The Project Gutenberg EBook of Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Volume 61,
No. 377, March 1847, by Various

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Title: Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Volume 61, No. 377, March 1847

Author: Various

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BLACKWOOD'S EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.

No. CCCLXXVII.     MARCH, 1847.   VOL. LXI.




ON PAUPERISM, AND ITS TREATMENT.

                                    "If I oft
  Must turn elsewhere--to travel near the tribes
  And fellowships of men, and see ill sights
  Of maddening passions mutually inflamed;
  Must hear humanity in fields and groves
  Pipe solitary anguish; or must hang
  Brooding above the fierce confederate storm
  Of sorrow, barricadoed evermore
  Within the walls of cities--may these sounds
  Have their authentic comment!"
                                        WORDSWORTH.


In order to deal effectively with pauperism, it is necessary to know the
causes which lead to the impoverishment of individuals and masses of
individuals, and to be familiar with the condition, manners, customs,
habits, prejudices, feelings, and superstitions of the poor.

We do not propose to institute an elaborate inquiry into the _causes of
pauperism_, or to make the topic a subject of separate investigation.
Our chief object will be, to collect into classes those of the poor who
are known, from personal observation, to become chargeable to parishes,
which process will afford abundant scope for remark upon the causes
which led to their impoverishment. We may require the company of the
reader with us in the metropolis for a short space, and may satisfy him
that he need not travel ten miles from his own door in search of
valuable facts, and at the same time convince him _that pauperism is not
that simple compact evil_ which many would wish him to believe. We might
also show that, in the metropolis and its suburbs, there exist types of
every class of poor that can be found in the rural and manufacturing
districts of England; just as it might be shown, that its inhabitants
consist of natives of every county in the three kingdoms. Its fixed
population, according to the quarter in which they live, would be found
to resemble the inhabitants of a great town, a cathedral city, or a seat
of manufactures. And that portion of its inhabitants which may be
regarded as migratory, would complete the resemblance, except that the
shadows would be deeper and the outline more jagged. These persons make
London their winter-quarters. At other seasons they are employed by the
farmer and the grazier. It is a fact, that the most onerous part of the
duties of the metropolitan authorities are those which relate to these
migratory classes. Among them are the most lawless and the most
pauperised of the agricultural districts. Others, during the spring,
summer, and autumn months, were engaged, or pretend that they were
engaged (and the statement cannot be tested,) in the cutting of
vegetables, the making of hay, the picking of pease, beans, fruit, and
hops, and in harvest work. Or they travelled over the country,
frequenting fairs, selling, or pretending to sell, knives, combs, and
stay-laces. Or they were knife-grinders, tinkers, musicians, or
mountebanks. As the winter approaches, they flock into the town in
droves. There they obtain a precarious subsistence in ways unknown; some
pick up the crumbs that fall from the rich man's table, others overcrowd
the workhouses. It would lead to many curious and useful results if this
matter were fully investigated. The reader's company is not, however,
required for this purpose; at the same time, the previous remarks may,
in some measure, prepare his mind for the consideration of kindred
topics. It may introduce a train of reflection, and prompt him to
inquire whether the wandering habits of these outcasts have been in any
degree engendered by the strict workhouse system and workhouse test
enforced in their native villages, by the destruction of cottages, and
the breaking up of local associations, and whether these habits have
been fostered by the facilities with which a bed and a mess of porridge
may be obtained at the unions, without inquiry into their business and
object in travelling.

Let us steer our course along the silent "highway," the Thames, and make
inquiries of the few sailor-looking men who may still be seen loitering
at the several "stairs;" we shall learn that not many years since these
narrow outlets were the marts of a thriving employment, and that there
crowds of independent and privileged watermen plied successfully for
fares. These places are now forsaken, and the men have lost their
occupation. Some still ply; and the cry at a few stairs, of "Boat, your
honour?" may still be heard. Others have been draughted into situations
connected with the boat companies, which support them during the summer
months. A large number swell the crowds of day-labourers, who frequent
the legal quays, the sufferance wharves, and the docks. And the rest,
unfitted by their age or habits to compete with labourers accustomed to
the other fields of occupation, sink lower and lower; sustained for a
time by the helping hands of comrades and old patrons, but at last
obliged to seek a refuge at the parish workhouse. Death also does his
part. At Paul's Wharf stairs, a few inches above high-water mark, a few
shrubs have been planted against the river wall--and above them is a
small board, rudely cut, and on it are inscribed these words,--"To the
memory of old Browny, who departed this life, August, 26, 1846." Let us
stroll to the coach offices. Here again we see a great change--great to
the common eye of the public, who miss a raree show, and a still greater
one to the hundreds and thousands of human beings whose subsistence
depended upon the work done at those places. A few years ago, the reader
may have formed one of a large group of spectators, collected at the
"Peacock" at Islington, to witness the departure of the night mails, on
the high north road. The cracking of whips, the blowing of horns, the
prancing horses, the bustle of passengers and porters, and the
consciousness of the long dreary distance they had to go, exercised an
enduring influence upon the imagination and memory of the youthful
observer. Now, a solitary slow coach may be sometimes seen. In those
days, all the outlets of the metropolis presented similar scenes. Then
call to remembrance the business transacted in those numerous, large,
old-fashioned, square-galleried inn-yards; and reflect upon the hundreds
who have been thrown out of bread. The high-roads and the way-side inns
are now forsaken and silent. These remarks are not made merely to show
that there is an analogy between the several districts and employments
in the metropolis, and those of the country. If this were all, not
another word would be written. But it so happens that the comparison
affords an opportunity, which cannot be passed over, of referring to the
changes which are going on in the world; and forcibly reminds us, that
while some are rising, others are falling, and many are in the mire,
trodden under foot, and forgotten. It is with the miserable beings who
are in the last predicament, that poor-laws have to do.

The political economist may be right when he announces, that the
introduction of machinery has, on the whole, been beneficial; and that
the change of employment from one locality to another, depends upon the
action of natural laws, of which he is merely the expositor. It may be
the case, too, that he is attending carefully to the particular limits
of his favourite science, when he occupies his mind with the laws
themselves, rather than with their aberrations. But those who treat upon
pauperism as an existing evil, to be dealt with now, should remember
that they have to do not with natural laws, as they are separated and
classified in the works of scientific men, but with the laws in all
their complexity of operation, and with the incidents which arise from
that complexity.

The coachmen, the guards, the ostlers, the horse-keepers, the
harness-makers, the farriers, the various workers in the trade of
coach-builders, and the crowd of tatterdemalions who performed all sorts
of offices,--where are they? The inquirer must go into the back streets
and alleys of London. He must search the records of benevolent
institutions; and he must hold frequent converse with those who
administer parochial relief. But his sphere must not be confined to the
metropolis. Let the reader unroll his library map of England, and devote
an entire afternoon to the study of it. Trace the high-roads with a
pointer. Pause at every town, and at every stage. Refer to an old book
of roads, and to a more modern conveyance directory. Let memory perform
its office: reflect upon the crowds of persons who gained a subsistence
from the fact that yourselves and many others were obliged to travel
along the high-road on your way from London to York. There were
inn-keepers, and waiters and chambermaids, post-boys and "boots." Then
there were hosts of shop-keepers and tradesmen who were enabled to
support their families decently, because the stream of traffic flowed
through their native towns and villages. Take a stroll to Hounslow. Its
very existence may be traceable to the fact that it is a convenient
stage from London. It was populous and thriving, and yet it is neither a
town, a parish, nor a hamlet. Enter the bar of one of the inns, and take
nothing more aristocratic than a jug of ale and a biscuit. Lounge about
the yard, and enter freely into conversation with the superannuated
post-boys who still haunt the spot. You will soon learn, that it is the
opinion of the public in general, and of the old post-boys in
particular, that the nation is on the brink of ruin; and they will refer
to the decadence of their native spot as an instance. The writer was
travelling, not many months ago, in the counties of Rutland,
Northampton, and Lincoln; and while in conversation with the coachman,
who then held up his head as high, and talked as familiarly of the "old
families," whose mansions we from time to time left behind us, as if the
evil days were not approaching, our attention was arrested by the
approach of a suite of carriages with out-riders, advancing rapidly from
the north. An air of unusual bustle had been observed at the last
way-side inn. A waiter had been seen with a napkin on his arm, not
merely waiting for a customer, but evidently expecting one, and of a
class much higher than the travelling bagmen: and this was a solitary
way-side inn. We soon learnt that the cortège belonged to the Duke of
----. The coachman added, with a veneration which referred much more to
his grace's practice and opinions than to his rank,--"He always travels
in this way,--he is determined to support the good old plans," and then,
with a sigh, continued, "It's of no use--it's very good-natured, but it
does more harm than good; it tempts a lot of people to keep open
establishments they had better close. It's all up."

It is not necessary to pursue this matter further. Nor is it required
that we should follow these unfortunates who have thus been thrown out
of bread, or speculate upon their fallen fortunes. Nor need we specially
remind the reader, that this is only one of many changes which have come
upon us during the last quarter of a century, and which are now taking
place. Space will not permit a full exposure of the common fallacy,
that men soon change their employments. As a general rule, it is false.
The great extent to which the division of labour is carried, effectually
prevents it. Each trade is divided into a great many branches. Each
branch, in large manufactories, is again divided. A youth selects a
branch, and by being engaged from day to day, in the same manipulation,
he acquires, in the course of years, an extraordinary degree of skill
and facility of execution. He works on, until the period of youth is
beginning to wane; and then his particular division, or branch, or
trade, is superseded. Is it not clear that the very habits he has
acquired, his very skill and facility in the now obsolete handicraft,
must incapacitate him for performing any other kind of labour, much less
competing with those who have acquired the same skill and facility in
those other branches or trades?

The most important preliminary inquiry connected with an improved and
extended form of out-door relief is, how can the mass of pauperism be
broken up and prepared for operation? We are told that the total number
of persons receiving relief in England and Wales is 1,470,970, of which
1,255,645 receive out-door relief. Without admitting the strict accuracy
of these figures, we may rest satisfied that they truly represent a
dense multitude. It is the duty of the relieving officers to make
themselves acquainted with the circumstances of each of these cases, and
to perform other duties involving severe labour. The number of relieving
officers is about 1310. This mass is broken up and distributed among
these officers, not in uniform numerical proportion, but in a manner
which would allow space and number to be taken into account. The officer
who is located in a thickly populated district, has to do with great
numbers; while the officer who resides in a rural district, has to do
with comparative smallness of numbers, but they are spread over a wide
extent of country. The total mass of pauperism is thus divided and
distributed; but division and distribution do not necessarily involve
classification, and they ought not to be regarded as substitutes for it.

To the general reader, the idea of the classification of the many
hundreds of thousands of paupers, and the uniform treatment of each
class according to definite rules, may appear chimerical. To him we may
say, Look at the enormous amount of business transacted with precision
in a public office, or by a "City firm" in a single day. All is done
without noise or bustle. There is no jolting of the machinery, or
running out of gear. There is that old house in the City. It has existed
more than a hundred years. And it has always transacted business with a
stately and aristocratic air,--reminding us of Florence and Venice, and
the quaint old cities of Ghent and Bruges. The heads of the house have
often changed. One family passed into oblivion. Another, when nature
gave the signal, bequeathed his interests and powers to his heirs, who
now reign in his stead. But, however rapid, or however complete the
revolutions may have been, no sensible interruption occurred in the
continued flow of business. The principles of management have apparently
been the same through the whole period. Yet, as times changed, as one
market closed and another opened, as new lands were discovered, trading
stations established and grew into towns, as the Aborigines left the
graves of their fathers, and retired before the advance of
_civilisation_, and as India became English in its tastes and desires,
so did the business and resources of the old house expand, and its
machinery of management change. Once in a quarter of a century, a group
of sedate looking gentlemen meet in the mysterious back-parlour; a few
words are spoken, a few strokes of the pen are made, a few formal
directions are given to the heads of departments, a new book is
permitted, an addition to the staff is confirmed, and the power of the
house is rendered equal to the transaction of business in any quarter of
the world, and to any amount. Now, look at this great house of business
from the desk. Study the machinery. A young man, perhaps the eldest son
of a senior clerk, enters the house, and takes his seat at a particular
desk: and there he remains until superannuation or death leaves a
vacancy, when he changes his place, from this desk to that, and so on,
until old age or death creeps upon him in turn. He is chained daily to
the desk's dull wood, and makes entry after entry in the same columns of
the same book. This is his duty. He may be unsteady, irregular, inapt,
or incorrect, and his being so may occasion his brethren some trouble,
and draw down upon himself a rebuke from a higher quarter; but the
machinery goes on steadily notwithstanding. Each clerk, or each desk,
has its apportioned duty, which continued repetition has rendered
habitual and mechanical. In the head's of departments, a greater degree
of intellect may appear necessary. It is hardly the fact, however. For
the head of the department has passed through every grade--he has
laboured for years at each desk, and knows intuitively, as it were, the
possible and probable errors. His discernment or judgment is a
spontaneous exercise of memory, and resembles the chess-playing skill of
one who plays a gambit. Now, what is all this? It is called "official
routine." It appears, then, that an extensive business may be transacted
steadily and successfully, providing always that a few general rules are
laid down, and steadily adhered to, and enforced. _In books these rules
are simplified, classified, and rendered permanent._ A book-keeper may
imagine that thousands of voices are above him and around him, giving
orders and directions, and admonishing to diligence, and accuracy,--all
of which are restrained, subdued, and silenced, and yet all are still
speaking, without audible utterance, from the pages before him. And in
strictness, it would not be a flight of imagination, but a mode of
stating a truth which, from its obviousness, has escaped observation. Of
course, these books may speak incoherently and discursively, just as the
human being will do; and if they do speak, thus the evils which arise
are apt to be perpetuated. The books, then, must have a large share of
attention, and be carefully arranged. Then they must have a keeper, and
his duties must be explicitly stated, and his character and his means of
subsistence made dependent upon his accuracy and vigilance. There is
then the choice of the person who is to perform the business which the
books indicate and record. The requirements vary in different
occupations. In one, strict probity is a grand point; in another, strict
accuracy as to time, or skill in distinguishing fabrics and signatures.
In some cases, firmness, mildness, and activity, under circumstances of
excitement, is required; and these qualities, among others, would appear
to be indispensable in parochial and union officers,--if the fact of
their oversight did not render it doubtful. The last lesson we learn is,
that business should be checked as it proceeds. There are two methods.
The one is a system of checks, and is practicable when the business does
not occupy much space. The other is a system of minute inspection; there
are cases in which both methods may be partially applied, and that of
poor-law administration is one of them.

The machinery by which pauperism may be efficiently dealt with, may be
thus generally expressed. There would be required:--

_First_, A Board of Guardians, elected according to law, and with powers
and duties defined and limited by legal enactment.

_Second_, A staff of efficient officers.

_Third_, A scroll of duties.

_Fourth_, A set of books, drawn up by men of scientific ability, and
submitted to the severest scrutiny of practical men.

_Fifth_, A system of inspection under the immediate control of the
government.

_Sixth_, District auditors, whose appointment and duties are regulated
by the law.

_Seventh_, And in the negative, the absence of any speculative,
interfering, disturbing, and irritating power, which may be continually
adding to, varying and perplexing the duties and the management, in
attempting to carry into practical operation certain crotchets, and in
rectifying resulting blunders.

Much might be said upon each of these requisitions. But we propose
rather to limit our remarks, and to turn them in that direction which
will afford opportunities for exhibiting the various classes and
varieties of poor, and suggesting modes of treatment.

The books which are necessary to enable the several boards of guardians
to deal with each individual case, not only as regards the bare fact of
destitution, but also with reference, to its causes and remedies, are
the Diary or Journal, and the Report Book. The Diary is simple, and may
be easily constructed to suit the circumstances of each locality. Every
person who has any business to transact, and values punctuality,
possesses a Diary, which is drawn up in that form which appears most
suitable to his peculiar business or profession. In it is entered the
whole of his regular engagements for the day or year, and also those
which he makes from day to day. Then on each day, he regularly, and
without miss, consults his remembrancer, and learns from thence his
engagements for the time being, and so arranges his proceedings. Such a
book, drawn up in a form adapted to the nature of the business
transacted, and ruled and divided in a manner which a month's experience
would suggest, would be, the DIARY. It would differ from that raised by
the man of ordinary business in the respect that its main divisions
would not be daily, but weekly or fortnightly, according as the board
held its meetings. It would be kept by the relieving officer, and laid
before the Chairman at each Board meeting--it is in fact a "business
sheet." The name of each poor person who appears before the Board, and
with respect to whom orders are made, would appear in this book on each
occasion. And the arrangements of its contents would depend upon the
classification of the poor.

The Report Book[1] was briefly commented upon in a former article. Its
size should be ample--for it is presumed that each page will record the
results of many visits, and be referred to on each occasion that the
pauper appears before the Board. The lapse of time between the first
entry and the last, may be seven or even ten years.


PROPOSED FORM OF THE RELIEVING OFFICER'S REPORT BOOK.

                                  |Present Relief|
        | Names of| Date|         |______________|The circumstances
  No. I |Dependent|  of |Residence|Money. | Bread|
        | Family. |Birth|         |s.  d. |  lb. |
                  |_____|_________|_______|______|
                  |     |         |       |      |
                  |     |         |       |      |
                  |     |         |       |      |
                  |     |         |       |      |
                  |     |         |       |      |
                  |     |         |       |      |
                  |     |         |       |      |
                  |     |         |       |      |
  The cause       }                              |
  and date of     }                              |
  first           }                              |
  application.    }                              |
                                                 |
  The FACTS of    }                              |
  the history of  }                              |
  the case,       }                              |
  abstracted to   }                              |
  the date of     }                              |
  the last visit  }                              |
                                                 |
                                                 |
  Relations who,  }                              |
  according to    }                              |
  law, should     }                              |
  assist.         }                              |
                                                 |
  Friends who     }                              |
  do assist, or   }                              |
  are likely      }                              |
  to do so.       }                              |


                            |
                            |The circumstances as  Orders of
                            |they existed when     the Board,
                            |visited by R. O.,&c.  and Remarks
                            |                      ___________
                            |
                            |Visited Dec. 16, 1846.
                            |
                            |
                            |Visited, &c.
                            |
                            |
                            |Visited.

This report is prepared from the actual visit of the relieving officer
at the home of the applicant, and by coincidental inquiry. Upon its
first reading, there would appear the names of the heads of the
family--the names of their children who may be dependent upon them, and
the several dates of birth, the residence, the occupation of the several
members of the family, their actual condition, the admitted cause of the
application for relief, and a statement of such facts as a single visit
may disclose respecting their past history. This would form a basis for
a future report, and would lead the guardians to make comparisons, and
judge whether the case is rising or falling, having reference not only
to weeks, but years. The practical man will perceive, that the chief
point of difference between this form of Report Book and that enforced
by the Commissioners, is, that the latter speaks of the present only,
while the proposed form speaks of the past as well,--an addition of
vital importance, if character is to be considered. It is clear, if the
past and present condition of the applicant be stated, together with the
main facts of his history, the mental act of classification will follow
inevitably, and will require merely the mechanical means of expression.
It may be stated generally with reference to this book: _First_, Every
case must be visited, and reported upon by a statement of facts, not
opinions. _Second_, The report must be made returnable on a given
day--this would be secured by the Chairman's Diary. _Third_, Each
applicant must appear personally before the Board, unless distance or
infirmity prevent.

With these books in our possession, we may begin to separate the poor
into masses, and collect them into groups. The facts contained in the
Report Book would enable Boards of Guardians to decide in which class
the applicants ought to be placed. But in order to preserve the classes
in their distinctness, a ready and simple mode of grouping them in a
permanent manner must be devised; and as it is desirable that old and
existing materials should be used in preference to new, the "Weekly
Out-Door Relief List," now in daily use, may be made the basis of an
improved form.[2]

How are we to proceed? Let the reader call to mind a parish or union
with which he is acquainted, and make it the scene of his labours. That
period of the year when the demands upon the attention of the Board of
Guardians, and its officers, are at zero, may be selected for making the
first step in advance. The most convenient season of the year would
probably be a late Easter; for at that time the weekly returns for
in-door and out-door relief are rapidly descending. The winter is losing
its rugged aspect and is rapidly dissolving into spring: and labour is
busy in field and market. And so it continues until the fall of the
year, except when the temperature of the summer may be unusually high,
and then low fever and cholera prevail in low, marshy, crowded, or
undrained districts. Those cases which have received relief for the
longest period may be taken first. The technicalities of the report may
be made up from existing documents. The history of each case may not be
so readily prepared. It being a collection of facts, they may be added
slowly. The space allotted to this important matter is amply sufficient,
unless the officer should unfortunately be afflicted with a plethora of
words. The whole number of ordinary cases may be reported upon, and
their classes apportioned, before the winter sets in. In the month of
November, the _medical list_ would begin to be augmented. And as the
dreary season for the poor advances, the _casual applications_ would
multiply. In two or three years the names of all persons who ordinarily
receive relief, or are casually applicants, would be found in the Report
Book: and the facts having been recorded there, the labours of the
officer would then decrease, and be confined to the investigation of
existing circumstances.

The reader may have inquired, upon observing the number of classes into
which the recipients of relief are proposed to be arranged, how can
accuracy be ensured--how can they be preserved intact? It is admitted,
that unless the grounds of the distinctions are clearly defined, and the
facts of frequent occurrence, the classes will manifest a tendency to
amalgamation. If the reader will take the trouble to refer to the form
of "Weekly Relief List" below,[3] he will perceive that the fourth,
fifth, and sixth classes, have but one column. This was done, because it
might be deemed that the distinctions which are there noted might escape
the observation of Boards of Guardians. It is not our opinion. We have
great confidence in the yeomanry and gentry of England, of whom Boards
of Guardians are composed; and we believe that much of the bitter
animosity manifested by the local boards against the triumvirate at
Somerset House, owes its existence to the authoritative attempts on the
part of the latter to prevent these boards from recognising in any
practical manner these very distinctions. Independently of this, the
period for which the relief is ordered may be so determined as to allow
of a particular time for each class; this will be made clear as we
proceed. And, lastly, a brief and accurate description of each of the
classes may be printed at the head of each of the pages of the Diary,
Report Book, and Relief List.

The first class consists of aged and infirm persons who have no natural
relations, but are enabled to eke out a subsistence with the aid of an
out-door allowance from the parish. The poor of this class are
frequently in receipt of other relief. It may be a tribute of memory
from a child she nursed, from a family he served, an occasional donation
from the church they attend, or a weekly trifle from one of those
benevolent societies that assist the aged poor to retain their
accustomed dwelling, or to enjoy the unexpensive luxuries which habit
has made necessary. The circumstances of each of the individuals in
these classes are presumed to be known through the report of the
officer; and as each case, when health and vicinity of residence permit,
appears personally before the board, it may be _carried forward for
revisal that day twelve months_. The whole of the cases belonging to
this class would be so treated. They may be distributed over a given
number of Board days, and during a particular month of the year. In the
month of July all the names of the poor of this class would appear in
the Diary; and the reports of the relieving officer would then be called
for, in the order in which the names are entered. Of course, if any
change of circumstances should occur in the interval, application may be
made to the officer; and as they are paid at their homes in the majority
of instances, the application may then be made. At the end of twelve
months, each case is formally revisited and reported. It would then
appear that some are dead, some are bed-ridden, some are childish, and
require an asylum--second childhood has commenced, and they require the
nurture of children; they are therefore admitted into the Union. A few
others have lost a bounty through the death of a friend, and their
allowance requires augmentation.

The entrance to this class should be carefully guarded against admission
by accident or undue influence. For instance, a lady not indisposed to
relieve human suffering, receives an indirect application from a
respectable elderly female, for charitable aid. Her charitable list is
full, but she does not like to send her empty away, although she knows
nothing of the person except through the excellent note of introduction.
Temporary relief is given. The lady's husband has an intimate friend,
who is a guardian. And, through this medium, the female becomes an
applicant for parochial relief. Forms are complied with. A sketch of her
circumstances is entered in the Report Book, with such accuracy as the
fact of the report being required at the next board meeting permitted.
Her name appearing at the end of the page of the Diary which now lies
before the chairman, and her turn having come, the guardian blandly
informs the meeting, that a case has come to his knowledge, of whose
fitness to be a recipient of their bounty he is credibly informed there
can be no doubt; and the chairman is only too certain that a case so
brought before them should be liberally responded to. An unusual amount
of relief is given, and the name put on the yearly list. And thus, a
decent person, who had by sometimes working, and by sometimes receiving
those occasional aids to which her long life of probity and prudence had
given her a title, is beguiled into that which it had really been the
great object of her life to avoid. Thousands who have been accustomed to
a life of labour, and especially those females who have lived in decent
servitude, regard the workhouse with horror. Now, to avoid errors of
this kind, and also to ensure that the necessities of the case are
thoroughly known, it ought to be a "standing order" of the board that no
case shall be draughted into the yearly list, without having been
visited and reported upon six several times.

