposed, when theGauls were at the gate, to underminethe Roman constitution; and the Tarpeianrock would, doubtless, have beensuggested as the proper punishment.Sir James Graham would have startedup to protest that this was not thetime for “pottering” over constitutions,or revising constituencies, andhave insulted the parent of the billwith the imperious airs of a CommodoreTrunnion. Sir Charles Wood—butwe shall not pursue the imaginarycase further, because the name wehave last cited is suggestive of a counting-out.What we mean to conveyis, that the political changes contemplatedby this bill, without referenceto minor details, such as loweringof the franchise, &c., are so serious,that the Ministry, if they reallyintend, or intended, to carry themthrough, could not, by possibility, haveselected a worse or more injudicioustime; and that they are, by persevering,abusing the confidence of thecountry. If, on the contrary, thismeasure is to be regarded as a sham,or merely tentatory, then we say thatthe country has excellent reason forfeeling indignant and disgusted that,under present circ*mstances, such ahoax should be practised upon it.

Lord John Russell is unfortunate inhis experiences. By accident ratherthan by choice—for he was then noeminent political character—his wasthe hand to open the floodgates morethan twenty years ago. He heardthe roaring of the pent-up waters,pouring down as if in jubilee, and hissoul was big with triumph. Sincethen, he has heard nothing of thekind; but still his memory lingers onthe far-off Niagara roll, and he wishes,before he dies, to have the sound repeated.Hence he is perpetuallyprowling about the locks of the constitution,devising schemes for anotherflood, just as the schoolboy, who hasassisted at the sluicing of one dam, isenergetic for a repetition of the experiment,regardless altogether of thehavoc he may be making below. HisNemesis—as it is the fashion now tocall it—has been more decided andhumiliating than that of any publicman of our age. He has sunk froma Premier to a subordinate, under thecommand of a chief to whom, for thebetter part of his life, he was diametricallyopposed in politics. He wasnot even allowed to remain long as arecognised subordinate. He descendedto the rank of an attaché, in whichsituation he now remains. He hasaffected partial retirement from politics,but, at best, he is only half aCincinnatus. We do not know accuratelywhat were the farming capabilitiesof the conqueror of the Volsci;but we know, accurately enough, whatare the literary achievements of LordJohn Russell. We regret, very sincerely,that he has not been able toestablish for himself a name in letters;because, if he had done so, we mighthave hoped to get rid of him as a politician.But that remorseless public,upon whose fiat all authors and editorsare dependent, stood in the way;and decreasing sales bore a lamentableevidence to the noble Lord’s decreasingliterary popularity. In order,if possible, to redeem his reputation,he touched, with doubtful gallantry,the shield of the most aged antagonistin the lists; and the result wasthat, like the Admiral Guarinos inthe Spanish ballad, the old warrior—thoughin bad case and wretchedlybattered armour—spurred out, andoverthrew him in a canter. Nettledat this discomfiture, he comes backto politics; and—availing himselfof his position, which the Premiercannot well gainsay, inasmuch ashe has no sure hold on the affectionsof the leading Whigs, whowould pitch him over, if an opportunitywere afforded, as freely as everhencoop was given to the waves—hepropounds a project of further reform,for which, we doubt not, he is frightfullyobjurgated by some of his associatesin the Cabinet. But, let themsay their worst, he knows that he isstill in power—that he can threatenthem, in one way or another, withactive opposition—and therefore theyare constrained to let him appear asthe author of a new Reform Bill; andalthough in their hearts they cursehis recklessness, they dare not, in asmany words, repudiate his false position.Such are the national advantagesand inevitable results of thatspecies of combination known as a“Coalition Ministry.”

Let us now see what changes areto be made in the electoral body.These are various and complicated,but we shall state them in order;and first, as to the new qualifications.The following are to be entitled to enrolment,either in town or country:—

1.

All persons having salaries of £100 a-year, derived from public or private employment, provided they are paid by the half-year or quarter.

2.

All persons in receipt of £10 a-year, derived from dividends from property, either in the Funds, or in bank for East India Company’s stock.

3.

All persons paying income or assessed taxes to the yearly income of 40s.

4.

All graduates of any university in the United Kingdom.

5.

All persons who, for three years, have had a deposit of £50 in a savings’ bank.

So there is an end at once of propertyand occupancy as the basis of theelectoral franchise. If you have fivesons, and wish to qualify them forvoting, you have simply to deposit£50 in name of each in a savings’bank, and in three years’ time theywill be placed on the register. Andremark this, that, once on the register,there they abide for ever; for LordJohn distinctly tells us, “we make theregister of votes final.” So that, onthe day after your son is placed onthe roll, you may reclaim your moneywith interest! Happy graduates ofuniversities! They are entitled tothe franchise in virtue of the magicalletters appended to their names;and they may flit about from placeto place, the adornment of twentyregisters, because the register is to befinal. Take out a game-certificate,and you may not only shoot partridgesfor the year, but may vote at electionsin perpetuity! Any person whowears hair-powder, keeps a terrier,and has a crest engraved on his seal,for which valuable privileges he pays£2, 8s. 8d. of assessed taxes, is henceforwarda voter! We are not joking.Such are absolutely the provisions ofthis precious Reform Bill, the result,as we are told, of the deliberate andcollective wisdom of the Ministry!

Faintly, and like a dream, the recollectionof the beautiful old Whigmoral sentiments steals upon ourmemory. We remember the touchingpictures, limned some twenty yearsago, of the industrious man workinghis way to the rank of the ten-pounders,in order to attain the gloriousprivilege of the franchise. Wewere told then that it was most desirableto have a distinct propertyqualification, in order that menmight exert themselves to attain it,and by their exertions stimulateothers in the like course of frugalityand perseverance. Is that to be thecase in future? Certainly not. Everycommon carrier who pays for his van£2, 6s. 8d. yearly, as the tax on an implementof trade, is to be as politicallypowerful as the acred squire, or themanufacturer who gives employmentto thousands—every horse-dealer, dog-breaker,and tavern-keeper may votein virtue of the assessed taxes—everyclerk in a shop who has £100 a-year,and every warehouseman, who haseither saved or succeeded to £50—areto be entitled to vote either intown or county. We said, long ago,when the Whigs were lauding theirearlier measure as a grand incentiveto industry, and as a splendidly devisedscheme for stimulating deservingoperatives, that before manyyears were over the same partywould attempt to lower the qualification,so as to embrace all who werelikely to forward and promote theirdesigns. Our prophecy is now demonstratedto be true. We showedthat, after the first successful attempt,there never can be an end of swamping,or, at all events, of proposals toswamp. The ten-pound householders,then in the full enjoyment of theirmonopoly, did not seem to believe us.Somehow or other they had beenimpressed with the idea that theWhigs were the devoted friends ofthe “middle classes”—that they hada firm faith in what was termed“shopocracy”—and that they neverwould attempt to supplant the powerwhich they had created. And, certainly,the ten-pounders have donenothing to merit this treatment atthe hands of the Whigs. They haveclung to them, especially in the largetowns, with a fidelity which we cannotbut respect, and, in spite of occasionalscurvy treatment, have shownthemselves the most zealous of partisans.But the time has now arrivedwhen their ascendancy is to giveway. Respectability is no longer thefashion. If the ten-pounders, indeed,had been able to give the Whigs alarge majority in Parliament, and tohave insured their continuance inpower, matters might have been different.There would then have beenno occasion for lowering the franchise;because the Whigs, ever since theyhave been a party (which is now anold story), have never taken a singlestep except as means towards an end;and they would not, but for partynecessity, have attempted to swamptheir friends. But the old ReformBill, though devised especially forthe purpose of securing to theWhigs an unlimited range of power,did not succeed in its object. Itwas based essentially upon property,and, by degrees, property and Conservatismcame to a common understanding.The Whigs lost groundevery year: partly because theirchampions were either effete or insincere;partly because they were foolishenough to presume on their newascendancy, and to insult the rootedProtestantism of the country; andpartly, because they showed themselvesin their arrangements grasping,greedy, and nepotical, to a degreenever yet paralleled even in a corruptedstate. They wanted to make,and did in fact make, with scarce anexception, the Cabinet a mere familyJunta. They married and forwardedmarriages on the strength of politicalconnexion, and jobbed out public employmentaccordingly. Grey, Russell,and Elliot, were the three names preferred;and Heaven only knows whatamount of perquisites was absorbedby the scions of these illustrious races.Such things cannot be done in acorner, so secretly as to escape observation.The popular ire was rousedat such an exhibition of awful selfishness,and the Whigs declined incharacter. Had Sir Robert Peel notbeen the Minister and type of expediency,he might have gained an easyand lasting victory over them; butunfortunately, both for the partywhich he then led and for himself,he had a weak perception of principle.The two rivals sate, on opposite sidesof the table, watching each other atthe game of popularity, but neverfor a moment reflecting that, in anyevent, Great Britain had to pay theloss. The game, though it hadcontinued a great deal too long,was somewhat abruptly terminated.Those who had supported the Baronetwhile he played fair, withdrewtheir confidence; and the noblelord was left in possession of thefield. Did he maintain it? By nomeans. He juggled and traverseduntil every one was weary of him,and at last he was ejected. Theelection of 1852 showed that partieswere very nearly balanced; so nearlyindeed that, but for the union of thePeelites with the Whigs, Lord Derbywould have had a majority in theHouse of Commons. This state ofthings may be embarrassing to politicians,but it does not justify a violentchange in the Constitution. Howeverdesirable majorities may be to eitherparty, an attempt to obtain ascendancyby means of legislative enactment andtampering with the franchise, is sovery reprehensible that it amountsalmost to a crime.