The second class consists of those aged and infirm persons who possess
relations who are legally liable to be made to contribute towards their
support, or who have friends and relations who, in virtue of those
social ties which bind men together, may be reasonably expected to
assist them. The separation of the individuals of this class from those
of the former one, is not made on the single ground that, according to
law, sons and unmarried daughters, and grandchildren, call be compelled
to support their sires. If the parochial authorities had no stronger
appeal than that which the law of Elizabeth affords, the pauper list
would soon be filled to overflowing. The law is more correct in
principle than efficient in practice. Fortunately, the natural feelings
of humanity effect that spontaneously, which the law with its penalties
cannot compel. It is a matter of daily remark by those who mix much and
observantly among the poor--not the class merely who struggle hard to
preserve a decent appearance, and to drive destitution from their
dwelling's but those who have no qualities which can engage, whose
ordinary habits are those of intemperance, whose manners are rough, and
whose language is coarse and obscure--and to a class still lower, who
are steeped in vice and crime, who seem regardless of God or man, and to
whom society appears to have done its worst; that even in these rude,
uncultivated, and depraved human beings, a strong under-current of
natural feeling wells up and flows perpetually. So strongly are these
feelings sometimes manifested in such characters, that they appear to be
developed with an intensity proportionate to the extent to which the
other feelings have been wrecked, and to the loss of sympathy which
these miserables have sustained from the world. It is too often
forgotten by those who are concerned for the poor, that these
feelings--the love of parents for offspring, and the reverence of
children for parents--are instinctive, and that their activity depends
upon the fact, whether there are children to be loved and parents to be
revered. And this being so, we may be satisfied that they are not
extinct in any case. They may not be expressed in good set terms, or in
the ordinary language of endearment. The conversation of these persons
may sound harsh to unaccustomed ears, and the acts may often coincide
with the words. But the bond of union is seen in acts of mutual defence,
in acts of mutual aggression, and in acts of mutual assistance. The true
ground of separation is, that it would be highly inexpedient, and
prejudicial to public morals, if the duties of these relations were to
be forgotten or superseded. And, therefore, when it appears from the
relieving officer's report that such connexions exist, the cases should
be relieved of course; but it should be intimated that these parties are
expected to assist; and it should be formally declared, that they are
legally and morally bound so to do. In the majority of instances, the
result would be satisfactory. This is not said because a trifle might be
saved to parishes. It would most frequently happen, that all these
parties could do would be to add a luxury very dear to the aged person,
but which the parochial board could hardly grant. A daughter in service
may send an article of apparel, a son-in-law may give a Sunday's dinner,
and a son may make a weekly contribution of grocery. In general, it
being presumed that the several boards of guardians present a fair
average of human nature, no reduction of allowance would ensue. In many
instances the result flowing from this method would be still more
satisfactory. It so happens in the strife for subsistence, that each
striver is so occupied by his own affairs--and even when increased
ability or established probity and diligence, has led, to the receipt of
a higher wage, the mind is either so entirely absorbed by the new duties
and increased responsibilities, or luxuries have so stealthily slipped
from their places and become necessities--that he is apt to forget his
poorer brethren, who, less fortunate than himself, or unblessed with his
own patience and steadiness--

  "Poor wights! nae rules nor roads observin',
   To right or left eternal swervin',
                   They zig-zag on,
   'Till, curst with age obscure and starvin',
                   They aften groan."

The attention of this prosperous relation must be arrested. Here is a
fact. A man at the advanced age of seventy-six years, and his wife still
more aged, applied for relief. He is a mechanic. He had never applied
for relief during the threescore years and ten, and upwards, to which
his life has spun out. Assistance was rendered. The law of settlement
intervened, occasioned much trouble, and prevented the case from being
dealt with permanently. This hinderance afforded an opportunity for the
relations to consult and arrange. One son is at work in a distant
county. Another is a mechanic with a full wage; he has four
children--but he is industrious and temperate. The daughter is married
to a clerk in a lawyer's office, and has already two children. No
magistrate would make an "order of maintenance" upon the sons, and the
daughter being married is not liable. But a consultation is held of
relations and friends. That member of the family upon whom there can be
no legal demand, and whose circumstances are the least flourishing, is
the first to make a proposal. He will take the old lady home: she can
have a chair in the chimney-corner, and mind the children when their
mother is away. The son in the country will give one or two shillings
weekly, according as work is abundant. The son in town will guarantee
the payment for the old man's lodging. The right to a meal is not
thought of--it is a matter of course. The old man had supposed that his
work on earth was done; and he had therefore fallen into despondency.
But the events of the last week have restored him to that elasticity of
mind which had sustained him through many trials. Hope is again in the
ascendant, and pours upon him her genial influence. His helpmate is
provided for; and he has a home secured to himself, and is not in danger
of starvation. He now says, "There is some work left in me yet." He can
no longer be the first in the throng, but he can take his place in the
crowd. He can do all sorts of odd, light, casual jobs; and by the
exercise of that perseverance and care, which enabled him during his
long life to drive want from his homestead, he can provide for the
future. He is no longer an applicant for parochial relief. This class
may be easily distinguished, practically, from the former one, and from
all others, without making any distinction or reference to the mode or
value of the relief. Each case, after it has been visited and reported
upon by the officer six several times, in the same way, and for the same
reasons as class number one, must be carried forward in the chairman's
Diary to that board day in the summer months which has been appropriated
for the class. _This class would undergo revision twice in the year._
The reports of the officer would especially refer to the circumstances
of relations, and state the assistance which they do or are able to
render. All this would become matter of routine.

The third class differs from the two former, in respect that the
individuals who compose it are not aged, but are likely to be permanent
burdens on parishes, from malformation of brain, or a disturbance in the
sensuous system. They are idiotic, fatuous, blind, deaf or lame, or
permanently disabled by chronic disease. It has been said that the
workhouse is the best place for such persons; and in some localities it
may be so. But there are places, where benevolent expedients have been
adopted, which have saved these unfortunates from that stagnation of
soul approaching melancholia, to which they would have been otherwise
doomed. They may now hold converse in books. They are taught trades.
They receive assistance which enables them to enter fields of
competition with their more perfectly organised fellows. But this aid is
often-times withheld, or it is insufficient, and so they become
chargeable to parishes.

The fourth class consists of those widows with families upon whom the
officer, after a series of visits, is enabled to report facts which must
satisfy the guardians that she is industrious, temperate, and of strict
probity. Her thoughts as a wife were confined to two great domestic
questions,--how can my husband's income be economised, without making
his home no home? and how can I qualify my children to fill their
appointed stations in life? During the lifetime of her husband, her
mind was so entirely absorbed by her household and family duties, that
now she feels and acts like one who has just been disturbed from a long
and troubled dream. Death has now turned the channel of her ideas. The
change was one of bitter suffering. And now she must provide bread for
her children by her own "hand-labour,"--without the habitude of labour.
Death acts thus daily; and yet the number of widows so circumstanced,
who apply for parochial relief, bears a very small proportion to the
total number of persons thus bereaved. The fact is curious; and as sound
methods of dealing with pauperism can be discovered only from a minute
and comprehensive knowledge of the anatomy and pathology of the lower
classes of society, the facts must be studied. The widows who compose
this class were, previous to their marriage, either trusted servants in
quiet families, daughters of respectable shop-keepers, or younger
daughters of widows with small annuities: and their husbands were
probably members of religious communities. Suppose the condition of the
widow to have been that of a decent servitude. She performed her duties
with credit; and her name is not forgotten. During the state of
wifehood, intercourse was kept up by the exercise of kindly greetings on
the one side, and respectful inquiries on the other. Her present
circumstances excite sympathy. "Something _must_ be done for poor Ann!"
But she desires to subsist by labour rather than by gifts of charity.
This is thought of by the reflecting patron, who knows full well how
benefits unearned weaken the moral powers. But there are many ways by
which the feeling of charity may be manifested without moral injury. A
son may be in chambers, and who can so well clean and arrange them, as
the nurse of his infancy? She may be intrusted with the care of an
office; or she may be recommended to friends, who have hitherto taken
labour from the labour market, at the lowest market price, and are just
beginning to perceive that the moral qualities manifested in a prudent
carriage, strict honesty, and taciturnity with respect to private
affairs, are valuable, and have yet to learn that they are not common,
and to be obtained must be paid for. The recommendation is well-timed.
And although this friend of the family may miss the moral points of the
matter, and would, if the patroness had not fixed her wages, by the
force of example, tell the widow how little she gave the other "person,"
and offer the same. The widow's eyes now sparkle. She has reason to be
grateful, and is not absolutely dependent. She is now in a fair way to
gain an honest livelihood. The parish has not once been thought of. Then
she may be a member of a religious body: which congregation is not a
question of moment. As a member of the Established Church she has many
advantages. Did you, reader, ever hear of a member of the Society of
Friends being an applicant for parochial relief? The question may be
repeated with respect to the Jews; not, however, with the expectation of
an universal negative; but, having regard to the precariousness of their
callings, the answer must be--_No!_ The widow is a Wesleyan methodist.
She is united with a religious body which includes within its pale many
of those who compose the middle--or rather the lower middle--and lower
classes of society. The members of it are closely cemented
together--spiritually and temporally. As a member of a "class meeting,"
her hopes and fears, her temptations, and trials, are known; not only to
the members of her own section, but to the minister, and the members of
the congregation. It may be true that the class system engenders
spiritual pride and hypocrisy: that is not in point. We are dealing with
facts. And it is a fact, and one which might be predicated from the
circumstances, that the frequent meeting together of persons in nearly
the same social position, to converse and advise upon practical
religious matters, from which personal interests and temporalities, when
they bear down the spirit, cannot be excluded, does exert an important
influence on the fortunes of the distressed. In the Church of England, a
minister may not mix so freely with his flock. His social position--his
language, is different. But although that sense of common interest and
common danger, which opens the flood-gates of the soul, and allows it to
pour forth an uninterrupted tide of emotion, cannot exist when one order
of mind stammers to another order of wind, yet there are compensating
circumstances. Learning does not necessarily enervate the active powers.
And in these latter we find a common ground of meeting, chords which
vibrate sympathetically. "One touch of nature makes the whole world
kin." Then the clergy are the almoners of the rich. These influences,
with many kindred ones, might be investigated with advantage; but enough
is said to indicate why this class of poor, who at first sight appear so
helpless, are not sustained by the poor-rate. But they are sometimes
applicants, and as such form a class. It happens that, from the number
of her family, her wants are greater than her limited connexions can
relieve; or she may be alone. It must be again repeated, that the duty
of a board of guardians is not only to relieve destitution, but likewise
to check pauperism. This being so, the widow must not be allowed to sink
so low as to drive hope away. Her projects, her means, and her actual
necessities must be ascertained. _Relief in money is the best mode of
relief to this class_; and it should be given liberally. It will not be
given in vain. Of course there are many in this class not gifted with an
active temperament, or a strong, mind. To such the warning from the
chairman, that parochial assistance can only be temporary, must be
frequently given: and sometimes her views and progress may be
scrutinised and commented upon. The relief would be continued from time
to time and in descending amounts, until it vanishes altogether. By this
method of treatment an increase of expenditure may be occasioned for a
time; but the widow will be delivered from her affliction, _and her
children's names permanently erased from the black roll of pauperism_.

The fifth class includes those widows who have, throughout their lives,
been accustomed to labour. They have not the advantages of the former
class, as regards connexions. They have been "dragged"[4] up. As an
infant, "it was never sung to: no one ever told it a tale of the
nursery. It was dragged up, to live or die, as it happened. It had no
young dreams: it broke at once into the iron realities of life. The
child exists not for the very poor as any object of dalliance; it is
only another mouth to be fed, a pair of little hands to be betimes
inured to labour. It is the rival, till it can be the co-operator, for
food with the parent. It is never his mirth, his diversion, his solace;
it never makes him young again, with recalling his young times. The
children of the very poor have no young times. It makes the very heart
bleed to overhear the casual street-talk between a poor woman and her
little girl, a woman of the better sort of poor, in a condition rather
above the squalid beings which we have been contemplating. It is not of
toys, of nursery-books, of summer holidays, (fitting that age); of the
promised sight, or play; of praised sufficiency at school. It is of
mangling and clear-starching, of the price of coals, or of potatoes. The
questions of the child, that should be the very outpourings of curiosity
in idleness, are marked with forecast and melancholy providence. It has
come to be a woman before it was a child. It has learned to go to
market; it chaffers, it haggles, it envies, it murmurs; it is knowing,
acute, sharpened: it never prattles." Such was the child. The passage
from the single to the married state, which generally changes the course
of woman's life, has to her been nothing more than a brief interval of
pleasure. She soon joins the bands of the busy daughters of care. So the
loss of her husband has been to her but a tragedy. The last act is over;
the curtain has fallen: she is now in the outer world again; she is
oppressed by sadness, vague and undefinable; but the noise and bustle
around her, the tumult of her own thoughts, and her continued labour,
afford that alleviation which the solitary and the unemployed seek for
in vain. Those who would step in and, relieve her of her toil, may be
well-meaning persons; but, they are interfering in matters they do not
understand. They would spend their money more beneficially, and with
greater regard to the principles of Christian charity, if each would
take care that those who do for him any kind of labour, receive an
adequate remuneration. It may be a politico-economic law, that we buy in
the cheapest market, and sell in the dearest; and, by a sophistical
process, the limits of the principle may have been enlarged, so as not
only to include raw materials, but manufactured products, and the labour
which we ourselves employ. But it is forgotten, that a law which
expresses merely what men do, has not the universality or fixity of a
law of matter, but is liable to variation from the action of moral
causes. The law may be partially true, as eliminated from a study of the
present age. It is an age of calculators and economists. In a moral age
it would be false. It is false in the present day, when moral men have
to do directly with their lower and ruder brethren. This is an
individual and personal matter, and each one will find that he has
enough of his own work to do in his own sphere. This widow is an
applicant for parochial relief. Repeated visits, and a succession of
reports, at brief intervals, have enabled the officer to present an
accurate narration of facts, both with reference to her past life and
her present condition. It becomes clear that this widow differs from the
other, in respect that she has greater habitude for labour, and that her
mind is cramped down to the hard matters of the present hour: she goes
to her work in the morning, and she returns home fatigued in the
evening. To-morrow's meal is secured, and the scene of to-morrow's
labour is known. Within the narrow limits of a week is her soul penned
up. It is clear, then, what the duties of the guardians are. If their
wish is to check pauperism, they must attend to that which this widow's
limited capacities prevent her from doing. In her young day, reading and
writing were accomplishments; but the world has jogged on a little since
then, without her knowing it. Reading and writing, as one of the
mechanical arts, have become indispensable to every boy and girl. The
same economic reasons which lead to the inference, that a girl should be
taught to darn her own stockings, or mend her own frock, would also show
that a boy and girl should be taught to read and write. The spread of
education is something very different from the diffusion of knowledge.
So, then, the officer's report would show whether the children are duly
sent to school; their progress might also be tested. At a future period,
it might appear that the girl is strong enough to enter service, and the
boy fit to be apprenticed either to a trade, or to the sea. In either
case, the fitness of the master or mistress is ascertained and reported.
A premium or outfit is given; and the particulars of the case are duly
entered in the appropriate book, according to the existing method, and
the master and child visited from time to time. The widow would thus be
relieved in that particular respect in which she is least qualified to
help herself, and her children are saved. She would soon discover that
the time occupied in waiting for relief could be more profitably
employed, and she soon ceases to apply.

The sixth class consists also of widows; but they are remarkable for
idleness, intemperance, or improvidence. We know of no means of washing
the Ethiop white. To this class, money-relief is the most objectionable
form of relief. An allowance of bread should be given for brief periods,
and given in instalments. Sometimes it may be necessary to intimate that
work may be required for the value given, and at other times the order
may be made. It will, however, be found that the individuals of this
class are careless about every thing. If they are dealt with leniently,
they take advantage of the supposed imbecility of the guardians: if they
are dealt with too severely, they become familiarised with the interior
of a prison; and the instant the gloomy portal of the county jail loses
its terrors, they place themselves in attitude of defiance. As the
inmates of workhouses, they are dangerous spies, and are regarded with
awe by master and matron; as recipients of out-door relief, they are
insolent and full of threats. Perhaps the best mode of dealing with
these cases may be ascertained, by allowing the attention to become
abstracted from the mother, and concentrated upon the children. The
mother is like a wild beast, whose nature and habits cannot now be
subdued; but her cubs, her little ones, may still be tamed and
humanised. At this point, reference may be made to a document which has
not emanated from the Poor-law Commissioners, or from any parochial
board, but from the magistrates of the county of Middlesex. It appears
that a committee was appointed, in April last, to "inquire into the best
means of checking the growth of juvenile crime, and promoting the
reformation of juvenile offenders." At a meeting of the magistrates of
Middlesex, on the 3d of December, the report of the committee was read,
and "received amidst repeated cheering." The committee recommend that a
bill should be introduced to Parliament, a draught of which is given in
the report. The preamble states, "that the fearful extent of juvenile
depravity and crime, in the metropolitan districts, and in large and
populous towns, requires general and immediate interference on the part
of the legislature; that the great causes of juvenile crime and
depravity appear to be ignorance, destitution, and the absence of proper
parental or friendly care; and that all children above the age of seven
and under the age of fifteen years, suffering from these and similar
causes, require protection, to prevent their getting into bad company,
acquiring idle and dissolute habits, growing up in vice, and becoming an
expense and burden on the county as criminals, and that such protection
should be afforded by the county." There are fourteen clauses: the first
and fifth may be quoted--"1_st_, That an asylum for unprotected and
destitute children be founded in and for the county of Middlesex by
legislative enactment, and placed under the direction and management of
the justices of the peace for the county." "5_th_, That unprotected and
destitute children shall be deemed to include all children above seven,
and under fifteen years of age, under the following circumstances:
--Children driven from their homes by the bad conduct of their parents;
children neglected by their parents; children who are orphans, and
neglected by their friends; children who are bastards; and children who
are orphans, and have no one to protect them, or to provide for them, or
for whom no one does provide; children who, from their own misconduct,
have no protection or provision found them; children who are idle and
dissolute, and whose parents or friends cannot control their bad conduct;
children who are destitute of proper food, clothing, or education, owing
to the poverty of their parents or friends, but whose friends or parents
do not apply for, or receive parish relief; children who are destitute of
employment; and children of the class which become juvenile offenders
generally."

It is probable that a plan of this description might have a great and
beneficial effect in diminishing juvenile crime; and it is conceivable
that the clauses of the bill may be so framed as to develop all the
good, and avoid the evil. It is to be feared, however, that the bill is
founded on partial views. The children who agree with the descriptions
given in clause number five, are the offspring of those who reside in
poor neighbourhoods, where the inhabitants are already paying high
rates,--high in proportion to the poverty of the locality. If this be
so, then every possible species of opposition, which can be offered
legally or illegally, will be directed against the bill, and against its
being carried into operation. The authorities of these poor and populous
parishes already find it a matter of extreme difficulty to collect the
rates, and are overwhelmed by the number of those poor housekeepers who
apply to be "excused their rates" on the ground of poverty. All the
schemes of the present day have one good point only, or it may be
discovered by minute observation that the original idea was a good one.
The bill is brought forth with a grand display of benevolent feeling;
and it is passed, after suffering further distortion in Parliament. The
law is, after all, found to be inoperative, from the omission or
misapprehension of a plain obvious matter of detail, or because it
originated from partial views, or came directly from the brain of an
unpractical theorist. It is, however, admitted, in the case of the
magistrates' bill, that the _original idea_ is a good one. And if it
should be realised, the children of the class of widows now under
consideration, might in this "County Juvenile Asylum," find a home, and
be saved from destruction.

The seventh class consists of women who have cohabited with men, and
have families. The individuals composing it generally resemble those of
the two classes last mentioned--_i.e._ they are industrious or idle,
intemperate or sober. Generally, this class requires relief more
urgently than the several classes of widows; because by their past
conduct they are shut out from any participation in many of the
charities. It is needless to say that strict investigation into their
circumstances and proceedings is necessary.

The eighth and ninth classes consist of single women. The eighth is
composed of women who have had two children, and are prostitutes; the
ninth of those who have only committed the first offence. The inquiries
of the officer, in the ordinary routine, would develop the facts. The
utility of this distinction is, that it would afford boards of guardians
an opportunity of dealing fairly with the latter class: the fact of the
distinction being noted in all the books would attract their attention
to the point. To confound these cases together, and to act with, equal
severity to all, is obviously unjust. In those unions where the
prohibitory order has been issued, all the individuals of both these
classes are relieved only in the house. In the case of their admission,
the cognisance of this distinction, not casually, not specially, because
a guardian may have had his attention drawn to a particular case, but as
a matter of routine, would necessarily lead to a good result. No board
of guardians, when their attention has been regularly and officially
directed to the facts of the case, could compel both classes to herd
together in one common room.

The medical relief list is composed of poor persons who are suffering
from acute disease, and are, in consequence of their illness and extreme
poverty, receiving relief in money or food. Those who are in the receipt
of other relief by order of the board, and who belonged to one of the
other classes, would be excluded from this list. There are two modes of
regulating the medical out-door relief in kind. One mode is to require
the medical officers to attend the meetings of the boards of guardians.
It is their duty to report upon the state of health of each out-door
sick person at specified times, and to state the kind of nutriment
adapted to each case. The board is thus furnished with a sanatory report
from one officer, and a report upon circumstances from the other. This
is a satisfactory system. The other mode is, for the medical officer to
report to the relieving officer in a prescribed form, that A B is ill
with consumption, and requires ---- food per diem. The relieving officer
has a veto. If, upon visiting the case, he is satisfied that the head of
the family can supply the articles recommended, the relief is withheld.
The case is reported to the next board, who issue the necessary
instructions thereon. The first plan is undoubtedly the preferable one,
in all those parishes or unions where the population is large and the
area small. But in all large rural unions, where the medical officers
are many and their labours great, from bad roads and extent of district,
the plan would be inapplicable. As regards the second method, it would
be found to prevail as a rule, that, in the majority of cases, the
recommendation of the medical officer is regarded by the relieving
officer as tantamount to an order. The exception would be in those
unions where the board is infested by persons who know of no means of
estimating the value of an officer excepting by his supposed power of
reducing expenditure; and in those parishes where the inhabitants are
poor and embarrassed. And it is to be feared that this evil, against
which the press exclaim so loudly, will continue to predominate so long
as the existing unequal charge upon parishes continues. The magnates of
St. George, Hanover Square, can afford to be magnanimous and humane. In
St. Luke, Middlesex, or St. Leonard, Shoreditch, where the rate-payers
are poor, it is a different matter altogether. And yet it is in these
poor neighbourhoods that the poor live; and where they live, there they
must be relieved.

The administration of the relief given in consequence of poverty and
illness requires great care. The list contains the most meritorious of
the poor: and as the relief given is of the greatest value, it is the
relief most sought after by "cadgers" and impostors. The great abuses
which creep into the administration of out-door relief do not arise from
the relief of the able-bodied, but from affording relief to persons who
allege that they are suffering from bodily ailments without proper
investigation. In ordinarily well managed parishes, impostors, cadgers,
and mendicants have no chance of obtaining relief in money. Therefore
the whole of their practised cunning is brought to bear upon this more
valuable form of relief. Now, from the peculiar habits of this class of
persons, there is often strong ground for the claim. They will starve
three days, and complete the week in revel and debauchery. Those
periods, which they consider days of prosperity, are too often occasions
for emaciating their bodies by drinking gin and eating unnutritious
food. A chilly, foggy, November night is the time when the supposed
widow can parade her children on the highway with the best chance of
exciting the compassion of the passersby; and it is the time, too, when,
if there is any predisposition to disease, the circumstances are most
favourable for its development. It is to this class that the workhouse
may be offered--as an infirmary. It is a fact, however, that those of
this class who suffer from external diseases, and especially those which
may be exposed with impunity, do not desire to enter a workhouse, and
will not remain there until they are completely cured. And then, with
reference to children who are exposed at night in the streets,
notwithstanding the parents may be warned that they are sowing the seeds
of incurable disease in the bodies of these infants, and are offered
relief sufficient to constitute the greater part of their support; yet,
however they may promise, they will continue to sleep in the day-time,
and prowl about as homeless outcasts in distant neighborhoods at night.
It is useless to offer them the workhouse; they will refuse it, and
make, the offer a ground of appeal to the benevolent. As regards the
children, the medical officer declares that his medicines are useless,
and even dangerous. They are taken in the morning, the child is exposed
in the evening, and in a few months it dies--_a natural death_? Here is
lower depth of crime and misery which baffles the benevolent and
wise.[5]

The aged, the infirm, the sufferers from chronic disease, the
permanently disabled, the several classes of widows, the single women
who have one or more children, and those who are chargeable mainly from
temporary illness, have been collected and separated from the dense mass
of pauperism. Who are those that remain? There is much error abroad upon
this question. They are legion, whether they be regarded in connexion
with the causes which have led to their impoverishment, or with
reference to their various modes of obtaining a livelihood. Reference
has already been made to that portion of the population of England who
are in a transition state--_i.e._ those whose ordinary employment has
been superseded by more rapid and cheaper methods, and who have thereby
lost their ordinary means of livelihood, and been drifted down from
stage to stage until they have reached the lowest depth, and have at
last been compelled to ask for a morsel of bread at the workhouse door.
Then it will appear upon inquiry that each separate locality will
present its peculiar species of casual poor, who fall into a state of
destitution from the action of peculiar causes. It frequently happens
that the individuals were never trained to any ordinary species of
labour. At an early period of their lives, they were put in the way to
learn a trade, but from early habits of idleness, from the criminal
neglect of masters or parents, from natural incapacity for the
particular trade, or from an unconquerable dislike to it, they have
never been able to earn "salt to their porridge," as the saying is. They
never received a regular or an average amount of wage. If they are
tailors, they compete with old women in making "slopwork" for the lower
class of salesmen. Or they convert old coat tails into decent cloth
caps, and may be industrious enough to supply a tribe of women with a
Saturday night's stock. As cobblers, they ply the craft of
"translation"--a trade, even in this lower acceptation of the term,
peculiarly liable to abuse. To the unlearned, it may be necessary to
state that translation is the act of converting old boots into new ones,
and is done with thin strips of varnished leather, and plenty of wax and
large nails. There are carpenters, whose ingenuity is confined to the
manufacture of money-boxes, cigar-cases, and children's stools. Smiths,
male and female, forge garden rakes, small pokers, and gridirons, as the
season may suggest. And then their wives and children, or other men's
wives and children, hawk them for sale in populous neighbourhoods on
market evenings. Tin funnels are sold "at the low price of a halfpenny."
Minute and useless candlesticks, wire forks, children's toys, and old
umbrellas, are a few specimens of this miscellaneous merchandise, the
sale of which brings bread to hundreds of families. They live in
foetid alleys, are not cleanly, and are sometimes intemperate; hence
they are peculiarly liable to the attacks of disease. During illness,
there are many things which the sick man craves which a parochial
officer cannot grant, and which a medical man could neither recommend
nor allow. The desire is gratified by the sale of a useful and
indispensable tool; and thus, by degrees, he exits off his own means of
subsistence. Then, like manufacturers of a higher grade, he may mistake
the public wants, and the articles he has made may remain unsaleable on
his hands, or he may fall into the error of over-production like a
Manchester house. Then, in seasons when those commodities which
constitute the common diet of the poor are scarce and dear, the persons
who deal in them who are unable to buy, or uncertain to sell, are thrown
back upon the few shillings which compose their capital. In large cities
and towns, and in the neighbourhood of great markets, there are crowds
of poor persons who gain their livelihood by the purchase and sale of
the articles of daily food, and their combined purchases form a large
item in the business of those markets. The costermongers, or
costardmongers, consist of various grades. That brisk-looking man, who
is riding so proudly in his donkey-cart, with his wife at his elbow, may
be a very mean person in the estimation of the passer-by, but, in his
world, he is a man of importance. He watches the "turns of the market,"
and being either in the possession of capital himself, or in a position
to command it, he is able to compete with large dealers. He is a
money-lender; and, if security be left with him--a poor woman's marriage
certificate, or her wedding-ring is sufficient--he will enable her to
buy her "little lot." Through him many are able to procure a stock at a
trifling expenditure, who otherwise would be unable to buy in sufficient
quantities to satisfy the original salesman. This class has its peculiar
casualties, and in consequence become chargeable to parishes. Their
habits may be irregular and intemperate. Or a poor woman may have
expended her last farthing in the purchase of a tempting basket of fish.
Her child falls ill, or she herself is unable, from the same cause, or
from an accidental injury, to stand the necessary number of hours in the
drenching rain; and so her stock is spoiled, and she suffers a greater
calamity in her sphere than the brewer whose consignment of ale has
turned sour on an India voyage.