But we must not lose sight of thebill by indulging in remarks upon thepast. Its object is to swamp the presentclass of voters by a wholesale admissionof others who have not beenable to raise themselves to the enviablelevel which is the limit of the existingqualification. The bill is ingeniouslydevised. Let it pass, and everytradesman will consider himself sureof three or four votes which he candirect. Because, of course, the clerk,with £100 a-year, dares not voteagainst his master; and, even if he isentitled, after dismissal, to remain onthe register, the mere privilege of voting,perhaps once in seven years, willbe a poor compensation for the immediateloss of employment. Can youcall a clerk or book-keeper, with abare £100 a-year, independent? Todo so is a mere perversion of terms.He is more liable even than the operativeto the influence of his employer,inasmuch as the nature of his employmentis more precarious. We hearda great deal last year about Governmentinfluence being used among thepersons employed in the dockyards,and it was gravely proposed by someof the leading Whig journals, that allsuch should be disfranchised, as theycould not be expected to vote independently.But a Government official,however zealous and unscrupuloushe may be, is amenable to publicopinion and public censure, and cannotexercise the same stringent meansof compulsion which are open to thetradesman or the attorney.

Then as to bribery: the tendencyof lowering the franchise must be toincrease that to a very great extent.In many places, even under the presentsystem, votes are bought andsold; but if this bill is carried intoeffect, the corruption will becomeenormous. Experience has shown us,very clearly, that there is a large classin this country by whom votes areconsidered in the light of marketablecommodities, and this bill seems speciallyframed for the purpose of addingto their numbers. The possessionof £50 in a savings-bank is by nomeans a guarantee that the depositorwill be inaccessible to the influencesof a bribe. But besides the otherchanges which we have discussed, itis proposed that residence of twoyears and a-half in a house rated at£6 in a municipal borough shallconfer the right of voting, and thatprevious payment of rates and taxesis to be no longer required! Can anyone for a moment doubt that the consequenceof this will be to render constituenciesvenal to an extent neveryet known in this country? If evenunder the present system it is foundthat bribery prevails, will not theoffence become much more rank andgeneral when you enfranchise a classpeculiarly liable from their position tosuch influences? And remember this,that candidates or their agents are notalways, nor indeed in the majority ofcases, the tempters. Enough has beenrevealed to show us that, in a very largenumber of the English towns, thereexist regularly organised clubs or societiesof voters, who force their termsupon candidates. These fine patriotsdo not concern themselves much withparty politics. They do not object toone man because he is a Tory, or toanother because he is a Whig. Pledgesas to future conduct are not at all intheir line: they much prefer the immediatetender of a crisp bank-noteor of a few shining sovereigns. Theyhave their agents and their office-bearers,and must be bought in thelump. Let this bill pass, and therewill hardly be an urban constituencyin this kingdom without such a club.Is that a state of things to be envied?Is it fair to the honest and uprightvoter that he should be swamped byorganised rascality, and that his privilegeshould be rendered of no avail?We can hardly express ourselves toostrongly on this subject, for the provocationis very great. The Whigparty, for years past, have affected tomourn over the corruption of the constituencies,and yet here is their accreditedleader bringing in a bill whichmust necessarily have the effect of increasingthat corruption tenfold!

But we have not yet quite done.Lord John Russell proposes to give46 new members to the Englishcounties; but then the county constituencyis not to remain as before.Occupiers, not proprietors, of£10 a-year are to have votes in counties;and it is by no means contemplatedthat the house occupied bythe voter should be of that value.“We propose,” said Lord John Russell,“with respect to the countyright of voting, that—with the exceptionof a dwelling-house, which maybe of any value, provided the voterlives in it—in all other cases thebuilding must be of the value of £5a-year. Supposing there is a houseand land, the house may be ratedat £1 or £2 a-year, provided thevoter resides in it; but if the qualificationis made out by any otherbuilding—a cattle-shed or any otherbuilding of that kind—then we proposethis check, that such buildingshall be of the value of £5 a-year.This, then, is the franchise we proposeto give in counties for thefuture; and the House will see thatit has a very considerable bearingupon the question of the increase ofnumber of members which I havestated we propose. Out of the wholenumber I have mentioned I shallpropose that 46 members shall begiven to counties; but as thesecounties will hereafter include the£10 householders, it is obvious thatthe constituency will be less of aspecial character. It does seem tome that all the endeavours made torun down the agricultural interest,or to run down the manufacturing interest,are totally foolish and absurd,and that there can be no bettersystem of representation than thatwhich takes into consideration thewhole of the great interests of thecountry, which contribute to its gloryand prosperity.” We have thoughtit right to insert these paragraphs,because they contain a doctrine quitenew to statesmen, and one which hash*therto been unbroached. There iscertainly a little obscurity in thelanguage, but not enough to concealthe true nature of the sentiment.What Lord John Russell means tosay is this:—It is absurd any longerto maintain the special character ofconstituencies—absurd to make distinctionsbetween agriculture, manufactures,or any branch of industry—absurdto frame your system so thatone member shall represent agriculture,another commerce, and anothermanufactures, because you shouldin every case combine the whole ofthe great interests of the country.Carry that doctrine into effect, andthe distinction between counties andtowns ceases altogether. But howcan you bring it fairly into effect? Inthe towns which have the privilege ofreturning members, agriculture is not,and cannot be, represented at all. Theurban voters are all engaged in otherpursuits, and they send to the Houseof Commons members to representthat branch of industry which is theirstaple. From the towns, therefore,the territorial interest, which is inreality the greatest and most enduringin England, never can be adequatelyrepresented. You may, however,easily enough, swamp the agriculturalinterest in the counties, and that bythe method which Lord John Russellproposes, namely, of admitting to thecounty-roll ten-pound occupiers fromthe towns, which do not send a representativeto Parliament. It has oftenbeen remarked, as a special defect inthe Act of 1832, that it allowed inmany cases the votes of small proprietorsin villages and towns toswamp the votes of the agriculturists;and in several counties in Scotlandthis is notoriously the case. Themanufacturing towns in Forfarshire,in Roxburghshire, and in Fife, furnishso many votes, that the landed interestis entirely unrepresented; andas new seats of manufacture are laiddown, the evil is always progressive.There can be no doubt that in the instanceswhich we have referred to,the landed interest is incomparablygreater than all the others; and yet,in so far as representation goes, it hasvirtually no voice at all. It has beenproposed, more than once—and thescheme carries reason with it—thatthese anomalies should be removed bythe attachment of the unrepresentedboroughs to the nearest ones whichhave representation; thus increasingand consolidating a class of voters whohave a distinct common interest. Ifthis were done, and the counties freedfrom an incubus, there might be noobjection to the lowering of the agriculturaltenant’s qualification, so thatthe man who paid £20 of yearly rentmight be entitled to admission to theroll. But Lord John Russell takesexactly the opposite view. He wantsto swamp the country constituenciesaltogether, and he proposes to effectthat by letting in every man from thevillages who pays £10 of rent! Hehimself admits that by this arrangement,persons occupying houses notrated at more than £1 or £2 a-year—infact, mere hovels—may becomecounty voters, and this he considers afitting method of combining “thewhole of the great interests of thecountry!” And yet, mark his inconsistency.By the same bill which proposesthis amalgamation of interests inthe counties, it is provided that Universityrepresentation shall be extended,and that special members shallbe allotted to the English Inns of Court.Surely there cannot be a more directrecognition of separate and exclusiveinterests than this; and yet, in counties,the agricultural interest is to beput down.