In the vicinity of cathedrals and abbeys, in districts where dowagers
and elderly maiden ladies most do congregate, and in

  "Those back-streets to peace so dear,"

there is always to be found a great number of kindly-disposed people,
who have wherewithal to make life flow smoothly, leisure to listen to
tales of wo, and the ability and inclination liberally to relieve. Now
wherever these benevolent persons may be located, there will a troop of
jackals herd, and run them down. Wherever public or private charities
exist, there do these persons thrive. Their organisation, the degree to
which they endure occasional privations and exposure, the recklessness
with which they endanger the health and lives of those connected with
them, is so passing strange, and, if fully expatiated upon, would be a
chapter in the history of man and society, so disgusting, as to be unfit
and morally unsafe to publish. Among the beings who infest these
neighbourhoods, are men and women of keen wit--too keen, in truth--who
have been well educated. Clerks who have been discharged for peculation.
Women who, from the turbulence of their passions, have descended from
the position of governesses, and who possess talent and tact equal to
any emergency. They can write petitions in the highest style of
excellence, as regards composition and penmanship. And they can also
write letters on dirty slips of paper, in such a manner as that the
homely phrase and the supposed ignorance of the petitioner shall be
correctly sustained. They know all the charitable people of the
district. They know the species of distress each person is most likely
to relieve, and the days and hours they are most likely to be seen. They
are in a position to instruct the several members of the fraternity as
to the habits and foibles of the "gentlefolks." One is open-handed, but
apt to exact a large degree of humility, and must be approached with
deference. Another, if applied to at the wrong time, may give liberally
to rid himself of their importunities. Another is rough and noisy; but
if the applicant can endure it--which these people can, but decent
people cannot--a largess is certain. With one, clean linen, a
well-starched front, or a neat cap-border, is a desideratum, because it
is supposed to indicate that the wearers were once in a better sphere.
Another will only relieve those who are clothed in well-patched rags, or
"real misery;" and then the appearance must be that of squalid
destitution.

It happened the other day that an individual, in the regular exercise of
his duty, was engaged in making inquiries in one of these
neighbourhoods. The cooped-up dwellings were situated in the centre of a
mass of buildings, round which a carriage might roll in five minutes,
and yet nothing would appear to excite suspicions that within the area
of a few hundred yards, so much real distress, and so much deceit, vice,
and crime were in existence. The visitor has left the crowded
thoroughfare, and entered a narrow cutting which leads to the heart of
the mass of houses. In former days the street was the abode of the
wealthy. Many of these aristocratic dwellings are still standing. They
large and high. The rooms were once magnificent. Their great size is
still visible, notwithstanding the partitions which now divide them. The
elaborate, quaint, and, in some instances, beautiful style of ornament
on the ceilings, the massive mouldings, and richly carved
chimney-pieces, satisfy the observer that, in former days, they were the
abodes of wealth and luxury. They are now tottering with age: the other
day, the interior of one of them fell inwards. These houses may be
entered, one after another, without intrusion. To the uninitiated, the
rooms present the appearance of an unoccupied hospital. All the rooms on
the upper floors are entirely filled with beds. If they are entered at
the close of a cold winter evening, the aspect is cold and desolate. If
you pause on the landing, you may hear sounds of voices. The whole of
the occupants of these rooms are congregated at the bottom of the
building. You should not enter, for, at the sight of a stranger, they
would instantly reassume their several characters. If you look through a
chink in the partition, you will see an assemblage of men, women, and
children, in whose aspect and mien--if you can read the biography of a
human being by studying the lines on the countenance--you may read many
a tale and strange eventful history,--illustrating the adage that "truth
is stranger than fiction." If the hour be midnight, and the season
winter, the large hall will be lit up by a blazing fire. Around it are
grouped men and women of all ages. Some are dressed as sailors. In a
corner, some Malays are eating their mess alone. They pay their
threepence, and are not disturbed:--they are supposed, with truth, to be
unacquainted with the rules of English boxing, and to carry knives.
Their white dresses and turbans, their dark but bright and expressive
countenances, their jet-black hair, and strange language, give an air of
romance to the scene. There are widows with children, traveling tinkers,
and knife-grinders. All these are talking, laughing, shouting, singing,
and crying in discordant chorus. There is no lack of good cheer; and it
is but justice to add, that the less fortunate, providing they are "no
sneaks," are allowed a share. At the door, or busily employed among the
guests, is mine host, and his female companion:--"old cadgers" both, but
stalwart, and able to maintain the "respectability" of the house.

The visitor passes on, and turns down a lane. By day or night, it hath
an ancient and a fish-like smell. Apparently the dwellings are inhabited
by the very poor. In the day time there are no noises, except that of
women bawling to their children, who are sitting in the middle of the
causeway, making dikes of vegetable mud and soap-suds. There are no
sewers;--the commissioners have no power to make them,--and do not ask
for it. There is nothing outwardly to indicate that the inhabitants are
other than honest. If you open the doors, you may perceive that the
staircases are double and barricaded, that rooms communicate with each
other, and that, in the rear, there are facilities for hiding or escape.
If you stroll about this place at night, you may be surprised by the
sight of two policemen patrolling together. You will be an object of
scrutiny and suspicion,--notwithstanding your respectable appearance.
And then, as you appear to have no business in the neighbourhood, you
will be civilly greeted with, "You are entering a dangerous
neighbourhood, sir!" In the newspapers of the following day, you may
read of a gang of housebreakers, or coiners, having been secured in this
spot. And if it be revisited when a group of felons have just left the
wharf, you will find it a scene of drunken lamentation.

In this lane is a _cul-de-sac_. It is inhabited by persons with respect
to whose actual condition the shrewdest investigator is at fault. The
visitor enters a dwelling, and climbs the narrow staircase. Upon
entering the small room, he is almost stifled by the foetid smells. In
one corner, on a mattress, lies a man, whose gaunt arms, wasted frame,
milky eye-balls, and dry cough, sufficiently indicate the havoc which
disease is doing at the seat of life. A fire has been recently kindled
by the hand of charity. Near it, and seated upon a tub, is a woman,
busily employed in toasting a slice of ham, which is conveyed rapidly
out of sight upon hearing the ascending footsteps. Her dress is gay, but
soiled, and her face is familiar to the pedestrian. Upon the entrance of
the visitor, the Bible is hastily seized, and an attitude of devotion
assumed. The question the visitor asks, is, Are you married? "Oh yes, I
was married at a village near Bury, in Suffolk; I was travelling as a
mountebank at the time." The tale is not well told. After a few
interrogatories, and the utterance of a score of lies, the truth
appears,--he was never in the county of Suffolk in his life. In a few
days he makes a merit of his confession, and marries,--a week before his
death.

Within a few yards, another scene is presented. This is a case of a man,
his wife, and his large family. The visitor is shown into a miserable
apartment, destitute of furniture; and, upon some loose shavings in a
corner, a child has been left to cry itself to sleep. The case is
relieved as one of great suffering. Relief flows freely. The wife
appears ill; and the medical man is much puzzled by her account of the
symptoms. Apparently she has been intemperate; but, according to the
symptoms, it should be something between rheumatism and tic-doloreux.
By-and-by a quarrel ensues, about the division of the spoil. An
anonymous letter is received, declaring that the party has several
residences,--that the room in which such a scene of destitution was
presented, was not their ordinary place of habitation,--that they are in
the receipt of fixed charities, names being given, and concluding with
the allegation, subsequently verified, that their weekly receipts
exceeded a mechanic's highest wage. The bubble bursts, and the family
migrates.

It is hardly necessary to remark, that this order of applicants require
strict attention on the part of the parochial officers. It is of
importance to ascertain whether the several applicants really do any
work,--whether they cannot get it, or are likely to be disconcerted at
the offer of it. If they belong to the orders last described, the fact
of visitation from an officer, with a note-book in his hand, would, of
itself, be a disagreeable circumstance, not to be endured unless
necessity compelled. It is frequently a matter of difficulty to collect
the facts; and appearances are very deceitful. Idleness assumes the garb
and language of industry. Idleness can take the part of industry, and
perform it with technical accuracy; and it will be rendered more
interesting than the original. When an industrious man falls into
misfortune, he is more disposed to conceal, than to expose it
ostentatiously. His language is often abrupt and rude: betraying a
conflict with his own feelings of independence and pride. This a
judicious and accustomed eye can discern. But it must not be forgotten
that the relieving officer's inquiries have no legitimate reference to
features, or doubtful signs, but to places and facts. These facts being
added together, as they are collected from time to time, in the
appropriate page in the report book, the board of guardians would have
no difficulty in estimating the real character and circumstances of
these applicants.

With the further consideration of the casual poor, the subject of
_Out-door employment_ may be usefully connected. We may state at once as
our opinion, that any scheme which proposes to test destitution by
offering the workhouse with its terrors, on the one hand, or which
offers out-door employment _indiscriminately_ to the able-bodied on the
other, is detrimental to the interests of society. It is admitted that
the offer of work to the well-disposed independent labourer may scare
him away; he will consume his savings, sell his furniture, and break his
constitution, rather than accept the relief on the terms offered. And
some may be content with this. They may rejoice at the sight of the
shillings saved. But it will soon be found, that when work has been
offered indiscriminately, and after the lapse of time, that a large and
yearly increasing number of labourers of various classes will accept the
relief and do the work. This fact indicates with accuracy that the moral
feelings of the labouring population are in process of deterioration.
Then how unjust it is! Here is a stout, broad-shouldered, hard-handed,
weather-tanned railway navigator, who would perform the hardest task
with the greatest case and indifference; but it is a very different
matter to the sedentary Liliputian workman of a manufacturing town. We
can understand why the smooth-fingered silk-weavers of Spitalfields
complained of being set to break stones. It is still presumed that the
great object is to diminish pauperism. It is not a question of this day
or this year, or of a parish or union; but of the age and nation. This
being so, we have to ascertain which of two modes is the preferable one:
should labour be offered to all comers, or should the right to make the
performance of labour a condition of receiving relief, be reserved as a
right, and used with caution and discrimination? Let us inquire. Among
the higher classes of society, the gradations of rank are distinctly
marked. Among the middle classes, the gradations and varieties of social
position are more numerous, less distinctly marked, and therefore fenced
round with a world of form and ceremony. And as we descend, and enter
the lower ranks, and approach the lowest, the distinctions and grades
multiply. To the common observer, these distinctions may be unworthy of
regard; but to the parties themselves, they are of importance. The
higher grades among the poor have attained their position by the
exercise of tact and talent, and by hard labour. Not that the accident
of birth, or the position of the parents, are circumstances destitute of
force--the son often follows the employment of the father, and the
eldest son in many trades is permitted to do so, without the sacrifice
of expense and time involved in an apprenticeship. There is a broad line
of demarcation drawn between the skilled and unskilled trades. There are
lines, equally as distinct, drawn between skilled trades, which
correspond with the ancient guilds of cities. And in the present day,
when the several ancient trades are so minutely divided, and subdivided,
there are grades of workmen corresponding. Reference is not made to
those distinctions which are recognised by the masters, but to those
especially which obtain among the men themselves; for it is with their
feelings we have to do. Now, these distinctions do not involve questions
of difference and separation merely, but those also of resemblance and
unity. Each "tradesman"[6] stands by his order; and that not only to
preserve its dignity and privileges inviolate, but to render mutual aid.
Many vanities may be associated with this, and many mummeries may be
enacted, at which many who believe themselves wise may fancy they blush;
but the mechanic is only guarding in an imperfect manner an ancient
institution. It is when we look at labour from this point of view, that
we begin to conceive how it happens that so few regular labourers, in
proportion to the mass, become chargeable to parishes; and this,
notwithstanding the vicissitudes of their several employments. This
inwardly sustaining power, of which the world in general is ignorant, is
worthy of study. The intensity varies as we descend. In a populous
parish, there are many who, from the action of a thousand disturbing
influences, drop from the ranks. Now, is it not obvious, that to offer,
with the eyes of the understanding and judgment firmly closed, to each
able-bodied applicant a degrading employment, must drag him to its
level? In most cases the feeling of repugnance on the part of the head
of the family against applying for relief in person--a rule in all
parishes--is so intense, as to require the fact of his family being in a
state bordering on starvation, to weaken it. If he is required to do
labour for the relief proffered, in a place where he is known, and among
an order of workmen who are pauperised and below him, who would welcome
him with sneers and derision, the chances are that he will not accept
the relief on the terms offered. Is pauperism checked thereby? Wait and
see. It is likely he will not remain in a place where all his cherished
associations have been so rudely broken up. Home he has none. The four
naked walls, the mattress on the floor, the single rug, his sickly and
fretful children--and these regarded with a jaundiced eye, are not the
objects and associations which make up the idea of home. He hears
strange tales from trampers about an abundance of work in other places,
and misguidedly he wanders, with or without his wife and children, in
search of the imaginary spot. He travels from town to town, and subsists
on the pittance which the trades allow, so long as he journeys to the
south. His original feeling of independence has become weakened: its
main prop has been removed. The apprehension of what the denizens of our
little world may say, is frequently a powerful auxiliary to a steady and
moral course of action. This houseless man, by leaving his native
village, or his usual haunts in the crowded city, has deprived himself
of this sustaining power; and he falls, morally and socially. Another,
with less strength of body, is subdued by his privations, and receives
that relief as a sufferer from low fever or incipient consumption, which
was withheld from him while in health. All this is natural, and it is
true in point of fact. The inference is, that no able-bodied applicant
should be set to work, until it formally and clearly appears from a
statement of facts, in the relieving officer's report book, that he is
idle or drunken. In the regular order of business, the man would be
charged with the fault by the chairman, and should be allowed the
benefit of any doubt. The applicant may say, "I worked last for A. B. at
----, and I left with others when the job was finished." Let him have
relief without labour, until the fact is ascertained. And as a page is
opened to each case in the report book, the statement resulting from the
inquiry is recorded, and is either for, or against him. If he pleads for
another chance, give it him. Let the labour be regarded in all cases as
a _dernier resort_.

What work should be given? This is mainly a local question: a few
general remarks may, however, be made. Under the old system, the
out-door work done by paupers, gradually assimilated with that performed
by independent labourers, and at last became undistinguishable. It
appears to have been a practice, if a man alleged that he was unable to
support his family, to set him to work; and the parishioners were
required to employ the labour. Now, the parishioners already employed as
much labour as they required, and the individuals they preferred, and
the necessity of employing the pauper labour, had the effect of reducing
the wages of the independent labourer: he was either employed less, or
paid less. Thus the labourer, who by his industry, and the exercise of
temperance and frugality, had saved, and was therefore in a position to
weather a long and dreary winter, by the influence of this baneful
system, was reduced to the level of the idle and intemperate. This evil
maybe averted. The old abuses were attributable to the fact, that the
several parishes and hamlets were so small, and so poor, as to, render
it impossible to adopt any system of management. The work given should
be hard work, and preserved as distinct as possible from that performed
by the independent labourer; and, in course of time, a wholesome feeling
of aversion would grow up respecting it, similar to that which was
entertained against the workhouse, before it became the compulsory
residence of the casually unfortunate, as well as of those who had sunk
morally and socially. The work given should be public work; or work
which has a remote reference to a private good, but which no individual
under ordinary circumstances would perform. For example, there is
stone-breaking, and the general preparation of materials for the repair
of the highway; the levelling of hills, and the raising of valleys; the
clearing of main ditches; the draining of mosses; the dredging of
rivers; the reclaiming of lands from the waste, or the sea; the
collecting of certain manures; the raising of embankments to prevent the
overflow of rivers; the cleansing of streets and the performance of
certain kinds of labour for union-houses and other institutions
supported at the public expense; and if the highway trusts should be
consolidated, and placed under competent management, it is likely that
some of the labour required might be performed by paupers.

The labour done must be tasked and estimated. This is indispensable. To
allow an able-bodied man to lie upon his back, and bask in the mid-day
sun, while he lazily picks up grass and weeds with his outstretched
hands, and throws it in the air, may be considered as employment; but to
call it labour is absurd. Pauper labour is proverbially unproductive,
_i.e._ it costs nearly its value in superintendence. But, if it is
resorted to, it must be watched with care, or its introduction will be
injurious. Now, during the last few years, a class of men have arisen
from the labouring class, who might be found qualified to superintend
this labour. Railway enterprise has developed a certain order of skill
which might be rendered available. It is well known that the several
miles of railway are divided into a number of contracts, which are again
divided, and taken by sub-contractors, and the sub-division proceeds
until yards of work are taken by the men who engage or govern the lower
class of labourers. A similar class of men is to be found on the banks
of rivers, who are known as gangers. Then there are discharged sergeants
and corporals, and even privates, who can produce their discharge with a
favourable report upon character endorsed upon it. We know the severity
of the army, in this particular. A discharge, with that portion of it
cut off on which the endorsement favourable to the soldier's character
should have been, ought not to lead necessarily to the inference that
his character has been bad in a civil point of view. But, if the
endorsement exists, we may rest assured that he has been staid in his
deportment, clean in his person, careful in the performance of his duty,
and regular as regards time. The classes of sergeants and corporals have
the additional advantage of being accustomed to order, as well as to
obey. Discharged soldiers generally require an active employment, or
they sink morally and socially. Men from this class might be selected
with advantage.

But some may exclaim, what an expense! Possibly! It remains, however, to
be seen whether the weight is not felt because the pressure is unequal.
A guardian of an ancient parish and borough, in an agricultural
district, observed the other day, "This new removal act is a serious
matter to us,--as the cottars in the out-parishes die off, the cottages
are pulled down, and this impoverished borough will have to support the
children, because they reside here." Of course, while the inducement to
such proceedings exists, and the poor are compelled to support the poor,
every attempt at permanent improvement will meet with either active
opposition or passive resistance. Then, again, it is said, that as the
manufacturing system has created a weak and dangerous population, and
one likely to be suddenly impoverished by the vicissitudes of the
system, they should be compelled to relieve it when those adverse
periods arrive. Does the rating of the manufacturer bear any proportion
to his capital, the extent of his business, or his profits? His
poor-rate receipt records an inappreciable item of expenditure. The
pressure of the rate is not upon him, but upon the householders of the
suburbs where the poor reside. It is not just that the manufacturer who
owns a mill, or he who merely owns a warehouse, and employs out-door
work-people--that the dealer in money, the discounter, the various large
agencies, the merchant who transacts his business in a single office and
sends his ship all over the world, and the great carriers, because their
business happens not to be rateable according to the law, should bear no
greater burden than the shop-keepers in a great London thoroughfare. It
is likely that there would be a _temporary_ increase of expenditure; but
then justice would be done to the aged, the infirm, and the sick. In
this respect the expenditure would increase; but as regards the
able-bodied there would be a reduction, and in this way: If a man is
thrown out of work, and his habits being known, he is relieved; he is
thereby sustained, and when work begins to abound he starts fairly. If
he is compelled to sink, the chances are he will never rise. Every
guardian in the kingdom knows, from personal observation, how difficult
it is to dispose of a family which has been forced into the union-house,
and has lost a home. It is confidently expected, if out-door relief,
accompanied by labour, be given only to those able-bodied applicants who
are known, from the facts of their history as officially reported, to be
idle, dissolute, and intemperate;--if the labour required to be done be
public work; if it be apportioned and tasked by judiciously chosen
task-masters, and given to each individual at a low rate of prices,
lower than those of ordinary labour, and paid in food, or even in
lodging when specially applied for and deemed necessary,--then, as
regards the able-bodied applicants, the nearest approach will have been
made to a perfect system. And if the system here sketched, or rather if
the hints which have been dropped from time to time in the progress of
this article, be collected and arranged, it is believed, that inasmuch
as they have reference to the moral principles of our nature, as well as
to the physical condition of the pauper, they will operate beneficially
upon the poor of England. And if it should appear, from the statistics
officially reported by a _minister_ in the regular exercise of his duty
in parliament, that the number of poor receiving relief who belong to
the first three classes have slightly increased, that report should be
considered as highly satisfactory, and not as a disclosure injurious to
national honour. It is not a matter of which Englishmen ought to be
ashamed, or a subject to be bewailed, that the aged, the infirm, and the
sick among the very poor, are not allowed either to perish, or to have
their cherished habits and associations destroyed. Then, as regards the
class of widows, if it should appear that the numbers do not go on
increasing in the ratio of deaths, but continue nearly stationary, the
report would be still satisfactory; because the inference from it would
be, that, as new cases have been added, old ones must have discontinued.
And the report respecting the two great divisions of the
able-bodied--those who are not set to do work, and those who are--would
be pregnant with information. And lastly, that part of the report which
discloses the number of cases which have not been distributed in the
several classes, would be of great value, as indicating the quarter
where the inspectors under the orders of Government might most
advantageously make their inquiries.

The classes and orders of poor that ordinarily become chargeable to
parishes have been commented upon; and a few of the peculiar traits have
been sketched of that motley group, which cannot be classified in any
other way, than as persons who, from their admitted idleness, ought to
be set to labour; or as persons to whom the exaction of labour in return
for relief would be detrimental,--and not only detrimental to their
personal interests, but to those of society. We have also stirred up and
exposed the dregs of society: an operation neither pleasant nor useful
under ordinary circumstances. But our inquiries have been pathological.
And it is the duty of the physician or surgeon to probe the wound, and
examine minutely the abscess, and then to institute inquiries equally
minute and more general into the habits and constitution of the patient.
Then the physician may have occasion to comment, in the lecture-room,
upon this class of diseases; and he would then show how many
circumstances must be considered and estimated before the true mode of
treatment can be known. And as quacks thrive upon ignorance and
credulity, he might gratify the curious student by an exposition upon
the facility with which imaginary cures might be effected. He might show
that by the employment of quack medicines the diseased part might be
made to assume the appearance of health. The abscess can be closed; but
the corruption, of which the open wound was only the outlet, will still
circulate through the system, deteriorate the blood, and at last
seriously derange the vital organs. The reader will apply these remedies
in the proper quarter. And then, as in the consideration of the first
series of classes we had occasion to dwell mainly upon those
characteristics of the poor which attract regard and sympathy, it became
necessary, in order that the general idea might be in accordance with
the general bearing of the facts, to conduct the reader into strange
scenes, and among classes of human beings, which might otherwise have
been disregarded or unknown. The reader now sees distinctly that which
the clamour and clash of rigourists and universal-benevolence-men might
have led him to overlook, viz.--_that pauperism includes in its legions
the most virtuous, the most vicious, the most industrious, and the most
idle_; and refers to decent, honest poverty as well as to squalid
destitution. We may conclude by averring, that the tendency of an
extended system of out-door relief, administered in the manner, and
according to the principles laid down, would be, to raise one class from
the state of pauperism,--to confront distresses which the complexity of
civilised society, and the extension of the manufacturing systems have
occasioned, boldly, firmly, and humanely,--to distinguish between the
honest industrious poor, and the lazy vagabond--to give one a fair
chance of obtaining employment, and to remove inducements from the other
to prowl about and live upon the public. And if this can be in any
degree attained, it will so far stand out in bold contrast to the
doctrines of _The Edinburgh Review_, and the practice of the Poor-Law
Commissioners, which have reference only to the health of the animal
fibre, and not to the soul which gives it life.