We have not the least fear that thelaw will be so altered; but that suchproposals should emanate from a Ministry,is, we think, a disgraceful and alamentable fact. They are no doubtentitled to have their opinion. Theymay think, though on what groundswe cannot divine, that it is goodpolicy not to maintain any balance inthe constitution, and that the franchisein town and country should be madethe same. They may consider it advisablethat small manufacturing towns,too unimportant to return membersof themselves, should be allowed tofurnish the majority of county voters,and that, virtually, the land shouldcease to have any representatives. Ifthey think so, it is much to be regrettedthat they do not say so openly,so that we might have the opportunityof doing battle in a fair field.But this measure of theirs is intendedto be deceptive, and convey afalse impression that they are dealingimpartially with all classes. Inthe first place, they take from thesmaller boroughs no fewer than 66members. Their principle is, that noborough having less than 300 electors,or less than 5000 inhabitants, oughtto return a member; and that noborough having less than 500 electors,or less than 10,000 inhabitants, shouldreturn two members. Let us, for thesake of argument, admit the justiceof this proposition. Does it thereforefollow that it was wise to disfranchisesuch boroughs? That is by no meansa necessary consequence. If the constituencyis at present too small, extendit by all means. Wherever practicable,join these boroughs together;where that cannot be done, take anincreased constituency from thenearest unrepresented town, until youreach the magic number which is tobe the minimum of representation.Bring in fresh blood, which it is quiteeasy to do, without exciting the clamourand dissatisfaction which theabolition or curtailment of a privilegelong enjoyed is sure to create. Itcannot be denied that there is plentyof material at hand. There is alsoParliamentary precedent and usage;for in Scotland, at the present moment,groups of small burghs return asingle member, and some of theseburghs are infinitesimally small. Wehave them so low, in point of voters,as 12, 14, and 22. Yet they are notdisfranchised. They share their peculiarprivilege along with others,making in the aggregate very respectableconstituencies. Surely such anarrangement as that would be preferableto the Government proposition,which does wanton violence toconstituencies against which no accusationhas been made. We fear,however, that the disfranchisem*ntof the smaller boroughs was consideredan indispensable preliminaryto the grand attack upon the counties.

Having thus secured the disposal ofsixty-six seats, the Government comeforward with an immense show ofliberality, and offer forty-six of theseto the counties. But then it is onlyon condition that the counties willallow themselves to be swamped.Nine large towns are each to have anadditional member; there are to befive new borough seats; the Inns ofCourt are to have two, and the LondonUniversity one member; the remainingthree seats are to be given toScotland.

This brings us to a point which weare absolutely bound to notice, becauseit serves as a further illustrationof the impropriety and folly of bringingforward such a bill at such a time.If the Emperor Nicholas had the directionof our internal affairs, he couldnot have devised a more notable planfor fomenting dissension among us;and it is but right to show that thismeasure, if pushed on, must excite anangry feeling in the country. We,who are opposing any change in theelectoral franchise at the present time,mainly because we think it an unhappyand dangerous juncture for making experiments,cannot be blamed if westate our own views of what is reallyrequired when the proper time shallarrive for making a readjustment ofthe representation. We do not wish,by any means, to argue the questionat present: we state it simply toshow the extent of the disagreementwhich may arise, if this measure isto be prosecuted just now.

Independent of the wholesale disfranchisem*ntof English boroughs,which must necessarily excite greatdisgust and dissatisfaction, we takeleave to tell Lord John Russell, andthe other members of the Cabinet,that this bill of theirs is not likely tomeet with any favour in the eyes of theScottish people. The question of adequaterepresentation has been mooted,discussed, and is now thoroughly understoodby us; and we are determined,in the event of a change, toinsist that our rights shall be recognisedand allowed. This new bill,proposing to give us three additionalmembers, whereas in respect eitherof population or of taxation we areentitled to twenty, cannot be satisfactory.It is not only right, butnecessary, that our English friendsshould know the feeling in Scotland.We are not represented on the samescale or in the same manner as Englandis, and we complain of the inequality.We ask a common standardand a just proportion. Now, it doesnot appear that, by the present bill,the existing anomalies are to be removed,although, by the disfranchisem*ntof so many boroughs, it wouldhave been easy to have given Scotlandher just share of members. Ifthere be any reason why Scotlandshould have fewer proportional representativesthan England, let it beboldly stated. If there is no reasonat all, then let justice be done to us.We do not wish at present to go intodetails—indeed, that would be premature,until the new Scottish ReformBill is before us; but as it is quiteplain that the aggregate number ofthe House of Commons is not to beaugmented, and as Lord John Russellproposes to give only three additionalmembers to Scotland, we are perfectlyentitled to enter our emphatic protestagainst a measure which has no solidprinciple for its foundation. The firstpoint for consideration, in a redistributionof the representation such as isnow contemplated, was undoubtedlythe number of members which England,Scotland, and Ireland are entitledrespectively to return. Lord JohnRussell either does not see the principle,or he refuses to acknowledge it.Now, this is a matter which will causemuch excitement, and create not alittle angry feeling in Scotland; andit is as well that our English friendsshould be made aware of it. Weare, of course, anxious for a properincrease of national representatives,and we are perfectly aware that wecannot attain that object without ageneral measure for altering and abolishingconstituencies. But this measure,while it is sure to create a turmoilin England, hardly professes tobenefit us at all, and avoids the principlefor which the Scottish people arecontending. Any arrangements whichmay be made as to the future distributionof the representation, ought tobe well weighed, considered, and matured;for this country will not submitto the confusion of a new reformbill once in every three or four years.This measure seems to us to be utterlydeficient in these respects, and to beso loosely conceived as to give somecolour to the prevalent opinion that itfurnished an agreeable relaxation tothe noble Lord between the intervalsof his more serious editorial labours.