THE POACHER;

OR, JUTLAND A HUNDRED AND THIRTY YEARS SINCE.

From the Danish.


I.--THE DEER-RIDER.

The Danish isles have such a pleasant, friendly, peaceful aspect, that,
when carried by our imagination back to their origin, the idea of any
violent shock of nature never enters into our thoughts. They seem
neither to have been cast up by an earthquake, nor to have been formed
by a flood, but rather to have gradually appeared from amid the
subsiding ocean. Their plains are level and extensive, their hills few,
small, and gently rounded. No steep precipices, no deep hollows remind
one of the throes at Nature's birth; the woods do not hang in savage
grandeur on cloud-capt ridges, but stretch themselves, like living
fences, around the fruitful fields. The brooks do not rush down in
foaming cataracts, through deep and dark clefts, but glide, still and
clear, among sedge and underwood. When, from the delightful Fyen, we
pass over to Jutland, we seem, at first, only to have crossed a river,
and can hardly be convinced that we are on the continent, so closely
resembling and near akin with the islands is the aspect of the
peninsula. But the further we penetrate, the greater is the change in
the appearance of the country. The valleys are deeper, the hills
steeper; the woods appear older and more decayed; many a rush-grown
marsh, many a spot of earth covered with stunted heath, huge stones on
the ridgy lands--every thing, in short, bears testimony to inferior
culture, and scantier population. Narrow roads with deep wheel-ruts, and
a high rising in the middle, indicate less traffic and intercourse among
the inhabitants, whose dwellings towards the west appear more and more
miserable, lower and lower, as if they crouched before the west wind's
violent assault. In proportion as the heaths appear more frequent and
more extensive, the churches and villages are fewer and farther from
each other. In the farm-yards, instead of wood, are to be seen stacks of
turf; and instead of neat gardens, we find only kale-yards. Vast
heath-covered marshes, neglected and turned to no account, tell us in
intelligible language that there is a superabundance of them.

No boundaries, no rows of willows, mark the division of one man's land
from another's. It appears as if all were still held in common. If, at
length, we approach the hilly range of Jutland, vast flat heaths lie
spread before us, at first literally strewn with barrows of the dead;
but the number of which gradually decreases, so that it may reasonably
be supposed that this tract had never, in former times, been cultivated.
This high ridge of land, it is thought, and not improbably, was the part
of the peninsula that first made its appearance, rising from the ocean
and casting it on either side, where the waves, rolling down, washed up
the hills and hollowed out the valleys. On the east side of this heath,
appear, here, and there, some patches of stunted oaks, which may serve a
compass to travellers, the tops of the trees being all bent towards the
east. On the large heath-covered hills but little verdure is to be
seen,--a solitary grass-plot, or a young asp, of which one asks, with
surprise, how it came here? If a brook or river runs through the heath,
no meadow, no bush indicates its presence: deep down between
hollowed-out hills, it winds its lonely course, and with a speed as if
it were hurrying out of the desert.

Across such a stream rode, one beautiful autumn-day, a young
well-dressed man, towards a small field of rye, which the distant owner
had manured by scraping off the surface, and burning it to ashes. He and
his people were just in the act of reaping it, when the horseman
approached them, and inquired the road to the manor-house of Ansbjerg.
The farmer, having first requited his question with another,--to wit,
where did the traveller come from?--told him what he knew already, that
he had missed his way; and then calling a boy who was binding the
sheaves, ordered him to set the stranger in the right road. Before,
however, the boy could begin to put this order in execution, a sight
presented itself which, for a moment, drew all the attention both of the
traveller and the harvest people. From the nearest heath-covered hill
there came directly towards them, at full speed, a deer with a man on
his back. The latter, a tall stout figure, clad in brown from head to
foot, sat jammed in between the antlers of the crown-deer, which had
cast them back, as these animals are wont to do when running. This
extraordinary rider had apparently lost his hat in his progress, as his
long dark hair flowed back from his head, like the mane of a horse in
full gallop. His hand was in incessant motion, from his attempt to
plunge a knife it held into the neck of the deer, but which the violent
springs of the animal prevented him from hitting. When the deer-rider
approached near enough to the astonished spectators, which was almost
instantaneously, the farmer, at once recognising him, cried, "Hallo,
Mads! where are you going to?"

"That you must ask the deer or the devil!" answered Mads; but before the
answer could be completely uttered, he was already so far away, that the
last words scarcely reached the ears of the inquirer. In a few seconds
both man and deer vanished from the sight of the gazers.

"Who was that?" inquired the stranger, without turning his eyes from the
direction in which the centaur had disappeared.

"It is a wild fellow called Mads Hansen, or Black Mads: he has a little
hut on the other side of the brook. Times are hard with him: he has many
children, I believe, and so he manages as he can. He comes sometimes on
this side and takes a deer; but to-day it would seem that the deer had
taken him: that is," added he, thoughtfully, "if it really be a deer.
God deliver us from all that is evil! but Mads is certainly a dare-devil
fellow, though I know nothing but what is honourable and good of him. He
shoots a head of deer now and then; but what matters that? there's
enough of them; far too many, indeed. There, you may see yourself how
they have cropped the ears of my rye. But here have we Niels the
game-keeper. Yes; you are tracking Black Mads. To-day he is better
mounted than you are."

While he was saying this, a hunter appeared in sight, coming towards
them at a quick trot from the side where they had first seen the
deer-rider. "Have you seen Black Mads?" cried he, before he came near
them.

"We saw one, sure enough, riding on a deer, but can't say whether he was
black or white, or who it was; for he was away in such haste that we
could hardly follow him with our eyes," said the farmer.

"The fiend fetch him!" cried the huntsman, stopping his horse to let him
take breath; "I saw him yonder in the Haverdal, where he was skulking
about, watching after a deer. I placed myself behind a small rising,
that I might not interrupt him. He fired, and a deer fell. Mads ran up,
leaped across him to give him the death-blow, when the animal, on
feeling the knife, rose suddenly up, squeezed Mads between his
antlers--and hallo! I have got his gun, but would rather get himself."
With these words he put his horse into a trot, and hastened after the
deer-stealer, with one gun before him on his saddle-bow, and another
slung at his back.

The traveller, who was going in nearly the same direction, now set off
with his guide, as fast as the latter could go at a jog-trot, after
having thrown off his wooden shoes. They had proceeded little more than
a mile, and had reached the summit of a hill, which sloped down towards
a small river, when they got sight of the two riders. The first had
arrived at the end of his fugitive course: the deer had fallen dead in
the rivulet, at a spot where there was much shallow water. Its slayer,
who had been standing across it, and struggling to free himself from its
antlers, which had worked themselves into his clothes, had just
finished his labour and sprung on land, when the huntsman, who at first
had taken a wrong direction, came riding past our traveller with the
rein in one hand and the gun in the other. At a few yards' distance from
the unlucky deer-rider he stopped his horse, and with the comforting
words, "Now, dog! thou shalt die," deliberately took aim at him. "Hold!
hold!" cried the delinquent, "don't be too hasty, Niels! you are not
hunting now; we can talk matters to rights."

"No more prating," answered the exasperated keeper, "thou shalt perish
in thy misdeeds!"

"Niels, Niels!" cried Mads, "here are witnesses; you have now got me
safe enough, I cannot go from you; why not take me to the manor-house,
and let the owner do as he likes with me, and you will get good
drink-money into the bargain."

At this moment the traveller rode up, and cried out to the keeper, "For
heaven's sake, friend, do not commit a crime, but hear what the man has
to say."

"The man is a great offender," said the keeper, uncocking his gun, and
laying it across the pommel of his saddle, "but as the strange gentleman
intercedes for him, I will give him his life. But thou art mad, Mads!
for now thou wilt come to drive a barrow before thee[7] for the rest of
thy life. If thou hadst let me shoot thee, all would now have been
over." Thereupon he put his horse into a trot, and the traveller, who
was also going to Ansbjerg, kept them company.

They proceeded a considerable way without uttering a word, except that
the keeper, from time to time, broke silence with an abusive term, or an
oath. At length the deer-stealer began a new conversation, to which
Niels made no answer, but whistled a tune, at the same time taking from
his pocket a tobacco-pouch and pipe. Having filled his pipe, he
endeavoured to strike a light, but the tinder would not catch.

"Let me help you," said Mads, and without getting or waiting for an
answer, struck fire in his own tinder, blew on it, and handed it to the
keeper; but while the latter was in the act of taking it, he grasped the
stock of the gun which lay across the pommel, dragged it with a powerful
tug out of the strap, and sprang three steps backwards into the heather.
All this was done with a rapidity beyond what could have been expected
from the broad-shouldered, stout and somewhat elderly deer-stealer.

The poor gamekeeper, pale and trembling, roared with rage at his
adversary, without the power of uttering a syllable.

"Light thy pipe," said Mads, "the tinder will else be all burned out;
perhaps it is no good exchange thou hast made; this is certainly
better,--"here he patted the gun,--"but thou shalt have it again when
thou givest me my own back."

Niels instantly took the other from behind him, held it out to the
deer-stealer with one hand, at the same time stretching forth the other
to receive his own piece.

"Wait a moment," said Mads, "thou shalt first promise me--but it is no
matter, it is not very likely you'd keep it--though should you now and
then hear a pop in the heather, don't be so hasty, but think of to-day
and of Mike Foxtail." Turning then towards the traveller, "Does your
horse stand fire?" said he, "Fire away," exclaimed the latter. Mads held
out the keeper's gun with one hand, like a pistol, and fired it off;
thereupon he took the flint from the cock, and returned the piece to his
adversary, saying, "There, take your pop-gun; at any rate it shall do no
more harm just yet. Farewell, and thanks for to-day." With these words
he slung his own piece over his shoulder, and went towards the spot
where he had left the deer.

The keeper, whose tongue had hitherto been bound by a power like magic,
now gave vent to his long-repressed indignation, in a volley of oaths
and curses.

The traveller, whose sympathy had transferred itself from the escaped
deer-stealer to the almost despairing game-keeper, endeavoured to
comfort him as far as lay in his power. "You have in reality lost
nothing," said he, "except the miserable satisfaction of rendering a man
and all his family unhappy."

"Lost nothing!" exclaimed the huntsman, "you don't understand the
matter. Lost nothing! The rascal has spoiled my good gun."

"Load it, and put in another flint," said the traveller.

"Pshaw!" answered Niels, "it will never more shoot hart or hare. It is
bewitched, that I will swear; and if one remedy does not succeed--aha!
there lies one licking the sunshine in the wheel-rut; he shall eat no
young larks to-day." Saying this, he stopped his horse, hastily put a
flint in his gun, loaded it, and dismounted. The stranger, who was
uninitiated in the craft of venery, and equally ignorant of its
terminology and magic, also stopped to see what his companion was about
to perform; while the latter, leading his horse, walked a few steps
forward, and with the barrel of his piece poked about something that lay
in his way, which the stranger now perceived to be an adder.

"Will you get in?" said the keeper, all the while thrusting with his gun
at the serpent. At length, having got its head into the barrel, he held
his piece up, and shook it until the adder was completely in. He then
fired it off with its extraordinary loading, of which not an atom was
more to be seen, and said, "If that won't do, there is no one but Mads
or Mike Foxtail who can set it to rights."

The traveller smiled a little incredulously, as well at the witchcraft
as at the singular way of dissolving it; but having already become
acquainted with one of the sorcerers just named, he felt desirous to
know a little about the other, who bore so uncommon and significant a
name. In answer to his inquiry, the keeper, at the same time reloading
his piece, related what follows:--"Mikkel, or Mike Foxtail, as they call
him, because he entices all the foxes to him that are in the country, is
a ten times worse character than even Black Mads. He can make himself
hard.[8] Neither lead nor silver buttons make the slightest impression
on him. I and master found him one day down in the dell yonder, with a
deer he had just shot, and was in the act of flaying. We rode on till
within twenty paces of him before he perceived us. Was Mike afraid,
think you? He just turned round, and looked at us, and went on flaying
the deer. 'Pepper his hide, Niels,' said master, 'I will be answerable.'
I aimed a charge of deer-shot point-blank at his broad back, but he no
more minded it than if I had shot at him with an alder pop-gun. The
fellow only turned his face towards us for a moment, and again went on
flaying. Master himself then shot; that had some effect; it just grazed
the skin of his head: and then only, having first wrapped something
round it, he took up his little rifle that lay on the ground, turned
towards us, and said, 'Now, my turn is come, and if you do not see about
taking yourselves away, I shall try to make a hole in one of you.' Such
for a chap is Mike Foxtail."


II.--ANSBJERG.

The two horsemen having reached Ansbjerg, entered the yard containing
the outhouses, turned--the keeper leading the way--towards the stable,
unsaddled their horses, and went thence through an alley of limes, which
led to the court of the mansion. This consisted of three parts. The
chief building on the left, two stories high, with a garret, gloried in
the name of "tower"--apparently because it seems that no true
manor-house ought to be without such an appurtenance, and people are,
as we all know, very often contented with a name. The central building,
which was tiled, and consisted only of one story, was appropriated to
the numerous domestics, from the steward down to the lowest stable-boy.
The right was the bailiff's dwelling. In a corner between the two stood
the wooden horse, in those days as indispensable in a manor-house as the
emblazoned shields over the principal entrance.

At the same instant that the gamekeeper opened the wicket leading into
the court-yard of the mansion, a window was opened in the lowest story
of the building occupied by the family, and a half-length figure
appeared to view, which I consider it my duty to describe. The noble
proprietor--for it was he whose portly person nearly filled the entire
width of the large window--was clad in a dark green velvet vest, with a
row of buttons reaching close up to the chin, large cuffs, and large
buttons on the pockets; a coal-black peruke, with a single curl quite
round it, completely concealed his hair. The portion of his dress that
was to be seen consisted, therefore, of two simple pieces, but as his
whole person will hereafter appear in sight, I will, to avoid
repetition, proceed at once to describe the remainder. On the top of the
peruke was a close-fitting green velvet cap with a deep projecting
shade, nearly resembling those black caps which have been worn by
priests even within the memory of man.[9] His lower man was protected by
a pair of long wide boots with spurs; and a pair of black unutterables,
of the kind still worn by a few old peasants, even in our own days,
completed the visible part of his attire.

"Niels keeper!" cried the master. The party thus addressed, having shown
his companion the door by which he was to enter, stepped, holding his
little gray three-cornered hat in his hand, under the window, where the
honourable and well-born proprietor gave audience to his domestics and
the peasants on the estate, both in wet and dry weather. The keeper on
these occasions had to conform to the same etiquette as all the others,
though a less formal intercourse took place between master and man at
the chase.

"Who was that?" began the former, giving a side-nod towards the corner
where the stranger had entered.

"The new writing-lad, gracious sir," was the answer.

"Is that all! I thought it had been somebody. What have you got there?"
This last inquiry was accompanied by a nod at the gamekeeper's pouch.

"An old cock and a pair of chickens, gracious sir!" (This "gracious
sir," we shall in future generally omit, begging the reader to suppose
it repeated at the end of every answer.)

"That's little for two days' hunting. Is there no deer to come?"

"Not this time," answered Niels sighing. "When poachers use deer to ride
on, not one strays our way."

This speech naturally called for an explanation; but as the reader is
already in possession of it, we will, while it is being given, turn our
attention to what was passing behind this gracious personage's broad
back.

Here stood, to wit, the young betrothed pair, Junker Kai and Fröken
Mette.[10] The first, a handsome young man of about twenty-five,
elegantly dressed and in the newest fashion of the time. To show with
what weapons ladies' hearts were in those days attacked and won, I must
attempt to impart some idea of his exterior, beginning with the feet,
that I may go on rising in my description: these, then, were protected
by very broad-toed short boots, the wide legs of which fell down in many
folds about his ankles; under these he wore white silk stockings, which
were drawn up about a hand's-breadth above the knees, and the tops of
which were garnished with a row of the finest lace; next came a pair of
tight black velvet breeches, a small part only of which appeared in
sight, the greater portion being concealed by the spacious flap of a
waistcoat also of black velvet. A crimson coat with a row of large
covered buttons, short sleeves, scarcely reaching to the wrists, but
with cuffs turned back to the elbows, and confined by a hook over the
breast, completed his outward decorations. His hair was combed back
perfectly smooth, and tied in a long stiff queue close up in his neck. I
should merit, and get but few thanks from my fair readers, if I did not
with the same accuracy describe the dress of the honourable young lady,
which may be considered under three principal divisions: firstly, the
sharp-pointed, high-heeled, silver-buckled shoes; secondly, the little
red, gold-laced cap, which came down with a sharp peak over the
forehead, and concealed all the turned up hair; and thirdly, the
long-waisted, sky-blue flowered damask gown, the wide sleeves of which,
hardly reaching to the elbows, left the shoulders and neck bare,
and--what may seem singular--was not laced; but Fröken Mette's face was
so strikingly beautiful, that, in looking at her, her dress might easily
be forgotten.

These two comely personages stood there, as we have said, behind the old
gentleman, hand in hand, and, as it seemed, engaged in a flirtation. The
Junker from time to time protruded his pointed lips as if for a kiss,
and the lady as often turned her face away, not exactly with
displeasure, but with a roguish smile. The most singular thing was, that
every time she bent her head aside, she peeped out into the court, where
at the moment nothing was to be seen (for the gamekeeper stood too close
under the window to be visible) but the wooden horse and the new
writing-lad, who, the instant he entered the office, had placed himself
at the open window. That this latter, notwithstanding the predicate
"writing-lad," was a remarkably handsome youth, it may seem strange to
say, for, in the first place, he had a large scar above his cheek, and,
in the second, he was clad wholly and solely as a writing-lad. It is
needless to stay my narrative in portraying the mother of Fröken Mette,
the good Fru[11] Kirsten, who was sitting in another window, and, with a
smile of satisfaction, observing the amorous play of the two young
people. The good old lady could with the greater reason rejoice at this
match, as, from the beginning, it was entirely her own work. She had, as
her gracious spouse in his hunting dialect jocosely expressed it, among
a whole herd of Junkers scented out the fattest, and stuck a ticket on
his foot. As the young gentleman was an only son, the heir to Palstrup,
as well as many other lordships, the match was soon settled between the
parents, and then announced to their children. The bridegroom, who was
just returned from Paris when Fru Kirsten, in her husband's phraseology,
took him by the horn, was perfectly well inclined to the match, for
which no thanks were due to him, as Fröken Mette was young, beautiful,
an only child, and heiress to Ansbjerg, the deer, wild-boars, and
pheasants of which were as good as those of Palstrup, while with respect
to heath-fowl and ducks it was vastly superior. As to the bride, she was
so completely under subjection to the will of her parents, that for the
present we may leave it doubtful how far her own inclination was
favourable to the Junker. We know, indeed, that the female heart usually
prefers choosing for itself, and often rejects a suitor for no other
reason than because he was chosen by the parents; though if Junker Kai
had been first in the field we should not have been under any
apprehension on his account.

When the keeper had recounted all his misfortunes, which he did not
venture to conceal, as both the writing-lad and his guide, and probably
also the deer-stealer himself, would have made it known, the harsh
master, whose anger often bordered on frenzy, broke forth into the most
hearty maledictions on the poacher, from which shower of unpropitious
wishes a few drops fell on poor Niels, who, out of fear of his master,
was obliged to swallow his own equally well-meant oaths. As soon as the
first fury of the storm had subsided and given place to common sense, a
plan was devised for immediate and ample vengeance; the daring culprit
should be seized, and, as he could now be easily convicted of
deer-stealing, should be transferred to the hands of justice, and
thence, after all due formalities, to Bremerholm. The difficulty was to
catch him, for if he got but the slightest hint of his danger, he would,
it was reasonable to imagine, instantly take to flight, and leave his
wife and children in the lurch. The lord of the manor, who had been
severely wounded in so tender a part, was for setting forth without a
moment's delay, as so much of the day was left, that before the
appearance of night they might reach the hut of Black Mads. But the
gracious lady, in whose revenge a surer plan and maturer consideration
were always manifest, represented to her impetuous mate, that the
darkness would also favour the culprit's flight; or, if this were
prevented, a desperate defence; it would therefore be better to march
out a little after midnight, so that the whole armed force might invest
and take the hut at break of day. This proposition was unanimously
approved, and the Junker was invited to share in the peril and glory of
the undertaking. The bailiff (who had just entered to announce the
arrival of the new writing-lad, and to show a letter of recommendation
brought by him from the bailiff at Vestervig) received orders to hold
himself in readiness, together with the gardener, the steward, and the
stable-boys, and also to order a peasant-cart to follow the march.


III.--THE NISSE.[12]

Who does not know--at least by name--the Nisse, the being whose
waggeries almost all bear the stamp of good-humoured frolic? Who has not
heard tell of his little rotund figure and his red Jacobin cap, the
symbol of unrestricted liberty? Who knows not that the house he chooses
as a dwelling, is perfectly safe from fire and other calamities? The
Nisse is a true blessing to the habitation that he honours with his
presence; it is secure against fire, storms, and thieves,--who, then,
would take so greatly amiss the little fellow's gambols? If he now and
then takes out one of the horses and rides him till he is white with
sweat, it is merely for the sake of improving his action; if he milks a
cow before the milk-maid is up, it is solely to get her into the habit
of early rising; if he occasionally sucks an egg, cries "miou" with puss
in the cock-loft, or oversets a utensil, who can be angry with him, or
grudge, him his little dish of Christmas porridge, which no considerate
housewife omits setting for him in a corner of the loft? It is only when
this is neglected that his character assumes a slight dash of
vindictiveness: for then the mistress of the house may be tolerably sure
of having her porridge burnt, or her soup grouty; her beer will turn, or
her milk will not cream, and she must not be surprised if she churn a
whole day without getting butter.

Such a little domestic goblin had from time out of mind (and still has,
for aught I know to the contrary,) his abode at Ansbjerg; though it
seems probable that this was not his only habitation, as many years
sometimes passed without a trace appearing of his existence. But just at
the period in which the events recorded in our history took place, he
began to resume his old pranks. The gardener from time to time missed
some of his choicest flowers, or several of the largest and ripest
peaches; but, what was most wonderful, these were often found in the
morning in Fröken Mette's chamber, whence it was reasonably concluded
that the lady stood high in the good graces of the beforementioned
Nisse. The grooms, moreover, declared that often during the night there
seemed witchery among the horses, and that in the morning one of them
would be found so jaded, that it would appear to have just come off a
very long and rapid journey. They protested--and who could doubt
it--that they had often been heard springing about the stable, but that
on entering every thing was perfectly quiet. Once indeed they even got a
glimpse of the portentous red cap, and afterwards took great care to
meddle no farther in the concerns of the Nisse,--a very prudent resolve.
Such unquestionable testimony failed not to make a deep impression on
all the inmates of the mansion, particularly the womankind; even the
gracious lord of the manor himself listened to these reports with a
silence big with signification.

Such was the state of things when the expedition against Black Mads was
undertaken, which formed an epoch in the history of Ansbjerg, and was
used for many years after as an era in the dating of events, as, "that
happened in the year we went in search of Black Mads; that was two or
three years after," &c. &c. In anxious expectation those left behind
waited the whole day for the return of the army of execution. Noon came,
evening, midnight; but still not one of the party appeared. They at home
comforted themselves with the supposition, that the delinquent, after
his capture, might have been conducted to Viborg, in which case the
whole day might easily have been spent, and after so wearying a march,
it was but right that the troops should get an evening's refreshment,
and a night's rest, in the town. On the strength of this extremely
reasonable hypothesis, both mistress and domestics went to bed, one
servant only remaining up. At length, about an hour after midnight, came
Junker Kai and his groom. But before I proceed further, it will be
desirable to explain the cause of his late arrival, and of the continued
absence of the rest of the party.

The poacher's hut, which he had himself erected in a remarkably simple
style, with walls of green turf, and a covering of heather, which rested
unconfined on crooked oak branches set together like the timbers of a
roof, had, considered as a fortress, an advantageous position. In the
centre of a moor, about eight miles in circuit, arose a little eminence,
which not even the most rapid thaw ever placed under water, and which,
to a horseman at least, was inaccessible, except along a narrow strip of
land, which wound among turf-pits and gushing springs. On this spot
Black Mads had raised his Arcadian abode, where, with a wife and five
children, he lived by hunting. The larger game was eaten fresh, salted,
or smoked; the smaller he sold under the rose, together with the deer
and fox-skins, and with the money thus gained bought bread and other
eatables. Milk the wife and children begged from the neighbouring
peasants.