In Scotland, therefore, the bill willbe considered highly objectionable, asevading the only popular demandfrom that portion of Great Britain.Beyond an increase of numbers, wehave no desire for any change—Whigs,Tories, and Radicals, beingfor once agreed.

But we are not so unreasonable as towish to fight that battle now. We earnestlydeprecate anything like internaldiscord, for we have other battlesto fight, and the people of Great Britainought now, if ever, to be cordiallyunited in sentiment. Therefore, althoughwe think that we are not altogetherfairly treated, and that wehave not only a strong case, but anabsolute right to claim redress, weshall not be guilty of the lamentablefolly of urging our claims for increasedrepresentation at such a time. Webelieve that to be the general feelingof the people of Scotland; but thentheir forbearance is entirely contingentupon the course which the Governmentmay pursue in respect to thismeasure. There may be, and probablywill be, agitation hereafter; butthere need be none now, at least onthe score of representation, if theMinistry will but tacitly acknowledgetheir error, and remove this source ofdissension.

There are several other points inthis bill which are not only open tocomment, but, as we think, decidedlyobjectionable. We shall merely referto two of these. The first is, the preposterousnotion of giving a memberto minorities. The more we considerthis plan, the more egregiously absurddoes it appear. Why, in thename of all that is rational, shouldminorities be represented? And ifthat question can be answered satisfactorily,there is still another beyondit:—Why should only a limited numberof constituencies be put in possessionof such a privilege? But it maybe worth while to suppose the newsystem in operation.

Manchester, under the new bill, willhave three members. At present ithas two, and these two are Liberals.On the hypothesis of Lord John Russell,though that by no means followsas a matter of course, the third, orminority member, will be a Conservative.What does that amount tobut the cancelling, on any great politicaloccasion, of two of the membersfor Manchester? The Conservativepairs off with one of the Liberals, orthey go into the opposite lobby, whichis exactly the same thing, and theopinions of Cottonopolis are only representedand enforced on a division,by a single member! We suspect thatthe present electorate of Manchesteris much too shrewd and far-sighted toaccept any arrangement of the kind;and that they would much prefer havingtwo members whose votes tell oneach division, to having nominallythree, but, in reality, only one. Supposethat a minority member diesduring a session of Parliament, or acceptsthe Chiltern Hundreds, how ishis place to be supplied? Is there tobe an election with three candidatesin the field, and is the lowest to beproclaimed the victor? If not, whatbecomes of Lord John Russell’s “principle?”Then observe that, settingaside its absurdity, this crotchet wouldestablish a new relation between representativesand represented. At present,the choice of the majority is recognisedby all, and in matters of businessthere is free communication betweenthe electors and the member, irrespective380altogether of their party tendencies.This is a great privilege, anda great advantage. It has done muchto soften acerbity, and, in some instances,has reconciled powerful partiesto acquiesce in the return of a goodand energetic member, albeit he mightsupport a different policy from thatto which they were inclined. Butnow the majority is to have its members,and the minority is to have itsmember, and the House is to bedivided against itself. We seriouslyaver that we do not remember to haveever heard of a proposal more singularlysilly, or more utterly absurd;and if this really be, as we are told,the keystone of the New Reform Bill,we may be allowed to express a hopethat Lord John Russell will, for thefuture, desist from all architecturalexperiments.