Just as the day was beginning to peep forth, the Lord of Ansbjerg
approached the moor at the head of his troop. Niels gamekeeper, who was
well acquainted with the country, now rode forwards, and led the entire
united force in safety to the spot where the hut ought to have stood.
With consternation he looked in every direction: no hut was to be seen;
and yet it was already so light, that, if there, no one could avoid
seeing it. The first thing he had recourse to--his usual refuge in all
times of affliction and perplexity--was a long and energetic
malediction. His gracious lord, who at this moment approached for the
purpose of learning the cause of so cordial an outpouring, gave his
keeper an equally cordial morning salutation, and maintained that he had
mistaken the road and led them all astray. But Niels, who was confident
on the point, assured him, and even called a dozen black angels to
witness, that the hut stood there, but that Mads had most probably
rendered it invisible, no doubt with the assistance of his good friend
with the horse's foot;[13] for it was beyond all doubt that he
understood what the common people call "at hverre syn." His master was
just on the point of coinciding in this opinion as the most rational,
when the Junker, who had ridden further forwards, cried, "Here is fire!"
All now hurried to the spot; and it was soon discovered that the entire
hut lay in ashes, the glowing embers of which here and there still
glimmered. This discovery led Niels to the conclusion, that the
aforesaid long-tailed personage had carried the poacher off, together
with his whole brood; while the Junker, on the other hand, was of
opinion, that Black Mads himself had set fire to the hut, and then fled.
During these debates it had become broad day-light, when a closer
examination of the spot was undertaken, though nothing was found but
ashes, embers, charcoal, and burnt bones, which the huntsmen pronounced
to be those of deer. In accordance with the Junker's hypothesis, it was
resolved to search the neighbouring heath, as the fugitive, with his
family and baggage, could not possibly have reached any considerable
distance. They, therefore, divided themselves into four bodies. The
Junker, with his own and another servant, took an eastern direction,
probably that he might be the nearer to Ansbjerg and his beloved; but
all his endeavours proved fruitless. It was to no purpose that he
hurried to and fro, and exhausted himself, his attendants, and his
horses. Sometimes he fancied that he saw something moving in the
distance, but which, on a nearer view, appeared to be sheep grazing, or
a stack of turf. Once, indeed, he was certain that he perceived people
about the spot on which the German church now stands; but, by degrees,
the nearer they approached, the forms became more and more indistinct,
until they at length wholly disappeared. Amid the preparations for this
unlucky expedition, a supply of provisions--that necessary basis of
heroism--had, as it sometimes happens in greater wars, been entirely
forgotten. A third part of the Junker's division was, therefore,
despatched to supply the omission; but as the man, on the approach of
evening, had not returned, the half-famished Junker resolved on turning
his face homewards. This resolve, however, was more easily adopted than
executed. The horses were as exhausted and faint as their riders.
Matters, therefore, proceeded but slowly; and they were unable to wend
their way out of the heath before darkness came on. The consequence was,
that they lost their road, and did not reach Ansbjerg till after
midnight.

To avoid retrograding in my narrative, I will just briefly mention, that
the other three divisions met with a share of luck equally slender: not
one of them found what they sought. In vain did they traverse every
turf-moor; in vain descend into every dell, or mount every rising; in
vain did they seek through all the neighbouring villages and farms--no
one had seen or heard of Black Mads. Day was drawing to a close, and a
night's lodging was to be provided. The Lord of Ansbjerg himself landed
on Rydhauge, whence, after two days' successful sport in shooting
heath-fowl, he returned to his home.

The fatigued Junker had scarcely satisfied the cravings of hunger before
he began seriously to think of doing like justice to those of
drowsiness, and therefore ordered his servant to light him to his
sleeping-room. It happened, however, as the latter was in the act of
opening the door, that he snapt the key in two, so that a part remained
fixed in the lock. To wrench it off required a crow and hammer; and then
the noise caused by this operation would wake the whole house. For to
what end had he hitherto been so quiet, but that he might not disturb
the ladies' repose? and had even been contented with a morsel of cold
meat, which his servant had succeeded in procuring for him. In such
dilemmas, the first suggestion generally proves the best; and on this
occasion the servant was provided with one.

"The tower-chamber," said he, in a half-suppressed voice, and casting a
look of doubt on his master. At the name of this well-known, though
ill-famed apartment, a slight shudder passed over the Junker, but he
strove to conceal his fear both from the servant and himself, with a
forced smile, and with the question, tittered in a tone of indifference,
whether the bed there was in order for sleeping?

The answer was in the affirmative, as the gracious lady always had the
bed in this chamber held in readiness, although it had never been used
within the memory of man. As she kept the keys of all the other spare
bed-chambers--a precaution quite needless with the one we speak of,
which contained only a bed, two chairs and a table, and was, moreover,
by its ghostly visiters, considered as sufficiently secured against
depredations--no excuse nor objection could be made. The Junker,
therefore, suffered himself to be conducted to the formidable apartment;
and the servant having assisted him to undress, left a light on the
table, took his departure, and closed the door after him.

It was a darkish autumnal night. The waning moon was approaching her
last quarter, her curved half disc stood deep in the heavens, and shone
in at the chamber's one high and narrow bow-window; the wind was up;
small clouds drifted in rapid, almost measured time over the moon. Their
shadows glided, as it were, like figures in the magic lantern, along the
white wall, and vanished in the fire-place. The leaden window flames
clattered with each gust, which piped and whistled through the small
loose panes; it thundered in the chimney; the chamber door rattled.
Junker Kai was no coward, his heart was set pretty near the right place;
he dared to meet his man, ride his horse, had it even been a Bucephalus;
in short, he feared no living, or, more correctly speaking, no bodily
creature; but spirits he held in most awful respect. The time and
circumstances, but more particularly the bad reputation of the chamber,
set his blood in quicker motion; and all the old ghost-stories presented
themselves unbidden before his excited imagination. Phantasus and
Morpheus contended for possession of him: the first had the advantage.
He did not venture to shut his eyes, but stared unceasingly on the
opposite wall, where the shapeless shadows seemed gradually to assume
form and meaning. Under such circumstances, it is a comfort to have
one's back free, and all one's foes in front. He therefore sat up,
dashed aside the curtain at the bed's head, and cast a glance backwards.
The bed stood in a corner; at the foot was the window; opposite the side
of the bed was the plain wall, the fire-place, and beyond that the door.
His eyes glided along to the wall behind him, where hung an ancient
portrait of a doughty knight in plate armour, with a face in form and
dimensions resembling a large pumpkin, and shadowed with dark thick
locks. On this his anxious looks were fixed. It appeared and vanished
alternately, as the clouds passed from or covered the face of the moon.
In the first case, the countenance seemed to expand itself into a smile,
in the latter, to shrink into a gloomy seriousness. It might possibly,
thought he, be the spirit of a former possessor of the manor, which now,
after the extinction of his race, had taken possession of this remote
apartment. Like the shadows on the wall, courage and fear chased each
other in the Junker's soul; at length courage having gained the mastery,
he lay down and delivered himself into the power of Morpheus.

He had hardly slumbered more than half-an-hour, when he was waked by a
noise like that caused by the opening of a rusty lock. He involuntarily
opened his eyes, which fell on the opposite door, where a white figure
appeared and vanished almost at the same instant. The door was then shut
with a soft creaking. A shivering sensation passed over him. He,
nevertheless, continued master of his terror, his cooler reason had not
quite succumbed under the powers of imagination. It was probably the
servant, thought he, who, although undressed, wished to see if the light
were extinguished. Somewhat tranquilised by this supposition, he
withdrew his looks from the door, but now perceived before the window
the dark upper half of a human figure. The outline of the head and
shoulders was perfectly distinguishable. The Junker's courage now
forsook him; but what was to be done? flight was not to be thought of,
for if he would escape by the door, by which the white figure had
disappeared, he might again encounter it; the window was out of the
question, and other outlets he had not noticed. His natural courage rose
again to a pitch that enabled him to cry out, "Who is there?" At this
exclamation, the figure seemed to turn quickly round, but made no
answer; and after some moments sank down slowly under the window, and
nothing more was afterwards to be seen or heard. No be-nighted wanderer
could long more heartily for day-light than our poor Junker: he did not
venture to close his eyes again, fearing, when he opened them, he should
see something appalling. He looked alternately towards the door, the
fire-place, and the window, in painful expectation; he listened with the
most intense anxiety, but heard nothing save the howling of the wind,
the rattling of the windows, and his own breathing. Day at length broke
forth, and as soon as it was sufficiently light to distinguish the
several objects in the chamber, he arose and examined every thing with
the utmost attention. In vain, he found not a trace of his nightly
visiters. Having thus paid dearly for his experience, he hastened to
leave this unquiet lodging, with the sincere resolve of never more
passing a night in the haunted chamber.

As soon as the family met at breakfast, and the Junker had given an
account of their fruitless expedition, the lady of the house put to him
the very natural question, How he had slept after so much fatigue?

"Quite well," was the answer.

The Fröken smiled. "I think you slept in the tower-chamber," said she.

The Junker acknowledged he had; but, being desirous of concealing his
fright from his intended, he deemed it advisable flatly to deny his
nocturnal acquaintances, while the young lady seemed equally bent on
extorting a confession from him. She assured him that she could see by
his eyes he had not slept, and that he looked uncommonly pale; but he
declared the ill-famed chamber to have acquired its character unjustly,
and added, she might very safely sleep there herself if she only had the
courage.

"I think," said she, laughing, "that I shall one night make the trial of
it." The subject was now dropt, and the conversation turned to other
matters.

After the old gentleman's return, a few days passed before any further
mention was made of the tower-chamber; for, in the first place, every
one was fully occupied in devising, setting forth, and passing judgment
on the several ways by which Black Mads might have been captured, as
well as in forming the most plausible conjectures as to his actual
whereabout; and, secondly, much time was consumed in accurately and
circumstantially describing the two days' sport at Rydhauge. This
copious topic being also exhausted,--that is, when the history of each
bird, hit or missed, had been related, satisfactory reasons alleged for
each miss, sagacious comparisons made between dogs and guns, &c.
&c.,--Fröken Mette began to lead the conversation to the subject of the
haunted chamber, by informing her father of the night passed therein by
her intended; at the same time playfully directing his attention to the
seriousness of the latter. In this second examination he had two
inquisitors to answer, of whom the young lady pressed him so
unmercifully by her arch bantering, that he at length found it advisable
to recall his former denial, and confess that he was not particularly
desirous of sleeping there again.

"Is it becoming a cavalier," said Mette, "to be afraid of a shadow? I am
but a woman, and yet I dare undertake the adventure."

"I will stake my Sorrel," answered the Junker, "that you will not try
it."

"I will wager my Dun against it," cried Mette.

It was believed that she was in jest; but as she obstinately insisted on
adhering to the wager, both her lover and father strove to dissuade her
from so hazardous an enterprise. She was inflexible. The Junker now
considered it his duty to make a full confession. The old man shook his
head; Fröken Mette laughed, and maintained he had dreamed, and, in order
to convince him that he had, she felt herself the more bound to fulfil
her engagement. The father, whose paternal pride was flattered by the
courage of his daughter, now gave his consent; and all that Junker Kai
could obtain was, that a bell-rope should be brought close to the bed,
and that her waiting-maid should lie in the same chamber. Mette, on the
other hand, stipulated, that all persons in the house should continue in
their beds, that it might not afterwards be said they had frightened
away the spectre; and that no one should have a light after eleven
o'clock. Her father and the Junker would take up their quarters for the
night in the so-called gilded chamber, which was separated from the
tower-chamber only by a long passage. In this room hung the bell with
which, in case of need, the young lady was to sound an alarm. The
mother, no less heroic than the daughter, readily gave her consent to
the adventure, the execution of which was fixed for the following night.


IV.-THE ELOPEMENT.

Throughout this momentous night, which was to fix the future lot of the
Isabel, or Dun, and the Sorrel, neither family nor domestics enjoyed
much sleep: all lay in anxious expectation of the extraordinary things
that were likely to come to pass. Mewing of cats, screeching of owls,
barking of dogs, drove the dustman[14] away every time he came sneaking
in. The stable-boys heard the horses pant, snort, and kick; to the
bailiff it seemed as if sacks were being dragged about the granary; the
dairy-maid declared it was precisely like the noise of churning; and the
housekeeper heard, plainly enough, a sort of rummaging in the pantry.
Nor did sleep find its way into the gilded chamber. The lord of the
manor and the Junker lay silent, from time to time casting a look at the
little silver bell that hung between them; but it was mute, and so
continued to be. When the tower-clock struck one, the Junker began to
regard his wager as half-lost; but comforted himself with the
reflection, that a loss to one's wife is merely a transfer from one hand
to the other. In short, the night passed, and--as far as the
tower-chamber was concerned--as quietly as if there had never been ghost
or goblin in the world. With the first discernible peep of day-light,
both the half-undressed gentlemen rose, and hastened, with a morning
greeting, to the bold layer of spirits. They tapped at the door,--no
"Come in." "They must both still be asleep." Papa opened the door--they
entered--the lady's bed was deserted and the bed-clothes cast aside.
"Bravo," cried the Junker, "she has taken flight and the Dun is mine."
The old man did not utter a syllable, but proceeded to the servant's
bed, where no one was to be seen; but, on raising the clothes, she
appeared to view, with a face like crimson, and in a state of profuse
perspiration. To her master's first eager inquiry she returned no
answer, but stared at them both with a bewildered half-frantic look.
Having at length recovered the faculty of speech, she informed them, in
broken and unconnected sentences, that, soon after midnight, she had
seen a terrific spectre come through the wall. In her fright she had
buried herself under the bed-clothes, and had not afterwards ventured to
raise them; of what subsequently took place she knew nothing. This,
however, did not long continue a mystery, for the window was open, and
under it stood a ladder--Fröken Mette had been carried off, but by whom?

What an uproar was now in the mansion! what outcry, screaming, and
maledictions without object--questions without answer! "After them!" was
the first order, both of father and lover; but in what direction? The
mother, the most sagacious of them all, proposed a general muster of the
whole household, which the father undertook to carry into effect
personally. Having, therefore, summoned each living being by name, he
declared that no one was missing. The whole assembled corps were of the
same opinion, until Fru Kirsten exclaimed, "Where is the writing lad?"
"The writing lad! the writing lad!" now resounded from every mouth. They
looked around--looked at each other--no! no writing lad was there. The
bailiff, with two or three others, went over to the writing-room, and
the master cried to the stable-boys, "Saddle the horses and bring them
to the gate like thunder and lightning!" The bailiff soon returned, with
a rueful countenance, and almost breathless, with the intelligence, that
the missing sheep must actually have decamped, for the bed showed
plainly that no one had slept in it that night; nor were his spurs or
riding-whip to be found. At the same instant, one of the stable-boys
came running with the news, that the Dun was away. All now stood as
petrified, speechless and looking at each other, until Fru Kirsten broke
the silence. "Our Fröken daughter," said she, "cannot have been carried
off by a writing-boy; he only came sneaking here as a spy. If I greatly
err not, the robber is from the west; see, therefore, if you cannot
trace them on the road to Vium, and now away! It is even yet possible to
overtake them, for the Dun cannot have gone any great distance with
two." Her surmise was correct; on the road she mentioned, traces of a
quick-trotting horse were plainly to be seen; and, as a further proof,
not far from the mansion, a bow was found, and, a little further, a
glove, both belonging to Fröken Mette.

Armed with guns, pistols, and swords, master, Junker, bailiff, and
gamekeeper, with four other well equipped men, hastened away in chase of
the fugitives, while Fru Kirsten exclaimed, "After them! Bring them back
dead or alive!" We will now accompany the lord of Ansbjerg a little way
on his second expedition. As far as Vium, the traces were visible
enough; but here they would have been lost, if a peasant, of whom they
made inquiry, had not informed them, that about two hours before
daybreak he had heard the tramp of a horse leaving the town in a
westward direction. Profiting by this intelligence, they soon recovered
the track, which continued in the same direction by the inn at Hvam.
Here they learned that, about two hours before, the dogs had made a
great disturbance. The speed of the fugitives, therefore, it was now
evident, had began to slacken, as might also be seen by the traces. The
pursuers had reached Sjörup, where a man, standing before the mansion,
had heard a horse pass by, and thought he could discern two persons on
it. Now the track was at an end; here were many roads, all with deep
narrow wheel-ruts; which was the one to follow? The fugitives had
followed none of them, probably from fear that the horse might fall, but
had ridden among the heath. The pursuers now halted to hold a
consultation. Of three high roads, one followed a north-west, one a
south-west direction, the third lay between them. While these, one after
another, were under consideration, the conversation turned on the great
event of the night, and particularly on the suspicious writing-lad. One
of the men remarked, that it occurred to him that he had seen the youth
before, though he could not just then recollect where. Another had seen
a stranger a few days previously speaking with him privately in the
wood, and he thought the stranger addressed him twice by the title of
Cornet. Now a sudden light burst in upon the old gentleman. "Ha!"
exclaimed he, "then let us take the middle road leading to Vestervig. I
dare swear that the writing-lad is no other than the Major's third son,
who is a Cornet in the cuirassiers. I remember that Fru Kirsten once
cautioned me against him, and said that he came prowling after Fröken
Mette. And you," cried he to the bailiff, "yourself saw the handwriting
of the bailiff at Vestervig. Either he has made fools of us all, or the
letter was forged. And all the while he was so still, orderly, and
diligent, so courteous, and so humble, that I could never have imagined
he was of noble race." Then putting his horse into a trot, "He who first
gets sight of the runaways," said he, "shall have three crowns." The
troop had about six miles to ride before they could reach the ford
through the rivulet at Karup; in the meanwhile, therefore, with our
reader's leave, I will hasten forward to our fugitives, who have just
reached the opposite side. The poor Dun, exhausted under her double
burden, and with the first four or five miles' hurried flight, walked
slowly and tottering up the heath-covered bank. The Cornet--for it
really was he--from time to time cast an anxious look backwards, and at
each time gained a kiss from his dear Mette, who sat behind him, holding
him fast round the waist. "Do you yet see nothing?" she asked, in a tone
of anxiety, for she herself did not dare to look round. "Nothing yet,"
answered he; "but I fear--the sun is already a little above the
horizon--they must be on the road in pursuit of us. If the mare could
but hold out." "But where is your brother's carriage?" asked she, after
a pause.

"It ought to have met us by the rivulet at day-break; nor can I imagine
what detains it, for my brother promised to send his young Hungarian
servant with it, whose life I saved five years ago in the war with the
Turks, when I received this sabre cut in the face. That he is not here
is perfectly inexplicable. We have still eight miles before we get out
of the heath."

While he was thus speaking, they had reached the top of the bank, and
the great west heath lay spread out before them like a vast sea; but no
carriage, no living being was to be seen. The Cornet stopped to let the
mare take breath, at the same time making a half turn, the more easily
to survey that part of the heath that lay behind them. This was also
naked and desolate; nothing was there to be seen save a few scattered
turf stacks, nothing to be heard but the cry of the heathcock, the
rushing of the rivulet, the panting of the mare, and their own sighs.
Awhile they thus remained, until the Fröken broke silence with the
question, "Is there not something moving yonder?" She uttered this in a
suppressed voice, as if she feared it would be heard on the other side
of the waste.

"There is no time for staying longer," answered he; "I am fearful it is
your father who is coming yonder." With these words, he turned again
towards the west.

"Oh! my father," exclaimed Mette sighing, and at the same time clasping
her lover still more closely.

He again looked round. "They seem to draw nearer," said he; "if I urge
on the mare, I fear she will fall." They rode onwards a short distance,
he with an oppressed, she with an anxiously throbbing heart.

"I must walk," cried he, and dismounted, "that will so far help; do not
look back, dearest girl."

"Ah heaven! can it be our pursuers?"

"There are seven or eight of them, as far as I can discern."

"How far off may they be?" asked Mette again.

"Scarcely more than two miles," he replied, and notwithstanding his
admonition she again looked back.

"I see no one," said she.

"Nor do I at this moment," he answered, "they are most probably down in
a valley: one is just now making his appearance, and now another. Come,
come, poor Bel," cried he, drawing the mare after him, "you are
accustomed at other times to carry an arched neck, and to lift your
feet high enough; now you drag them along the ground, and stretch out
your neck like a fish when it is being hauled out of the water."

After a pause, the Fröken asked, "Can they see us?"

"They ride point blank after us," answered the Cornet, "and gain more
and more upon us."

"Heavens! if they overtake us, I fear my father will kill you, dearest
Holger! but I will shield you with my weak body, for I cannot outlive
you."

During these painful, interrupted conversations, they had travelled
about two miles from the rivulet, across the western heath. Their
pursuers were already close to the east bank, and might be both
distinguished and counted. The apprehension of the fugitives was rapidly
passing into despair; there seemed not a gleam of hope. The Cornet vied
with the mare in panting, the Fröken wept. At this moment, a tall man
clad in brown, with a gun in one hand, and a low-crowned hat in the
other, started up before them out of the high heather. The fugitives
made a stand. "Who is there? Where are you from?" cried the Cornet, in a
military tone.

"From there," answered the man, "where the houses stand out of doors,
and the geese go barefoot. And where are you from? and where are you
going? But stop, have not we two seen each other before? Are you not the
person who lately begged for me, when Niels keeper would have laid me
sprawling?"

"Black Mads!" exclaimed the Cornet.

"So they call me," answered the poacher; "but how happens it that I meet
you here so early with such a pretty companion? You have also apparently
been out poaching. If I can help you in any way, let me know." "In time
of need," said the Cornet, "the first friend is the best. I am the
Major's son at Vestervig, and have been fetching a bride from Ansbjerg.
Her father and a whole troop of horse are after us. If you can save or
conceal us, I will be grateful while I live; but it must be instantly,
for they are on the other side of the rivulet."

Holding his hat before his eyes on account of the sun, Mads exclaimed,
"Faith! here we have him sure enough, with all his people. Kinsmen are
hardest towards kinsmen, as the fox said, when the red dogs were after
him. If you will promise never to make known the place to which I take
you, I will try to hit upon some plan."

The Fröken promised, and the Cornet swore.

"Hear then, children," continued he, "they are just now riding along the
bank on the opposite side of the rivulet; before they can arrive on this
side, a good time must pass; and they cannot see what we are about. In
the mean while we will set up a hedge for them that they will not so
easily jump over." Saying these words, he laid down his gun, drew forth
his tinder-box and struck fire. He then rubbed two or three handfuls of
dry moss together, placed the tinder-box among it, blew till he caused
it to blaze, then cast it down into the midst of the heather, where,
after crackling and smoking for a few seconds, the fire spread itself in
all directions. While engaged in this occupation, the object of which
was not immediately manifest to the fugitives, Black Mads did not cease
giving vent to his thoughts in the following broken sentences:--"The
wind is with us, the heather's dry; now Niels keeper can soon get a
light for his pipe--it is the second time he has had the benefit of my
tinder-box; the man will, no doubt, curse and swagger about the
heath-fowl, because I roast them without basting; but need knows no law,
and a brave fellow takes care of himself. See now! it's beginning to
smoulder." With these words he rose, and said to the Cornet, "Do now as
you see I do, pull up a head of heather, set fire to it, run ten paces
towards the north, and fire the heath; then pull up another, run, and
again set fire, all towards the north, till you approach that little
heath-hill yonder two or three gunshots distant. I will do the same
towards the south, and then we will run as quickly back. The Fröken can
in the mean time stay here with the horse. It will soon be done: now let
us begin! Light before and dark behind." With this formula the poacher
commenced his operations. The Cornet followed his instructions, and
soon a tract of heath, two miles in breadth, stood in a blaze, and both
incendiaries immediately rejoined the trembling Fröken.

"We have now earned our breakfast!" cried Mads, "be so good as follow
me, and put up with very humble accommodation--but what can we do with
this?" he gave the mare a slap with his open hand, "Can you find your
way home alone?"

"O," said the Fröken, "she follows me wherever I go."

"No, that she certainly must not, for she would betray us: the door of
my house is too narrow for her to enter, and we dare not let her stand
without. You are too good to suffer harm," said he to the mare, while
taking off the saddle and pillion, "but every one is nearest to
himself."

The Cornet, who saw his design, took his mistress by the hand and led
her some stops aside, as if to place her beyond the range of the
conflagration. The poacher took his piece, cocked it, went up to the
side of the mare, held it behind her ear, and fired. The Fröken turned
round with a shriek of horror, just in time to see her poor Dun, sinking
down among the heather. Tears of pity flowed down the pale cheeks of the
sorrowful girl.

"The jade is as dead as a herring," cried Mads, by way of comforting
her; "she did not even hear the report."

He then took off the bridle, laid saddle and pillion on one shoulder,
his gun on the other, and began to move onwards, at the same time
encouraging the lovers to follow as fast as they could, with the
grateful intelligence that his castle lay at no great distance.

"Only don't look behind you," added he, at the same time quickening his
pace, "but think of Lot's wife."

The Fröken, though in a riding habit,[15] was unable to go so fast
through the tall heather. She frequently stumbled and entangled herself
in the branches. The Cornet, therefore, without waiting for permission,
took her in his arms, and, notwithstanding her reluctance, bore her
away.

"Now we are at home," at length cried their conductor, at the same time
flinging saddle and package at the foot of a little heath-grown hill.

"Where," cried the Cornet, also relieving himself of his burden. He
looked around without discovering any thing bearing the remotest
resemblance to a human habitation. A suspicion darted rapidly into his
mind; but for a moment only. Had the man been a murderous robber, he
could long ago have executed his villanous purpose without any risk of
resistance, as long as he himself had literally both hands full.

"Here," answered the poacher; at the same time raising a very broad
piece of turf and laying it aside, he said, "Some days since I lived
above ground, there I might not remain; but it is a poor mouse that has
but one hole." While saying this, he lifted and laid aside four or five
stones, each as large as a strong man could carry, and now an opening
was disclosed to view sufficiently wide for a person to creep into it.

"It looks as if they had been digging out foxes here," said the Cornet.

"So it should look," answered Mads; "but before we go in, we will just
see around us, not on account of the Ansbjerg folks, who cannot yet have
passed by the fire, but there might possibly be others in the
neighbourhood." They looked on every side: to the south, west, and north,
not a living being was to be seen, and all the eastern quarter was
hidden in clouds of smoke so dense that the beams of the morning sun
were unable to penetrate them.

"Have the kindness to stoop," said Mads, while he himself crept in on
all fours, "and just follow me. The door is low, but the place will very
well hold us; I will bring your baggage in instantly."

With some difficulty they followed their conductor, and soon found
themselves in the subterranean dwelling, a spacious apartment, the walls
of which were composed of huge unhewn stones, and the roof of beams
laid close to each other, from which hung a lamp, whose faint light but
imperfectly illumined the objects present. On the one side were two
beds, a larger and a smaller; on the other a bench, a table, two or
three chairs, a chest, and two hanging presses. In the smaller bed lay
three naked children, who, on the entrance of the strangers, dived, like
so many young wild ducks, under the covering. On the side of the large
bed sat Lisbeth, _alias_ Madame Mads, knitting a stocking, which in her
astonishment she let fall with both hands into her lap. At the end of
the table stood a little red-haired man, clad in skin from his chin to
his knees, whom the host introduced to his guest as his good friend
Mikkel Foxtail. "We were once digging here," added he, smiling, and
pointing to Mikkel, "after his half-brother,[16] and so found this nook.
Mike thinks it has been a robber's cave in former times; but it may also
have been some old warrior's burial-place, for there stood there two or
three black pots with bones and ashes in them." At the name of "robber's
cave," a shudder passed over all the Fröken's frame: her lover observing
it, said in French, "Fear not, my dearest, here we are secure; but it
pains me that the first habitation into which I conduct you, should
inspire you with horror and disgust."

"I will show you all my conveniences and luxuries," continued the
poacher, at the same time opening a door in the background. "There is my
kitchen, where we dare have fire only in the night; here is also my
dining-room," added he, pointing to a salting trough and some legs of
venison that were hung to smoke over the fire-place. "Bread and meat I
have also got, and I bought a drop of mead in Viborg with the last
deer-skin." With these words, he set a stone bottle and a wooden dish,
with the aforesaid provisions on the table. "Eat and drink as much as
you desire, and of whatever the house affords; and when you wish to
depart, you shall have a trustworthy guide."

The Cornet pressed the hand of the honest Troglodyte, and said, "At the
present moment I have nothing to offer you but my thanks--"

"I require nothing," said Black Mads, interrupting him; "but promise me
only that you will never betray me or my cave."

With the most solemn assurances, this promise was given; and the lovers
now partook of a breakfast, to which hunger and joy at their safety
imparted a double relish.

At the suggestion of their host, they resolved on waiting till evening,
before they again entered on their interrupted journey. In the meantime,
Mikkel offered to go out and reconnoitre; both to watch the pursuers,
and make inquiry after the carriage from Vestervig. The first time he
went no further than the opening of the cavern, from whence he informed
them, that the party had ridden round the burnt space, and, in two
divisions, proceeded westwards. Some hours after, he ventured out a
short distance on the heath, and returned with the intelligence, that
they had now taken a north-west direction, and that the heath would most
probably be quite safe, as they could not suspect that the fugitives
were still on it, and had no doubt been led out of the right track by
false information. A little past noon Mads and Mikkel went out together,
the latter to order a conveyance in one of the villages lying to the
west. After an hour had passed, Mads returned with the intelligence that
he had met with a young fellow who appeared to him somewhat suspicious,
and who from his accent seemed to be a German. He inquired the way to
the inn at Hvam, and whether some travellers had not passed by in the
course of the day. From the description of the young man's person and
dress, the Cornet felt convinced that it was his brother's Hungarian
servant. They therefore both went out, and were so fortunate as to
overtake him about a mile from the cave. We will not detain the reader
with the Hungarian's account relative to the non-appearance of the
carriage, but merely mention, that both he and the coachman had mistaken
for Karup rivulet that which runs some miles to the west, and where the
carriage was then waiting. With equal brevity, we will further remark,
that a little before noon he had been stopped and interrogated by the
pursuers, and that he had not only skilfully extricated himself out of
this examination, but had sent them in a direction which he rightly
judged would not lead them into the track of the fugitives, of whose
fate, however, he was in a state of the most painful uncertainty.

The next morning, the Cornet and his fair companion arrived safe at
Vestervig, where they became man and wife, and obtained from his elder
brother, the owner of the estate, a small country house at Thye for
their habitation. Junker Kai got at first a galling disappointment, and
secondly, after the lapse of a twelve-month, a still richer Fröken from
the Isle of Fyen. The lord of Ansbjerg and his lady washed their hands
clean of their daughter, and, notwithstanding the humble and penitent
letters of her and her husband, were not to be reconciled.


THE HORSE-GARDEN

Near the west end of Ansbjerg wood there is an open space, consisting of
an extensive green, entirely surrounded by old venerable beeches.
Annually, on the first afternoon of Whitsuntide, the greater part of the
inhabitants of the neighbouring parishes are accustomed to assemble at
this spot. On that day many houses stand empty, and in many are left
only the blind and the bed-ridden; for the halt and crippled, provided
they lack not the sense of seeing, must once a-year enjoy themselves
amid the new fresh verdure, and--like Noah's dove--bring home a bright
green beechen bough to their dusky dwellings.

What joy! what shoals! The Horse-Garden--so is this trysting-place
named--at this time resembles a bee-hive; incessant bustle, endless
pressing backwards and forwards, in and out: every soul bent only on
sucking in the honey of joyousness, and imbibing the exhilarating summer
air. How they hasten, how they flutter from flower to flower! greet,
meet, separate, familiarly, gaily and hastily! How many a young swain
brings or finds here the lady of his heart! At a considerable distance
from the hive may be heard its ceaseless hum and tumult.

The nearer you approach, the more varied is the joyous uproar. The
monotonous hum resolves itself into shout, song, and laughter, rattling
of leaves, sound of fiddles and flutes. Swarms pour in and out on every
side of the green wood. The lower orders in their Sunday garments, the
higher classes in elegant summer attire, cavaliers in black, ladies in
white.

"Is there dancing here?"

"Oh, yes, here is a forest ball, a dance on the elastic greensward."

"Do you see that village fiddler by the large beech yonder, towering
high above the surrounding multitude? Do you see how rapidly his bow
dances up and down amid hats adorned with flowers? And there is a
regular country dance, a real Scottish!"

"Am I in the Deer-park, in Charlottenlund?"[17] you will ask. "See what
a number of carriages, elegant equipages, coachmen in livery, horses
with plated harness, tents with cold meat and confectionery, coffee-pots
on the fire, families reclining on the grass around a basket of
eatables!"

You are in the Horse-Garden. This is Whitsuntide's evening in Lysgaard
district,--the beauteous Nature's homage-day. Thus is this holiday
celebrated till the sun goes down; but formerly it was only the common
people of two or three neighbouring parishes that assembled here, though
this innocent merry-making is, without doubt, an ancient custom, as old
as the wood itself.

Ten years after the events related in the foregoing chapters had taken
place, the summer festival was, as usual, held in the Horse-Garden. A
man from whose grandson I in my young days heard the story, gave the
following account of it:--

"It was during my first year's service as bailiff at Kjærsholm, I had my
sweetheart at Vium; she was distantly related to the clergyman there. On
the first day of Whitsuntide she agreed to meet me in the Horse-Garden,
where we arrived so early that we found ourselves the only persons in
the place. We wandered for an hour or two in the wood, until the sound
of a violin announced to us that the people were assembled. We went to
the spot as lookers on, sat down and observed the dancers. Shortly
after, I noticed that two gentlemen, with a lady and two children, were
approaching along the path leading from Ansbjerg. Being a stranger in
the neighbourhood, I inquired of my companion who they were. 'Hush,'
answered she, 'it is the family. The tall stout man is the old gentleman
who became a widower about five years since. The young one, with a scar
on his cheek, is his son-in-law, the lady his daughter, and the two
Junkers their children. Ten years ago she eloped by night with the young
gentleman. While the old lady was living, a reconciliation was not to be
thought of; but after her death, the old gentleman allowed himself to be
persuaded, and he received them into his house. At his decease they will
inherit both house and land.' The party continued standing for some
time, amusing themselves with looking at the country folks, and then
gave them something for drink. On a tree that had been levelled by the
wind, sat two elderly men, with a jug of beer between them, and each
with his pipe. On the family approaching them they rose and took the
pipes from their mouths.

"'Sit still,' I heard the young man say; and turning to the elder, 'you
are now better friends than when you struck a light for Niels' pipe by
Karup rivulet?'

"'Yes, gracious sir,' answered the person addressed with a smile; 'there
is no animal however small that will not fight for its life. It was a
bad business, yet has turned out well.' The party laughed.

"'Be careful,' said the old gentleman in going away, 'that you do not
get jammed between the branches of the deer you are riding on there.' At
this they all laughed heartily, and I could, from time to time, hear the
old man's jolly roar, that resounded far in the wood.

"'What does that allude to?' said I to my companion, 'and who are these
two old men?'

"'The one,' answered she, 'in the green frock, with the gray hat, is the
gamekeeper. The other, in the brown habit, is Mads the under-ranger, who
lives close by, and whom the young gentleman brought with him. The story
of the deer I will tell you.'

"While she was relating this and the whole history of the elopement, my
notice was attracted by a pair, who were having a dance to themselves,
while all the others stood watching them.

"'Who are they?' inquired I; 'they look a little remarkable,
particularly the youth in the long yellow skin ineffables, in that blue
jacket, and that extraordinary cap on his head?'

"'He is no youth,' answered she, 'but a married man; it is his wife he
is dancing with; he comes from Turkey, and accompanied his young master
home from the wars. He is secretary and gardener, and is both pot and
pan in the house. His wife has been long in the young lady's service,
and, they say, helped her away when she eloped from her parent's
house.'"

And now my story is ended. Many ages of man lie between then and now.
There has been ringing and singing over several generations since the
persons therein commemorated passed to eternal rest. Both the old and
the young lords of Ansbjerg have long been forgotten in the
neighbourhood, and no one now knows aught to tell of Black Mads. The
manor-house has often changed its proprietors, the lands have been sold
and divided.

Of the robber's cave alone, an obscure and confused tradition has been
preserved. On the great heath, about two miles west of Karup stream, are
some heath-covered hills, which yet bear, and ever will bear that
sinister name; but no one now thinks that there was once an asylum for
tender and steadfast love, a paradise underground.




A RIDE TO MAGNESIA.


The sun was already below the horizon, when we entered on the plain of
Magnesia. Our poor brutes were sadly jaded; for the latter part of the
journey had been very severe. For some time it had been over a rocky
path, strewn with loose stones; and the last stage is by a pretty
abrupt, and very rough descent. My poor animal had cast a shoe, and the
only relief that could be afforded in his calamity, was to dismount and
lead him. We, too, were somewhat tired; but the glorious sight that
burst upon us, bathed our spirits afresh in the waters of invigoration.
The road had, for some time, kept us dodging among crags and corners,
which allowed no prospect, and where, indeed, we were well employed
picking out our way. But when we emerged, what a sight did we behold!
One of the noble Asiatic plains stretched before us. Far as the eye
could reach, to right and left, the green expanse extended; and
immediately before us, it was only in the far distance that the boundary
of hills was seen. Here and there clumps of trees variegated the turf;
and a fair river wound itself amid all, looking like some huge and
silvery serpent disporting itself in this apt solitude. Think how
beautiful such a scene must have looked at evening, when the tops of the
hills, and a few fleecy clouds were rosy in the sunbeams. Its expression
was Paradisaical, the rather because the empire of Peace was invaded by
no sight nor sound. The air was absolutely still, except for the sound
of our own footsteps: as for our voices, after the first expression of
delight, they were hushed. We seemed to be gazing on some primeval
solitude,--on the spot where Astræa might have last lingered, and whence
the impress of her footstep had not been yet obliterated by the violence
of man. It was a perfect presentation of the still and calm, and touched
the same associations that are made to thrill by Flaxman or Retsch.

On the verge of this plain, snugly ensconced under the lee of the hills
we had been descending, lies the city of Magnesia. It is of reverend
aspect, and quite worthy of its incomparable situation. It is placed so
closely under the hills, that its details are very gradually unfolded to
one advancing. First appears a minaret, that most graceful of
architectural conceptions; then comes a burying ground, and at last peep
out the domes of the baths and mosques, and particular houses. The place
has quite the air of having come to hide itself in this quiet nook; and
its inhabitants seemed to be of the same mind, for not one of them could
we see. At such an hour, poetic justice demanded that there should have
been, scattered over the ways, groups of peasants returning from their
toil, and citizens refreshing themselves with an evening walk. But here
seemed to be no fields to cultivate. All looked as if it were common
land; and one could but feel what a first-rate exercising ground Oglú
Pascha had for his cavalry. As for the citizens, walking does not come
within their idea of enjoyment; to which exertion is so essentially
opposed, that probably half of them would forego their very pipes, if
smoking were attainable only on condition of filling and lighting for
one's self.

Now, let me say, that a wayfarer's trouble is not always over when he
has arrived at the city of his destination. I should like to put any one
who thinks it is, outside of one or two places that I know, and tell him
to find his way in. _Le grand capitain_ thanked the garrison of Malta
for having had the kindness not only to capitulate, but to open the
gates for him, as otherwise he did not see how he should ever have got
in. And so, I opine, there be places where a capitulation would be
incomplete without the attendance of one of the indigenous to act as
pilot. I am afraid that I might have taken this journey in vain, and
sighed in exclusion, had I been left to my own devices for the effecting
of an entry. The river surrounds, in great part, the walls; and one
might make pretty well the entire circuit before hitting the right point
of ingress. But one of us was gifted with topographical instinct in
high degree, and at once nosed the course that was to lead us to the
bridge. Our poor brutes seemed to sympathise in the refreshment of our
spirits; and even my unfortunate Rosinante consented to his burden, and
put his best foot foremost. One of his feet, alas! was what maritime
gentlemen would call a regular _worser_--the foot which lacked a shoe,
and which, defenceless, had to sustain such rude battering. The hoof of
this foot was cracked, and I was in much tribulation, both on the poor
horse's account and on my own. But I made the best of the circumstances;
encouraging the animal with all that I could remember and imitate of the
dialect in which man converses with the horse; and comforting myself
with thinking how soon the poor fellow would be stabled and shod.

The bridge, over which we passed, was very pretty and not very shaky,
nor by any means so broken-backed as are the greater number of Turkish
specimens. At the moment of our passing, it was lined with venerable old
fellows, who had turned out to enjoy their evening pipe. They were
dressed in the most approved and unreformed style, and many of them had
long beards, descending to the girdle. They sat in perfect stillness, no
man speaking to, or seeming to care for his neighbour. Indeed, from
experiences among them, we might almost argue that though man is by
nature gregarious, he is conversational only by acquirement. At any
rate, they show how few words may answer all the purposes of business,
and how little all of us would talk, if wives and domestic matters were
proscribed subjects. As we passed through the midst of them, not a soul
looked at us, not a nudge did one of them give to his neighbour, not a
puff less of smoke was emitted. One might have concluded it to be with
them an every day occurrence to see three Europeans ride in such style
into their town. Yet you might be bold to say, that they had never seen
such an entry before. The mode of travelling is so strictly regulated by
necessity, that, in all probability, of all the few Franks who have
entered this place, none have ever done so in the independent style we
affected. At least if, by chance, some couple may have done so, it has
certainly been where there has existed a knowledge of the people and
language. If our appearance did not at first enlighten them as to our
greenness and ignorance, we soon stood confessed by our attempts at
inquiry. Our first object was, of course, to discover the habitation of
the Seraph, whose name we had written down in our own character; as the
hieroglyphics which stood for direction to the letter would have been no
guide to us. Now, our stock of words did not go the length of any direct
inquiry; for _Katch Sahet_, our old stand-by, was now used up.

"Seraph,--Seraph,"--we sang out, with as strong an expression of inquiry
as we could throw into our looks and gestures. At this some of them
certainly did look up, but with the least excitement conceivable. One of
the more benevolent vouchsafed to us a few words, but soon stopped with
the most unmistakeable look of pity when he saw that we did not
understand him. Evidently he pitied our ignorance and despised us. No
farther attempt was made to enlighten us; nor were the peaceful seniors
in the least discomposed at the unsuccessful result of the inquiries
that possibly were uttered in the speech of the old man. We had nothing
for it but to go a-head, and trust to the chance of falling in with some
one better skilled in the language of signs. Oh, thought we, had it been
any where near Naples that this escapade had conducted us, we might have
done well. Among those pantomimic people the language of the lips
becomes an unimaginative and lazy expedient, by no means necessary to
the uses of communication. Nature, whose voice is one to all, has given
to them such force of gesture, that it must be a very long and difficult
story that they could not tell or understand without words. But poor old
John Turk is a different animal, and can be dealt with only by dialectic
precision. Never had we seen such an exemplification of their incurious,
impassible diathesis as they now presented to our cost. We turned back a
long and admiring gaze at the group as we passed onwards, for truly it
was a most picturesque position. But we had to revert to the present
necessity of finding some lodging, more perhaps on account of the horses
than of ourselves. For us it would have been no great hardship to pass
the night, should need be, on the dry soft turf, beneath the clear sky,
which shone so purely above us that we absolved the neighbourhood from
all suspicion of marshes, which are the only objection to sleeping in
the open air in this country. All looked dry, and clear, and pure. But
our poor horses, who had been beguiled into an effort by the sight of
the town, began now again to droop, and evidently considered us
chargeable with a breach of promise in thus prolonging their labours.
Whither to go we could not tell. A labyrinth of streets lay before us,
and amongst them it was our object to pick out the way to the Armenian
quarter. Turks keep early hours, and but few people were astir in the
streets when we entered, and after our wanderings had continued but a
short time scarcely a soul was to be seen. Now I am prepared to say,
that no desolation is like the desolation of strangeness in a large
city. St. Jerome in the wilderness, or Stylites on his pillar, were not
more lonely than many a poor recluse in our city of two million
inhabitants. And we ourselves would have been infinitely more at ease
had we been called upon to bivouac beyond the sight of human habitation.

Up one street and down another we passed, till we were wearied almost
beyond endurance, and really uneasy for our cattle. We met no one; or if
we did, no one that noticed us. The muffled figure of some woman would
pass by, who, when she saw the gaoórs, would draw her veil yet more
closely over her, and hurry, on her way. One or two children stopped to
stare at us; but we knew experimentally that their untutored fanaticism
was more likely to have a shy at our heads, than to attempt to
understand or direct us. We kept a sharp look-out for some Greek or
Armenian house wherein, for lucre's sake, we might be received in the
first instance: reserving to ourselves the introduction to the Seraph as
a _bonne bouche_. But still we wearied on, and saw no hospice. All was,
shut up, and closed. They were evidently not of the social temperament
that distinguished our Smyrna friends,--no doors were open, no family
parties visible, no suppers spread out. Some two hours passed
away--night fairly descended; and then the place might have passed for a
city of the dead.

The fix was becoming unquestionably awkward, and our mirth, which had
thriven wonderfully on the absurdity of our position, was passing over
to what old ladies call the wrong side of our mouths. Such an incurious,
apathetic set we had never before met. If our expectation had not been
exactly that some bustling Boniface, would have come rushing out to
welcome us to his best parlour, we had at least reckoned on finding some
person who knew the value of money, and the requirements of strangers.
But we were completely nonplused at the actual complexion of affairs,
and I am afraid began to be out of humour with this particular part of
the Sultan's dominions. Still, however, we retained that facetious
satisfaction that every wise man finds at the bottom of a really good
embroglio,--viz., the sense of having concocted an adventure, and the
curiosity of seeing what will come of it. Thus, though appearances were
as if we should have to remain riding about those streets _in
infinitum_, we knew that something or other must turn up; and were only
a little impatient for the denouement.

At last we stumbled on the benevolent stranger who was to help us out of
our difficulty. A man in Christian costume was seen hastening towards us
with the air of one who had heard that his friends were in trouble, and
needed his assistance.

"Bona sera, signori."

How musical did the words sound!

"Oh man," said we, "_per carità_, tell us what good soul of a Greek will
take us into his house this night."

"_Padroni miei_, you are too late to get into any house this night. They
are all gone to bed, and their houses are shut up. You must go to the
Khan."

"Do you know where the Seraph ---- lives?"

"Surely I know--it is not far from this spot."

"Then, if you would be very kind, you will take us to his house: for we
have a letter for him, and we hope to put up at his house."

"_Andiam_,--come along; it is late, but the Seraph will not have gone to
bed, for he is rich, and has much business. Only, my masters, you must
make haste, so that if he cannot receive you, I may have time to lead
you to the Khan before that be also shut."

This last was a very disagreeable suggestion; but we would not admit in
our own minds the probability of our needing the resources of public
entertainment. We had made up our conclusions that the Seraph was a very
good fellow; and that no good fellow would turn us adrift under the
circumstances, even though the entertainment of us might cost him a
little inconvenience.

For something like another quarter of an hour we followed our benevolent
guide, who led us into a quarter of comfortable and respectable
appearance. It was not inferior to the Armenian quarter of Smyrna,
except in respect to pictorial effect as a whole. The houses were
particularly good, and built in a more seclusive spirit; the better ones
being almost all detached. Before one of the very best of these our
guide stopped.

"Here lives the Seraph ----."

It was a domicile of most promising appearance, surrounded by a garden,
and in every respect snug and unexceptionable. We had so lived in hopes
of finding this house, and so thoroughly made up our minds to stop
therein, that we were nearly riding at once into the enclosure as if we
had been invited and expected. We were discreet enough, though, to
consider that the worthy Armenian might possibly be a little startled at
the unexpected apparition of such a party, so detached K---- as a
deputation, to present our compliments, and accept the invitation which
we doubted not would follow.

J---- and myself remained without the gate to take care of the steeds,
and to expect the result of our embassy. We exchanged congratulations on
the good fortune of having brought up in such snug quarters, and agreed
that we were all right now. If the Seraph could not receive us himself,
he would be sure to know some family of the place which would, on his
recommendation, receive us. But after some few minutes we began to think
our messenger was a long time away, and I determined to have a peep at
what was going on. I entered the garden, and saw at once that the work
was in no prosperous condition--the letter was not even yet read. The
worthy merchant had evidently been disturbed in the prosecution of
culinary duties, for a vessel of water was before him, and a lettuce in
his hand. He had taken a good look at K----, who was not quite unabashed
at this cold reception, and was now minutely inspecting the letter
before opening it. Like most moneyed men, he was very silent and very
deliberate. At last he got the length of opening the letter, and slowly
read it through. This being achieved, it did not seem to occur to him
that it was necessary to say any thing to us. The scene was much such as
might take place at the reception of some poor relative by a rich London
merchant.

"Signore Seraph," said K----, "our friend John gave us this letter to
you, because he thought you might like to be of some service to us
during our short visit."

"What can I do for you?"

"You can tell us of some house where we can put up for the night."

"I do not know any such house. There is none such in Magnesia."

"You cannot mean to say that none will receive the friends of your
countryman, John."

"Gentlemen, you must go to the Khan. I know of no place but the Khan. In
the Khan you will find excellent accommodation." And having said thus
much, he recommenced scuttling about among his cookery, and fairly
turned the cold shoulder on the whole party of strangers.

Now this gentleman was a bad specimen of his kind, thus to dishonour the
recommendation of his very respectable friend at Smyrna. Or perhaps
something had gone wrong with him that day on 'Change. Certain it is
that such a reception we had never before experienced. In every place to
which we had come, we had always found some one who, for love or money,
was glad to receive us. In more than one case, it had been for the
former consideration; and indeed in some villages it is the recognised
privilege of the greatest man to receive the wayfarer. It is to them a
rare occasion of playing the entertainer, and, besides, gives them an
opportunity of hearing all sorts of travellers' tales. Besides, it is a
good office, which they themselves may require at any time; and it is,
even on sordid grounds, good policy for them to establish relations of
hospitality throughout the country. One case is in my recollection,
where a large party of us, with I know not how many followers and
horses, were received most cheerfully, though arriving at a late hour,
and in such formidable numbers. The most hospitable attention was paid
to us, and abundant provision of all kinds made; and at our departing
our entertainers would receive no penny of recompense. And other such
can I remember, though none perhaps where the demand was so strong.

Rejected from the gate of the Seraph, whom we voted a barbarian and a
curmudgeon, our ambition resolved itself into the anxiety to reach the
Khan before they shut up for the night. Our new acquaintance, who had
guided us to this inhospitable threshold, was waiting for us outside, as
though in distrust of our being received. He stuck by us like a good man
and true, till he had conducted us far away to the upper part of the
town, where lies the Khan.