We have barely space or time toadvert to one other portion of thisBill—namely, that whereby it is proposedthat members accepting officeunder the Crown should not vacatetheir seats. So far from being inclinedto approve of that proposition, wecondemn it utterly. The existing ruleis a safeguard, and a most valuableone, against profligacy in high places,and ought not, by any means, to beabolished. It is rather amusing tosee that Lord John Russell has beencompelled to reflect upon his ownmeasure of 1832, in order to make arational excuse for his new proposal.He says—“In those times, when aseat could always be found for anyperson for whom it was required,Ministers suffered little inconveniencefrom the Act of Anne; but when theprinciple of popular representationwas introduced into all our elections,the statute created difficulties whichwere hardly compensated by the advantageof having new elections.”What difficulties? There were nodifficulties of any kind. If an honestman, with a clear conscience, whowas the choice of a constituency,accepted office, he was sure to be returnedagain, and almost alwayswithout opposition; if, on the contrary,his conscience was not quiteclear, he had to undergo a wholesomeordeal. But perhaps we owe thisproposal to the clause about theminority members, since it is plainthat an unfortunate senator in thatposition need not go down to his constituencyunless, as we have alreadysaid, provision is made for his beingreturned, in virtue of his being loweston the poll.

Whether the Ministry collectivelyhave acted wisely or not in allowingthis measure to be brought forward,we cannot say. They may havereasons which are not apparent to us.They may, for example, wish to allowLord John Russell to expose himself,preparatory to some new arrangement.He is evidently a dangerousmember of the Cabinet; for, whilethe Prime Minister is maintaining thatthere is still a chance of avoiding warwith Russia, it is intolerable that asubordinate should use language ofthe most unguarded and opprobriousnature in respect to the Emperor. Itis just a repetition of the offence ofwhich both Sir James Graham andSir Charles Wood were guilty in respectof Louis Napoleon; and although,in this case, the commentarymay be just enough, we cannot butdeplore such exhibitions on the partof Ministers. But if the Ministryintend seriously to proceed with thisbill, at the present time, we shall becompelled to draw upon the noblelord, for terms sufficiently severe toexpress our indignation at theirconduct.

1. The Right Honourable Benjamin Disraeli, M.P.: a Literary and Political Biography,addressed to the New Generation. Bentley, London. 1854.

2. The following general order, published in the Wallachian Moniteur (the RussianOfficial journal), about the end of January last, shows the sort of protection whichthe Principalities enjoy, and the manner in which the Moldo-Wallachians aretaught to love their protectors:—“Ordered, 1st, That all men from the age ofeighteen to forty years, married or unmarried, and whatever their profession maybe, are required by the generals, colonels, or commanders of corps to do service forthe Russian army; 2d, That horses, waggons, oxen or other beasts of burden, maybe required for the same service; and, 3d, That all boats, barks, or floats, now onthe Danube, are seized from the present moment, for the service of the Russian army.This decree is applicable to all Wallachian subjects—those who attempt to evade itsexecution shall be tried by court-martial.”

4. “Cash and Pedigree,” in Blackwood’s Magazine, No. CCCCXIV., for April 1850.

5. Agricultural Labourers as they were, are, and ought to be, in their Social Condition.By the Rev. Harry Stuart, A.M., Minister of Oathlaw.

6. The following excerpts from the reports of the clergy of Morayshire indicatehow entirely they anticipated the views of Mr Stuart, and how much they were aliveto the necessity of such a movement as that which Mr Stuart has been instrumentalin originating. “I would add,” writes one clergyman, “that as the moral conditionof frail beings such as we are is often powerfully affected by circ*mstances of comparativelytrifling amount, if masters attended a little to the physical comforts oftheir servants, by providing them with fire and light, &c., (when they live in bothies),by means of a female servant, having their room in readiness when they leave off work,instead of allowing them to go to a bothy, cold and comfortless, they would be lessinduced to resort to ardent spirits, or to wander from home in search of company andcomfort.” Another reverend respondent says: “The greatest desideratum in respectof this class, and which would tend more than any other temporal means to theirimprovement, is the adoption by the landed proprietors and by agricultural societiesof the plan of rewarding servants of long-established good character, by affordingthem facilities for becoming occupiers of small farms themselves.”

7. Poems by Alexander Smith. 12mo. David Bogue, London.

8. The Epidemics of the Middle Ages, from the German of J. F. C. Hecker, M.D.,translated by B. G. Babington, M.D., F.R.S.