We saw a large building, with a frontage something like Newgate. On a
rude sort of divan, in the doorway, sat the Khandgi smoking, who gave
not the least sign of noticing our approach. Through the doorway we had
a perspective view of an inner court of considerable extent, in
different parts of which glimmered the cheerful blaze of fire and lamp.
Several people were passing to and fro, and altogether the place looked
far more life-like than the dull streets through which we had been
passing.

Our friend approached and saluted the Khandgi, who returned the
compliment with all grave civility. A colloquy then followed on the
subject of ourselves, during which the Turk read our personal
presentments with some apparent interest. It probably required some
scrutiny to convince him that men travelling thus unattended were not
vagabonds. Perhaps the same idea had something to do with the
shortcomings of our friend the Seraph. In the present case the result
was of a more satisfactory kind, for the Khandgi uttered a courteous
welcome, and motioned to us to dismount. Our friend, to whom we had
previously explained our necessities, told us that, in consideration of
his request, the Khandgi would take the trouble of supplying our wants
in the way of eating, though, as the bazaar was long since closed, we
should have to wait some time for our supper. We were only too glad to
hear that there was any prospect of a refection, and, thanking him
heartily for his good offices, we entered the caravanserai.

Immediately at the entrance of this hostelry was an uncommonly snug
little apartment, wherein many of the more sociable of the guests were
taking their baccy. Our will was very good to have made a temporary
lodgement here while the more substantial repast was in course of
preparation. But we followed the respectable gentleman to whose care we
had been consigned. Our luggage was not very cumbersome, consisting only
of our saddles and holsters, which we were able to remove at once, as
the two hours' patrolling had quite cooled the horses. Poor things! they
had still to wait for their provender, for though we signified that we
wished them to be fed directly, the authorities gave us to understand
that they must wait. They have a great objection in these parts to feed
any particular horse, or horses, except at the same time with all the
others, believing that those of the animals who have nothing to eat,
hearing the others chumping their corn, are made envious. It is but fair
to them to say, that they are very kind to the brute creation. To their
care we left our quadrupeds awhile, and ascended to what was to be our
chamber. We passed along an extensive gallery with a great many doors,
at one of which our conductor stopped and produced a large key. We were
introduced to a moderately capacious cell, entirely bare of furniture,
but quite clean. Of this room and key we were put into possession, and,
throwing down our traps, made ourselves comfortable. It was exactly like
the cell of a prison; massy stone walls, with one little aperture by way
of window, which, however, was not barred, neither was it glazed; at
which we were not astonished, for glass is hereaway an expensive, or at
least an unusual luxury. The character of the Khan is consistently
observed throughout, as we learnt subsequently more particularly--viz.,
that of a place which affords necessities, but no superfluities--nothing
portable. House and home you cannot easily carry about with you, and
these the public institution provides; but all things edible, or
wearable, or convenient, you must provide for yourself.

Our good friend brought a lamp, which he set upon the floor; and, as the
evening was coolish, and the cell had the air of not having been
tenanted for a long time, we signified to him that a fire would be
agreeable. Having made the exception in our favour, in virtue of which
he had undertaken to supply our various necessities, he set about
fulfilling his contract with a good will, and seemed only anxious to
know what he could do for us. We pointed to the bare floor, and
insinuated an appeal to him, as a man of honour and a gentleman, whether
such a couch did not admit of improvement. It is very probable that he
uttered in his sleeve some objurgation on Frankish luxury, that could
not be contented to sleep as other people did; or, at any rate, to
provide capotes like other people. But he signified to us his
intelligence of our meaning, and his ready acquiescence; and soon
entered a satellite laden with rugs, on which a prince might have
reposed, to say nothing of a weary traveller.

Behold us, then, stretched on our couches around the fire, soothing our
spirits with that best of smoking inventions, the nargillé. The
providing of these, and of coffee, _without sugar_, came within the
legitimate province of the Khandgi, who keeps a café in the
establishment; every thing else that he may give you, is of pure grace.
Should any body, in these travelling days, be ignorant of the
constitution of a nargillé, let him understand that it is a smoking
device on the same principle as a hookah, but marvellously superior in
effect. The smoke is drawn through water by means of a long, snake-like
tube. Herein lieth its agreement with the Indian vanity; but the
difference is this, that instead of the sickly composition, half
rose-leaves, half guava jelly, that composes the chillum of the hookah,
the nargillé is fed with pure tobacco; of a particular kind, indeed, and
passing by a particular name, but still a veritable specimen of the
genus nicotiana. It is called timbooké, and professes to come only from
Persia.

We were not left long in undisturbed possession of our apartment. The
key had been made over to us with much formality; but we soon found that
our tenancy was understood to imply no right of seclusion. The news of
our arrival had spread, and sundry of the other inhabitants of the Khan
were smitten with the desire of seeing what sort of animals these were
who travelled in such fashion. Our door opened, and first one man, and
then another, entered in the most unconcerned style. It was highly
amusing to see how coolly they walked in: some saluted us, and some did
not. Some brought their pipes or nargillés, with which they squatted on
the floor, and watched us. As we could not talk to them, they talked to
one another about us; staring, at the same time, with all their eyes,
and pointing unconstrainedly to the individual or object that happened,
for the time being, to engage their curiosity. Many addressed inquiries
to us, and shrugged their shoulders at our ignorance of a language with
which, probably, they had never before met any one unacquainted. These
gentlemen, be it remembered, were not of the sober inhabitants, but
chance occupants of the inn--merchants and vagabonds of all kinds.
Merchants, among them, always are vagabonds; men who travel with their
wares from one place to another, according to the complexion of markets.

We were at least as much amused at marking them, as they were with us,
and not much more constrained in our personal observations. Many an
equivocal compliment fell harmless on their ears, which, had it been
understood, would have ruffled their smiles. At last an individual
entered, who evidently came on business. He made a short announcement to
us, and waited for a reply. Of course no reply was forthcoming, except
some general invitation to sit down and make himself happy. This he was
by no means disposed to do. He repeated his words with an emphasis that
seemed to imply that he was not to be trifled with, and that it was no
use pretending not to understand him. He exemplified what I suppose to
be a general fallacy of our nature,--for I have often encountered the
same anomaly,--that is to say, he repeated his words slowly and
emphatically, as if one, though ignorant of the language, could not fail
to comprehend his meaning, if expressed clearly and deliberately. We
were brought no whit nearer to a sense of the emergency.

As in despair he continued to repeat one word, "Aiván, aiván," in a tone
that appealed to our every sympathy as reasonable beings, we felt the
full indecorum of our continued unintelligence, and would gladly have
compounded, by appearing to understand, and allowing the event to work
itself out. But this would not satisfy our friend: there was evidently
something to be done by us.

"Aiván, aiván!" shouted the assistants, in chorus.

It was useless. The word was not in our vocabulary. He now began to
gesticulate vehemently, passing his hand several times over his face,
and performing other evolutions. These to me, I confess, conveyed no
meaning; but K----, being of quicker apprehension, somehow extracted
from the pantomime an idea of the fact.

"Depend upon it, he means something about the horses."

S---- improved upon this suggestion, turning to account the extra
knowledge that he possessed of the ways of these people. "I have it. He
means where are the halters for our horses. These are never provided in
the Khan stables, and all travellers take them for themselves."

Here we were at fault: none of us had been provident of this article,
and we wanted words to beg the stable-man to provide, if he could, the
halters, and put them in the bill. In the midst of our perplexity a man
entered, whom we hailed as a friend in need. He was a Greek,
unmistakeable by physiognomy, even had he not been so by dress. How
delightful it was to find a channel of communication re-opened, those
only can judge who, like us, have been deprived of the uses of speech.
Our words became, indeed, epea pteroenta. In a trice he
explained to us the whole matter, which was as we had supposed. He
appeared to be quite proud of the distinction of being the only person
who could communicate with us, and assumed the office of interpreter
with great gusto. Through him we explained that we should like to pay a
visit to the stables, and the groom summoned us at once to follow him.
The company all cleared out as we rose; partly from civility, and partly
because they wanted to see a little more of us. We did not, in the
least, doubt the honesty of these gentry; but, seeing that so little
ceremony existed as to right of entry into our apartment, we did not
know but that some unscrupulous person might take advantage of our
absence to overhaul our effects. We therefore judged it prudent to
remove those of our effects which might most strongly provoke their
cupidity. Our saddles were heavy, and could not easily be pocketed, but
our pistols might have been stowed away under their voluminous dresses,
and carried off without the observation of the Khandgi. These,
therefore, we carried with us, and with such garniture I personally cut
a pretty figure. My weapons were so prodigiously long, that their
but-ends considerably overtopped the boundary of my pockets, and gave me
thoroughly the air of a highwayman. The exhibition amazed us, but did
not appear to strike the natives as extraordinary, who doubtless thought
that such was the ordinary walking attire of our nation.

The unintelligible groom walked foremost with a lantern, and led us
across the great quadrangle of the Khan, to his particular domain. It
was a right good stable, comfortable and clean, and in which a horse
might rejoice himself. It was full of horses, and asses, and camels--for
which last species of animal a stable is only an occasional luxury.
Generally, the track of these hardy brutes lies where there is no stable
to be found, and they are wont to travel in such numbers as to defy any
ordinary bounds of habitation. Here they seemed to be quiet neighbours,
and not at all offensive to the smaller quadrupeds. Once on the spot, we
managed to get over the difficulty of the halters, and as the time of
feeding was approaching, we led our steeds out to water. The poor
shoeless one was sensibly the worse for his journey, and stuck out his
off fore-leg in a manner that boded ill for the morrow. However, they
all took their corn well, so we bade them good-night, and hoped for the
best. As we were out, we pursued our peregrinations awhile, and
inspected the domestic economy of the establishment. The building
occupied a large square, with the court open in the middle. The stables
and other offices occupied most of the ground floor, though some little
room was left for public apartments. The gallery, on one side of which
we were lodged, extended round the court, and was throughout divided
into separate guest chambers. These were all, like ours, solid, square
cells, affording the accommodation of four walls, and a pan for fire.
Besides this, each room contained a water pitcher, and this was the sum
of furniture. We promenaded for some time up and down the gallery, and
peeped into many open doors, so that we saw several samples. In one or
two of these we saw parties of travellers, on whom we gazed with as
little ceremony as had been used towards ourselves, and with as little
offence. They certainly were worth looking at, for they were wild
fellows, collected from no one knows where, and looked uncommonly
picturesque. At last our host brought in the supper, for which we were
particularly well disposed. We were at no time fastidious, and at that
precise moment of most indulgent mood toward all cooks. But the mess
that appeared almost baffled appetite. Turkish cookery, as practised by
the great, is first-rate in its kind. But if this supper was a fair
sample of their homely fare, I should not be ambitious of again proving
the cookery of a Khan. It was presented in a tub of vile aspect, which
one would have scrupled to admit to the office of a pediluvium, and
which certainly any respectable scullion would have rejected from the
service of washing dishes. Its contents were of the most suspicious
character. In a greasy soup floated fragments of animal substance,
corresponding in texture and form to the parts of no edible creature
within our knowledge. This was garnished with anchovies, and a goodly
loaf of bread, which last article was beyond reproach. Of course we had
no spoons, nor forks; so we tucked up our sleeves, and dived into the
soup. That which had offended the sight proved yet more vile in the
tasting; yet, since it pretty well quenched all desire to eat, it in
some sort, after all, did the duty of a supper.

All was quiet in the Khan at an early hour, and nothing disturbed our
slumbers. Early the next morning we rose and wandered forth into the
town. It is a happy custom for the traveller, that the Mussulmans are
careful to place a fountain near all places of public resort, for thus
has he always means of performing in some sort his ablutions. What with
the fountain, and a Turkish bath, we contrived to put ourselves into
condition for the emergencies of the day. The first thing was to sally
forth into the bazaar in search of a breakfast. Here we made it out on
kabobs, and a sort of cake like a large crumpet; the cake doing the
office of a plate. Kabobs are things better in a story than in
manducation, being excessively greasy compositions of odd pieces of meat
stuck on skewers, a poor imitation of the sausage. We found the town
rising in our estimation as we viewed it by daylight. The bazaar does
not, of course, afford such a display of rich merchandise as is to be
found in that of Smyrna. There is no show of costly carpets, and silks
from Brousa and Damascus. But the town, _quoad_ town, is decidedly
superior to the Asiatic metropolis. The streets are wider, the
buildings more substantial, the vagabonds not so many. All looks clean
and respectable. Here is no bustle of commerce, no appearance of social
fermentation. All has the quiet and settled air of a place where the
inhabitants have made their fortunes, and retire to enjoy themselves.
Seclusion and blissful ignorance have preserved them from the crotchets
of reformers, and continued to them the benefits of a wholesome
despotism.

But a sound burst upon our ears which made us start. A gush of music as
from a full military band was borne upon the air: and in good tune and
measure, moreover, did it sound. We knew that we were in a country
accustomed to raise any given number of soldiers at short notice; but
irregulars, wont to be disbanded on the termination of their special
service. But the case turned out to be that Magnesia was a grand cavalry
depot. We followed the sound and came up with the regiment, returning to
their barracks. A noble appearance they presented. The horses were
first-rate, and the men fine strapping fellows, who looked as if they
could do the state some service. We stood at the corner of a street past
which they were marching, and had a good view of them. It was a very
strong regiment, with a full complement of a thousand men. Their uniform
was of the new school, that is to say, after the European model. The
specimens of the regular infantry that are to be seen at Smyrna and
Constantinople, give but an unfavourable idea of the Turkish troops of
the line. It becomes them little to be cross-belted after our fashion,
and they seem to be sulky under the constraint of their accoutrements.
But these horsemen rode by in gallant style, showing, as occasion arose,
excellent horsemanship, and gathering perhaps some vivacity from the
noble animals whose curvetings demanded a vigilant eye, and firm seat.
After all, cavalry seems to be their natural strength, as it has been
ever since the days when they rode wild in the plains of the Selinga.
The natural genius of the people may be sufficiently understood, by a
comparison of the gallant-looking, serviceable dragoons, with the
sluggish fellows who carry the musket. They seem to be no more the stuff
whereof infantry is to be composed, than they are the stuff of which
sailors are to be composed. At this latter transmutation many efforts
have recently been made, and a good deal certainly effected, so far as
regards the mechanical duties of the sailor. All who were in presence
with the Capitan Pasha, lately, on the coast of Syria, were surprised at
the improved state of their powers of nautical evolution. But this is
merely an effort, whose effects cannot last, for the stuff is not in
them of which a sailor is made. Their look and bearing is enough to
condemn them immediately, and, moreover, enough to show that the
training is by no means agreeable to them. Now all these dragoons looked
as if their occupation was exactly to their taste, and as if they were
proud of their horses and themselves. The only absurdity on the parade
(for there was all absurdity, or it would have been contrary to all
Turkish precedent) was, that after the colonel, as gallant-looking a
fellow as one would wish to see, came his pipe-bearer, with the tools of
his craft strapped to his back. This certainly did come at the tail of
the procession with something of the air of an anti-climax.

We followed closely after them to see the fun, and arrived at the parade
ground before the barracks, just as they had dismounted, and were
walking about their horses to cool. We had some little hesitation about
venturing among them; for they have curious notions on the subject of
the evil eye; and it had happened to one of our friends to get a
particularly good pummeling from some soldiers, merely for looking
attentively at their horses. But these men were very civil, and even
invited our approach. One or two of the officers spoke to us. Presently
came a man who beckoned us to follow him, which we did without the least
idea of whither it was that we were bound. He led us right across the
parade ground, and into the grand entrance of the barracks. Here we were
received by a gentleman, who addressed us in Italian, and informed us
that he was the head physician to the regiment, and the particular
friend of the colonel, who was waiting up stairs to receive us. Up
stairs we went, the doctor preceding us, and volunteering to interpret.
The room was a most delightful retreat from the glaring heat of the day.
The floor was coolly matted, the walls were nearly bare, the sun was
excluded, and nothing hot met the eye. The colonel was sitting on the
divan at the upper end of the room. He rose as we entered, and received
us most politely. I call him _colonel_ to express the fact of his being
at the head of a regiment. But in truth he was a much greater man than
such a title is wont to describe. Not only was his regiment so strong in
numbers, but he was the military governor of the town; his correct
style, in their own language is Miralahi.

We could see plainly enough that he was a person of some consequence;
but the Italian doctor was determined to leave us, if possible, no
chance of a mistake in this matter. He interlarded his internunciary
discourse, with a continual annotation of asides, which became
monstrously amusing, seeing that they were spoken in full audience of
the individual who was their unsuspecting subject. He impressed on our
serious consideration that the colonel was a very great man indeed; able
to do pretty well what he liked in Magnesia: and we were to take note
that he, the doctor, could do what he liked with the colonel. I do not
know whether he handed over our speeches to the colonel in a more
genuine state, than we were quite sure he did those of the colonel to
us, from the quantity of alloy that we were able to detect. It is
probable that at least he polished our compliments, and somewhat
exaggerated our conditions. At any rate we were a very pleasant party,
and seemed mutually satisfied with our conversation. After a
considerable interval, during which we had partaken of his hospitable
cheer, we arose to depart. But he would not allow us to go, saying, that
English officers visiting that strange place must be his guests. He
would first show us the barracks, and then we must go home with him, and
dine. This proposal delighted us much, and we bowed a willing assent. We
had the curiosity to inquire how he had been made aware of our arrival,
as he evidently must have been, by the token of his having recognized us
on the parade ground, and having sent to us the invitation. He told us
that in the routine of his daily reports, our descriptions had been
presented to him as having arrived at the Khan: so that when he saw us,
he knew who we must be.

Presently we proceeded to inspect the barracks. Nothing could be nicer
or better kept than they were in all respects. No English barracks could
be cleaner or better ventilated. We saw also some of the officers'
quarters, which spoke well for the taste of the occupiers. The band, we
found, was composed entirely of natives. We had supposed that the master
of the band at least would have been a foreigner; but were assured that
Turkish skill, unassisted, had the training of the musicians, and even
the composition of much of the music. We went into the kitchen, and
tasted the men's dinner, which was ready prepared. It was a most
excellent soup or hodge-podge, that Meg Dods herself might have owned.
Thence we went to the stables, and here all was admirable. One might be
bold to say that no European regiment is better mounted. The colonel's
special stud was a noble collection, in whose exhibition he had
evidently much pride. We wound up our inspection with a visit to the
hospital, which we found the most admirable part of their menage. This
was the doctor's own province, and he minutely exhibited particulars. I
have seen a great many hospitals in my day, and am able to judge that
this was excellent. The building was of no pretence, but substantial
convenience was consulted. It was quite spacious enough for ventilation;
and the beds were all clean and comfortable, and disposed at
sufficiently wide intervals. This establishment is governed in chief by
the Italian doctor; but the second in direction, the surgeon as they
term him, and all the other functionaries, are native Turks. The
dispensary is excellently well kept, and among its duties is the keeping
of a regular sick-register. This details in form the malady and
treatment of each patient: so that satisfactory information concerning
any particular inmate may as readily be obtained here as in any London
hospital; and medical precedents as certainly established.

This register our friend had the complaisance to submit to our
inspection, and we were astonished at the exactitude of its detail. He
told us that among his duties, is that of making a regular nosological
return to government periodically, and a report of the number of deaths
with their respective causes. Few people would have been prepared to
find the exhibition of so much solicitude for the life and well-being of
the private soldier, on the part of the Turkish government. Such
humanised policy is at least wonderfully in contrast with all that we
hear of the domestic economy of these people but a few years back, and
with what, by all accounts, is the method pursued, even at this day, in
the armies of Mehemet Ali. In a very recent number of a French
periodical are given some details concerning the military usages of that
potentate, that, with every allowance for possible exaggeration, leave
the impression of a terrible reality. Indeed, without precise data, it
is easy to conceive that disease and death must riot among such
subjects, unless checked by vigilant supervision. Their habits are very
dirty, in spite of the ablutions to which they are constrained by their
religion, which affect only their arms and legs. Of the benefits of
clean linen they are in mere ignorance, and their fatalism is the spring
of all kinds of indiscretion. Think of seven or eight hundred such
fellows congregated in a barrack, with more than the probability that
some one of the number may have brought with him, from his dirty home,
the contagion of fever, perhaps of plague; and it will be easy to
conceive how great and constant must be the care that can maintain them
in tolerable health and comfort--a care that must subsist not only in
the hospital, but be extended over all arrangements affecting them.

The healthy and active appearance of the men was the best presumptive
evidence of the excellence of their régime. Had we even left Magnesia
without positive witness of their barrack economy, we should have felt
sure that these men must be ably officered and well looked after. It is,
with regiments as with ships, a standing truth, that efficiency of
condition is compatible only with efficiency and sympathy on the part of
the officers. The grand secret of our naval discipline is the
recognition of this truth: and no where does it find a more full
exemplification than on board our ships. There every officer (every
_good_ officer) feels for, and with, his men. Nothing, save the positive
requirement of the service, is allowed to interfere with their comfort.
The care of their health is as much the ambition and duty of the captain
as is the care of his ship. Few things in the strange world afloat would
strike a landsman more, than the minute attention habitually paid to men
who are hourly liable to the most perilous risks. At the need of the
service, limb and life are freely ventured; but not a wet jacket is
inflicted, nor a meal prorogued wantonly. Jack, who is burdened with no
care for himself, becomes devoted to his officers who care for him;
ready at their bidding to jump overboard, or to turn to and get the
mainmast out all standing. A well-ordered man-of-war, where this feeling
prevails from the quarter-deck to the forecastle, affords perhaps the
finest exhibition of harmony of purpose of which our nature is capable.
The inspection of a single regiment is insufficient ground whereon to
found general observations; but so far as this one specimen is
concerned, we can speak of the Turks as having made some slight approach
to this most desirable condition. We were surprised to find an Osmanli
in the position of surgeon to the establishment; because the religious
principles of such a one are understood to be invincibly opposed to the
prosecution of the studies that must qualify for such a post. Without
dissection what can they know of anatomy? and unskilled in anatomy, how
can they guide the knife healingly among the intricacies of the human
frame? Yet all the operative surgery in this hospital is the care of the
native surgeon, by whom the most formidable operations are successfully
performed. The best proof that these medicos are up to their work, is
found in the fact, that the sick-list was very small. It was quite
surprising to see how few beds were occupied. Indeed, the men are so
well clothed, well fed, and lodged so airily, that their tenure of
health must be far more secure when on service than when in their own
homes.

Our inspection had occupied some time, and brought the day well on to
the hour of dinner. The hospitable colonel having right courteously
satisfied all our inquiries, led the way to his domicile. Among the
notable experiences of this day, it was not the least that he himself by
his presence afforded us, enabling us to mark the tone of feeling
subsisting between himself and his men. I will defy any harsh taskmaster
to take me among his men, and prevent my reading in their demeanour the
fact of his ungentleness. Aversion and constrained fear, are motives too
powerful for the possibility of suppression in the presence of their
object. The eye is too faithful an index of the soul to give no spark
when the fire of hatred rages within. But as we passed through the
different buildings, every eye expressed cheerfulness and satisfaction.
They seemed pleased at our curiosity, and gratified with his visit. He
himself seemed delighted to play the part of exhibitor. He walked
through the different compartments, not exactly with the air of an
English dragoon, but still with a good deal of the soldier about him.
Take him all in all, he was one of the two best specimens of Turkish
great men that I have seen. The first place I reserve for my excellent
friend the Pasha of Rhodes. With all his slouching, happy-go-lucky air,
it was astonishing to see how much grace he managed to preserve; and how
the sense of authority was kept up, notwithstanding the simplicity of
his good humour.

When a man asks you to dinner, unless, indeed, he be a gipsy living
under a hedge, it is usual to suppose that you must enter his house. We
had reckoned on being introduced to the particular establishment of the
Miralahi, and rejoiced in the prospect of so befitting a conclusion
to our morning's researches. But our friend marshalled us onward through
stables and gardens, to the prettiest little kiosk you would wish to
see, snugly ensconced beneath vines and creepers, at one end of his
dwelling. Here-away nature assumes a regularity in her moods of which we
Englishmen know little in our own land. Here it really does rain in the
rainy season, and really is hot in summer. Thus knowing, almost to a
degree, the heat or cold they are at any time to expect, the happy
indigenous are in condition to suit their manner of life to the humour
of the season. This kiosk was the usual summer sitting-room; contrived
to a nicety in all respects so as to woo all cooling influences, and
exclude the sun. The sides were open towards that quarter whence the
breeze was wont to come; and a beautiful fountain threw up its abundant
stream so near to us that we almost received its splashing. We were
raised somewhat above the level of the garden, which lent to our
enjoyment the blended odours of lemon and citron. No carpet was there,
nor woollen substance, nor aught that looked hot. Cool mats covered the
tesselated floor within; and without, the eye was refreshed by gushing
water, and by the deep green of the orange and lemon trees. Truly, one
might be in a worse billet on a hot day!

But nothing edible appeared, nor any table, nor other appliance whose
presence we are wont to associate with the idea of dinner. One might
almost have supposed the kiosk to be the drawing-room, reserved for the
collecting together of the guests before their proceeding to the
banquet. Our host had picked up another friend in the course of the
morning, so that, with ourselves and the doctor, he had a very
respectable party.

We had been but a short time sitting in that state of palpable waiting
for dinner, which from St. James' to Otaheité is one and the same
recognised misery, when our host propounded to us, through the doctor,
the following thesis.

"There are different modes of dining, according to different nations."
The proposition was axiomatic: we looked assent, and waited for what was
to come next.

"The English have their way, the French theirs, and the Turks theirs.
How will you dine to-day?"

"Like true Osmanlis," we cried, emphatically and enthusiastically.
"Truly, mine host, we have capital appetites, and, moreover, an old
proverb on our side."

Now, it is not to be supposed that this worthy gentleman could really
have given us an entertainment in the styles he offered. No doubt it was
but a conventional phrase, and meant no more than the speech of the
Mexican does, who tells you to consider his house and all he possesses
as your own:--still it was civil. A sign was made to one of the
domestics, and significant preparations were forthwith commenced. Each
of us was furnished with a napkin, which we spread out upon our knees.
We further followed lead so far as to tuck up our sleeves: then came a
pause. Presently arrived an attendant, bringing an apparatus much like a
camp-stool, which was planted in the midst of us; and, on the top of
this, was anon deposited a large and bright brass tray. On this, in a
twinkling, appeared a basin filled with a savoury composition of kind
unknown. Into this all hands began to dig. It was uncommonly good
indeed, and disposed one for another taste. But almost before a second
taste could be had, the dish had vanished and was succeeded by another.
And so it was throughout the repast: the first momentary pause in the
attack was the signal for removal of the reigning basin, and the
production of another. There could not have been less than eighteen or
twenty dishes in all; most of them quite capital, and deserving of more
serious attention than the bird-like pecking for which alone space was
allowed. On the whole, it was a style of thing which would hardly suit
men seriously hungry: but it suits these fellows well enough, who, as
they never take more exercise than they can help, may be supposed never
to know what downright hunger is. Among their _plats_ was one of
pancakes, made right artistically, and as though in regard of
Shrovetide. We wound up with a bowl of sherbet, or some variety of that
genus, for the consumption of which we were allowed the use of spoons.
It would be pleasant enough to dine with them, were it not for the
barbarity of eating with one's fingers: an evil which their notions of
hospitality tend still further to aggravate. On occasions when they wish
to do particular honour to a guest, it is their custom to pick tit-bits
out of the dish, perhaps to roll up such morsels in a ball, and pop them
into the stranger's mouth. Sometimes the attentive host will dig his
fingers into the mass, and pile up the nicest pieces on the side of the
dish, ready for your consumption, and this by way of saving you the
trouble of selection. Happy were we that our friendly entertainer was
content with this milder exhibition of benevolence; for it did not
require any great ingenuity to pretend a mistake as to the identity of
morceaux. The malicious doctor seemed bent on making us undergo this
trial, and did his best, with winks and whispers, to rob us of our
ignorance. Very kind was this good Miralahi to us. We sat long, and
talked much with him, and he was urgent in invitations to us to prolong
our stay in the city. The inducement that he held out was certainly
tempting--nothing less than the promise that he would have, on our
especial behoof, a grand review of all his troops. Had we been free to
follow our will, we should most assuredly have accepted his invitation,
as well for the sake of its kindness, as because the chance of such a
review is not to be met with every day. He did give us a military
spectacle in a small way. In the course of conversation he fell upon
some inquiries concerning the cutlass exercise, and requested
illustrations. He then called one of his dragoons, and put him through
the cavalry sword exercise, after their manner: and a particularly
ferocious-looking exercise it was.

But the time was now come when we must bid farewell to the good colonel;
and we did so with a cordial sense of his hospitality, and a great
increase of respect for him as an officer. He pursued us with his good
offices; sending the doctor to the Khan with us, to assist us in a
settlement there, and giving us good counsel for our progress. He tried
very seriously, at first, to dissuade us from attempting a start so late
in the day, as he conceived it would be impossible for us to reach
Manimen, whither we were bound, that night. It is a fact, that
travelling after dark is not safe in Turkey: indeed, you would hardly be
allowed, after nightfall, to pass a guard-house. But we were determined
to take our chance of doing the distance within the time, as we knew
well that the number of hours allowed by authority were very much beyond
the mark of what we should take. Like a truly hospitable man, when he
found us bent on departing, he set himself to speed our departure. His
friend the doctor was at the trouble of repeating to us several times,
till we had pretty well learned them by rote, some of the most necessary
inquiries for food and provender, in the vernacular. When we had written
these down in the characters, and after the orthography of our
mother-tongue, we felt fully prepared for all contingencies.

How different was the spirit of our departure from that of our entry!
Not four-and-twenty hours since, we had ridden into the town, unnoticed
and unsheltered: we were now almost pained to say farewell. So short a
time had sufficed to work the difference between desolation and
good-fellowship. And though this instance be but of a feebly marked, an
almost ludicrous difference; you have but to multiply the degrees, and
you arrive at a picture of what is every day happening in the course of
the long journey on which we are all engaged. A man is stricken and
mourning to-day, because he is desolate; to-morrow he is radiant with
joy, because he has found a soul with which he can hold fellowship. The
spirit makes music only as the spheres do, in harmony. When I have
thought of these things, and felt that they tend to the cultivation of
human sympathies, it has seemed to me that I might draw a moral lesson
even from the recollection of my "Ride to Magnesia."




JAVA.[18]


The wealthy owner of a vast estate takes little heed of the peasant
gardens fringing its circumference. Absorbed in the consideration of his
forest glades and fertile corn-fields, his rich pastures and countless
kine, he forgets the existence of the paddocks and cabbage-plots that
nestle in the patronising shadow of his park paling. Occasionally he may
vouchsafe a friendly glance to the trim borders of the one, or the
solitary milch cow grazing in the other: he must be a very Ahab to view
them with a covetous eye; for the most part he thinks not of them. In
the broad domains that call him master, he finds ample employment for
his energies, abundant subject of contemplation. Thus it is with
Englishmen and colonies. Holding, in right and virtue of their
adventurous spirit and peculiar genius for colonisation, immense
territories in every quarter of the globe--territories linked by a chain
of smaller possessions and fortified posts encircling the world--they
slightly concern themselves about the scanty nooks of Asia, America, and
Africa, over which wave the banners of their European rivals and allies.
They visit them little--write about them less. In some cases this
indifference has been compulsory. When the second title of the Sovereign
of Spain and the Indies was something more than an empty sound, and half
America crouched beneath the Spanish yoke, every discouragement was
shown to travellers in those distant regions; lest some French democrat
or English Protestant should disseminate the tenets of Jacobinism and
heresy, and awaken the oppressed multitude to a sense of their wrongs.
Thus was it with Mexico, of whose condition, until she rebelled against
the mother country, scarce any thing was known save what could be
gathered from the lying writings of Spanish monks. Again, remote
position and pestilential climate have daunted curiosity and repelled
research. To the Dutch possessions in the island of Java this especially
applies. Seized by the English in 1811--to prevent their falling into
the hands of the French--upon their restoration to Holland at the peace,
their ex-governor, Sir Stamford Raffles, wrote his voluminous and
erudite "History of Java." Three years later, further accounts were
given of the island in Crawford's "History of the Indian Archipelago."
In 1824, Marchal's book was published at Brussels, but proved a mere
compilation from those above named. And since then, several works upon
the same subject, some possessing merit, have been produced in Holland
and Germany, out of which countries they are little known. At the
present day, a periodical, appropriated to the affairs of the Dutch East
Indies, appears regularly at Amsterdam. But Englishmen take little
interest in Dutch colonies and colonists; and although now and then some
Eastern traveller has devoted to them a casual chapter, for a quarter of
a century nothing worth the naming has been written in our language with
reference to the island of Java.

Most men have a pet country which, above all others, they desire to
visit. Some long to roam amidst the classic relics of Italian grandeur,
or to explore the immortal sites and renowned battle-fields of Greece;
some set their affections upon Spain, and languish after Andalusia and
the Alhambra; whilst others, to whose imagination the hardy North
appeals more strongly than the soft and enervating South, meditate on
Scandinavia, thirst after the Maelstrom, and dream of Thor and Odin, of
glaciers and elk-hunts. We have a friend for whom the West Indies had a
peculiar and irresistible fascination, to which neither length of voyage
nor dread of Yellow Jack prevented his yielding; we have another--who
has never yet lost sight of Britain's cliffs--whose first period of
absence from his native land is to be devoted to a pleasure trip to
Hindostan. Such fancies and predilections may often be traced to early
reading and association, but not unfrequently they are capricious and
unaccountable, and we shall not investigate why the Eastern Archipelago,
of all the regions he had read and heard of, had the greatest
attractions for Dr. Edward Selberg, a young German physician of much
intelligence but little fortune, strongly imbued with a love of
adventure and the picturesque, and with a desire to increase his stores
of medical and scientific knowledge. The motives of his preference he
himself is puzzled to explain. Many difficulties opposed themselves to
the realisation of his darling project--a visit to the Sunda Islands.
His means were inadequate to the cost of so expensive an expedition; and
although the advantage of science was one of his objects, he had no hope
that his expenses would be defrayed by the government of his own or of
any other country. At last, through friends in Amsterdam, he obtained
the appointment of surgeon to a transport, on board of which, in
September 1837, he sailed from the Helder for the island of Java.
Besides the ship's company, he had for companions of his voyage a
hundred soldiers and two officers. The Dutch East Indies hold out small
temptation either to civil or military adventurers. Few visions of
speedy fortune, fewer still of rank and glory, dazzle the young and
ardent, and lure them from their native land to the fever-breeding
swamps of Batavia. Thus the Dutch government cannot afford to be very
squeamish as to the character and quality of the men it sends thither.
Dr. Selberg's account of his fellow-passengers is evidence of this.
"Amongst the soldiers," he says, "were natives of various countries,
Dutch, Belgians, French, Swiss; nearly half of them consisted of the
refuse of the different German states. Most villanous was the
physiognomy of many of these; the traces of every vice, and the ravages
of the various climates they had lived in, were visible upon their
countenances. They were men who had served in Algiers, Spain, or the
West Indies, who had been driven back to Germany by a craving after
their native land, and who, after a short residence there, weary of
inactivity, or urged by necessity, had enlisted in the Dutch East India
service. The Dutchmen consisted of convicts, whose imprisonment had been
remitted or abridged, on condition of their entering a colonial
regiment. These were the worst of the whole lot; they feared no
punishment, being fully persuaded that death awaited them in the
terrible climate of Java, and it was scarcely possible to check their
insubordination and excesses. Another very small section of the
detachment was composed of adventurers, whom wild dreams of fortune,
never to be realised, had induced to enlist for the sake of a free
passage."

Idleness would render such motley herds of evil-doers doubly difficult
to restrain, and the Dutch government provides, as far as is possible on
board ship, for their occupation and amusement. On the Betsey and Sara,
the name of Dr. Selberg's transport, guards were regularly mounted;
pipes, tobacco, dominos, nine-pins, and even musical instruments, were
abundantly supplied to the restless and discontented soldiery. But it
was the season of the equinox, and, for some time, sea-sickness caused
such toys to be neglected. Only when they had passed Madeira, the
weather became fine, and Dr. Selberg was able to enjoy his voyage and
make his observations. The latter were at first confined to the
dolphins, sharks, and shoals of flying-fish which surrounded the vessel;
and as to the enjoyment, it was of very short duration. After the first
month, the cool trade-wind left them, and they suffered from intolerable
heat. The soldiers had a comical appearance, standing on sentry with
musket and side-arms, but with a night-cap, shirt, linen shoes, and
trousers for their sole garments. To add to the irksomeness of life at
sea, there was little cordiality amongst the officers, who lived apart
as much as their narrow quarters would allow. One of them, a young
lieutenant, who, in hopes of advancement, had abandoned his country,
family, and mistress, was unable to bear up against the regrets that
assailed him, and shot himself early in the voyage. For fear of quarrels
between soldiers and sailors, the Line was passed without the usual
burlesque ceremonies. At last, on New-Year's-day, the ship dropped her
anchor in Batavia roads, at about a league and a half from shore. The
mud banks at the entrance of the two rivers which there enter the sea,
prohibit the nearer approach of large vessels; and many ships observe a
still greater distance to avoid the malaria blown over to them by the
land-wind.

The heat of those latitudes rendering rowing too violent an exertion for
European sailors, four Malays were taken on board the Betsey and Sara,
to maintain the communication with shore. It was with a joyful heart
that Dr. Selberg, weary of his protracted voyage, sprang into a boat,
and was landed in the port of Batavia. He found few traces of the
grandeur which once gave to that city the title of the Pearl of the
East. The gem has lost its sparkle; scarce a vestige of former
brilliancy remains. Choked canals, falling houses, lifeless streets, on
all sides meet and offend the eye; only here and there a stately edifice
tells of better days. The most remarkable is the Stadt-Huis, or
town-house, a gigantic building of a simple but appropriate style of
architecture, with handsome wings enclosing a large paved court.
Formerly, this structure included the tribunals, bank, and
foundling-hospital, but the unhealthiness of the city has caused the
removal of those institutions to the elevated suburb of Weltevreden. The
wings are still used as prisons. None of the other public buildings
claim especial notice. Built after the plan of Amsterdam, the close
streets, and the canals that intersect them, have contributed no little
to the insalubrity of Batavia. Only in the day-time does the city show
signs of life; towards evening, all Europeans fly the poisonous
atmosphere that has destroyed so many of their countrymen, and seek the
purer air of the suburbs and adjacent villages. There they have their
dwelling-houses, and pass the night. At nine in the morning, the roads
leading to Batavia are covered with carriages,--as necessary in Java as
boots and shoes are in Europe, walking being out of the question in that
climate,--and life returns to the deserted city. Chinese, Arabs, and
Armenians busy themselves in their shops, where the products of
three-quarters of the globe are displayed; the European merchant, clad
in a loose cotton dress, repairs to his counting-house, the public
offices are thrown open, and the bazaar is crowded with the numerous
races of men whom commerce has here assembled.

Including the neighbouring villages and country-houses properly
belonging to it, the city of Batavia contains about 3000 European
inhabitants, exclusive of the garrison, 23,000 Javans and Malays, 14,700
Chinese, 600 Arabs, and 9000 slaves. A grievous falling off from the
time when the population was of 160,000 souls. The Arabs, Chinese, and
Javans, have each their allotted quarter, or camp, as it is termed. That
of the Arabs is in the Rua Malacca--a remnant of the old Portuguese
nomenclature--and consists of a medley of low, Dutch-built houses, and
of light bamboo huts. The Arabs are greatly looked up to by the
aborigines, who attribute to them an especial holiness on account of
their strict observance of the Mahomedan law; and to such an extent is
this reverence carried that vessels known to belong to them are
respected by the pirates of the Archipelago. Remarkable for their quiet,
orderly lives, crime is said to be unknown amongst them. They are under
the orders of a chief upon whom the Dutch government confers the title
of Major, and who is answerable for the good behaviour of his
countrymen. Whilst traversing their quarter, Dr. Selberg observed, in
front of many of the doors, triumphal arches of green boughs, decorated
with coloured paper--an indication that the occupants of those dwellings
had recently returned from a pilgrimage to Mecca, and thence had a
peculiar claim on the respect of all true believers.

The way to the Chinese district is through a labyrinth of deserted
streets and crumbling houses, abandoned on account of their
unhealthiness. The contrast is striking on emerging from this scene of
solitude and desolation into the bustling Chinese Kampong, where that
active and ingenious people carry on their innumerable trades and
handicrafts. Here mechanics, with the simplest and seemingly most
inadequate tools, give a perfect finish to their manufactures; here are
shops full of toys, clothes, food, of every thing in short that can
minister to the wants and tastes of Chinese, Javans, or Europeans. "On
the roofs of several Chinese houses, I saw jars, some with the mouth,
others with the bottom turned towards the street. They are so placed in
conformity with a singular custom. The jar whose bottom is turned to the
street indicates that there is in the house a daughter not yet grown up.
When the damsel becomes marriageable, the position of the jar is
reversed; and when she marries, it is taken down altogether."

Both numerically and by reason of their energy and industry the Chinese
form a very important part of the population of Java, and but for the
precautions of the Dutch government they would soon entirely overrun the
island. The number allowed to settle there annually, is limited by law,
and during Dr. Selberg's stay at Surubaya, he saw a large junk,
containing four hundred of them, compelled to put back without landing a
passenger. Thus their numbers are kept stationary, or may even be said
to decrease; for in 1817, Raffles estimated the Chinese in Java at
nearly a hundred thousand, whilst Dr. Selberg, twenty years later,
calculates them at eighty-five thousand. Although in China emigration is
forbidden by law, from the over-populated districts, and when the
harvest fails, thousands of Chinese make their escape, and repair to
various of the East Indian islands. The majority of those in Java have
been born there of Javan women married to Chinese men, who compel their
wives to adopt their national usages. The children of these unions are
called _pernakans_ by the Dutch, and in their turn are married to
Chinese. The result has been a race which cannot be distinguished from
the pure Chinese. New comers from the mainland generally arrive with
little besides the clothes upon their backs, and obtain employment and
support from their more prosperous countrymen until they know the
customs and language sufficiently to make their way unassisted. Proud
and conceited as they are in their own land, in Java they are humble and
submissive, and seek their ends by craft and cunning. Laborious and
clever, they would be of great benefit to their adopted country, but for
their greediness and want of principle. In that oppressive and relaxing
climate, the European workman has no chance with them, and moreover they
accomplish the same results with half the number of tools. On the other
hand, they are sensual and debauched, and desperate gamblers. Their
favourite game is Topho, a bastard Rouge et Noir, at which they swindle
the simple Javans in the most unscrupulous and barefaced manner.

The unhealthiness of Batavia, arising from stagnant canals, bad
drinking-water, and adjacent swamps, has often been erroneously
considered to extend to the entire island. The whole has been condemned
for the fault of a fraction. Intermittent and remittent fevers, and
dysentery, are the diseases most common, but they are generally confined
to small districts. "Java," says Mr. Currie, surgeon of the 78th
Regiment, which was quartered in Batavia during the whole period of the
British occupation, from 1811 to 1815, "need no longer be held up as the
grave of Europeans, for, except in the immediate neighbourhood of
salt-marshes and forests, as in the city of Batavia, and two or three
other places on the north coast, it may be safely affirmed that no
tropical climate is superior to it in salubrity." The author of a
hastily written and desultory volume of oriental travel,[19] founded,
however, on personal experience, goes much further than this, and
maintains, that "with common prudence, eschewing _in toto_ the vile
habit of drinking gin and water whenever one feels thirsty, living
generously but carefully, avoiding the sun's rays by always using a
close or hooded carriage, and taking common precautions against wet feet
and damp clothing, a man may live, and enjoy life too, in Batavia, as
long as he would in any other part of the world." Mr. Davidson here
refers not to the city of Batavia--which he admits to be a fatal
residence, especially in the rainy season--but to the suburbs where he
resided some years. These, however, only come in the second class, as
regards salubrity, and are much too near the swamps, forests, and slimy
sea-shore, to be a desirable abode, except for those whom business,
compels to live within a drive of the city. Waitz, the Dutch writer, in
his _Levensregeln voor Oost Indie_, divides the European settlements in
Java into three classes; the healthy, or mountain districts, where the
air is dry, and the temperature moderate; the less healthy, which are
warm and damp; and finally, the positively pestiferous, where, besides
tremendous heat and great moisture, the atmosphere is laden with marsh
miasmata. Weltevrede, Ryswyk, and the other villages, or rather,
_faubourgs_, south of Batavia, belong to the second class; Batavia
itself, Bantam, Cheribon, Tubang, and Banjowangie, to the third, or
worst division. And Dr. Selberg informs us, that the only two upas-trees
whose existence he could ascertain, grow at Cheribon and Banjowangie,
which of course was likely to confirm the popular superstition
concerning the baneful influence of that tree. The coincidence, which at
first appears remarkable, is of easy explanation, the upas preferring a
swampy soil.

With respect to the possible longevity of Europeans in Java, Dr.
Selberg's account materially differs from Mr. Davidson's estimate. The
Dutch _employés_ have to serve sixteen years in the colony to be
entitled to a furlough and free passage home, and twenty years for a
pension. Very few, according to the doctor, live long enough to enjoy
the one or the other. And those who do, buy the privilege at a dear
rate. Their emaciated bodies, enfeebled minds, thin hair, and dim eyes,
show them to be blighted in their prime. True it is that, with few
exceptions, they utterly neglect the primary conditions of health in a
hot country. They enervate themselves by sensual indulgences, and
consume spirits and spices by wholesale. There is an absurd belief
amongst them, that drink keeps off disease and preserves life, a case
of _aut bibendum aut moriendum_; whereas the truth is precisely the
contrary, for in that climate spirits are poison. The fact probably is,
that they drink to dispel ennui, and to banish, at least for a while,
the regret they feel at having exchanged Europe for Java. Dr. Selberg,
states, that every European he spoke to in the colony, longed to leave
it. But the voyage home is costly, and so they linger on until death or
their furlough relieves them. Some lucky ones succeed in making rapid
fortunes, but these are the very few, whose example, however, suffices
to seduce others of their countrymen from their Dutch comforts, to brave
fevers, tigers, mosquitoes, and the other great and little perils of
Java, in pursuit of wealth which they rarely acquire, and which, when
obtained, their impaired health renders it difficult for them to enjoy.
Another class of the colonists consists of men who, having committed
crimes in their own country, have fled from the vengeance of the law.
These are thought little the worse of in Java, where the transition from
one quarter of the globe to the other seems admitted as a species of
moral whitewashing. And indeed, bad characters so abound amongst the
scanty European population, that if the respectable portion kept
themselves aloof, they would probably be found the minority. Many of the
reprobates have realised considerable property. The rich host of the
principal hotel at Surabaya, is a branded galley-slave. Dr. Selberg
often found himself in the society of hard drinkers, and these, when
wine had loosened their tongues, would let out details of their past
lives, which at first greatly shocked his simplicity. "I was once," he
says, "invited to a dinner, which ended, as usual, with a drinking bout.
My neighbour at the table, was a German from the Rhine provinces, who
had been twelve years in Java. He got very drunk, and spoke of his
beloved country, which he should never see again. He was a man of
property, well looked upon in the island, and I asked him what had first
induced him to settle there. He replied very quietly, that it was on
account of a theft he had committed. I started from my chair as if an
adder had bitten me, and begged the master of the house to let me sit
elsewhere than beside that man. He complied with my request, at the same
time remarking, with a smile, that I should hear similar things of many,
but that they were Europeans, and jolly fellows, and their conduct had
been blameless since their residence in Java." In such a state of
society, the best plan was to abstain from inquiries and intimacies. So
the doctor found, and after a while, was able to eat the excellent Javan
dinners, and sip his Medoc and Hochheimer, without asking or caring
whether his fellow-feeders would not have been more in their places in
an Amsterdam Zuchthaus, than in an honest man's company.

Dr. Selberg was at Batavia during the wet season, when torrents of rain,
of whose abundance and volume Europeans can form no idea, alternate with
a sun-heat that cracks the earth and pumps up pestilence from the low
marshy ground upon which this fever-nest is built. He had abundant
opportunity to investigate the causes and symptoms of the fevers and
other prevalent maladies. His zeal in the cause of science led him into
serious peril, by inducing him to pass a night in the city, at a time
when that unlucky portion of the inhabitants whom poverty or other
causes prevent from leaving it, were dying like flies from the effects
of the noxious exhalations. The quality of the air was so bad as
sensibly to affect the lungs and olfactories, and impede respiration;
and, though exposed to it but a very few hours, he experienced various
unpleasant symptoms, only to be dissipated by recourse to his medicine
chest. Hence some idea may be formed of the terrible effect of that
corrupt atmosphere upon those who continually breathe it. The plague of
mosquitoes, who find their natural element in the marsh-vapour, also
contributes to render Batavia an intolerable sleeping-place. One very
singular phenomenon observed by Dr. Selberg, but for which he does not
attempt to account, is the strong odour of musk constantly perceptible
in the city and its environs.

As less interesting to the general than to the medical reader, we pass
over the doctor's febrile researches, and accompany him to the town of
Surabaya, to which he proceeded after a few days' stay at Batavia. "It
was four in the afternoon when we came to an anchor: in an instant the
ship was surrounded by a swarm of the small native boats--tambangans, as
they are called; and we were assailed by all manner of noisy greetings
and offers of service. Some of the applicants wished to row us to the
town, others insisted upon selling us fruit and eatables, pine-apples,
shaddocks, arrack, dried fish, boiled crabs, &c. &c., contained in tubs
and jars of very dubious cleanliness. Chinese pressed upon our notice
their various wares;--large straw hats, beautifully plaited; cigars,
parasols, Indian ink, fans, and the like trifles. Here was a Javan proa,
full of boots and shoes, of all colours; yonder, a floating menagerie of
parrots, macaws, apes, and cockatoos, equally variegated, and to be sold
for a song. There were jewellers, and diamond merchants, and dealers in
carved horn and ivory; washer-women petitioning for custom, and
exhibiting certificates of honesty in a dozen different languages, not
one of which they understood; canoes full of young Javan girls,--these
last also for sale. I at once saw that I had come into a neighbourhood
where European civilisation had made considerable progress. Without
exception, I found the morals of the aborigines at the lowest pitch in
the vicinity of the large European establishments.

"It was a cheerful bustling scene. 'Here, sir, food!' 'Sir, you are
welcome!' 'Gold from Padang!' 'Shoes for a silver florin!' 'Capital
arrack!' and fifty other cries, mingled with the screams and chatter of
the birds; whilst a great orang-outang from Borneo, and a number of
monkeys, in different boats, insulted one another by the most diabolical
grimaces. Many of the canoes were mere hollow trees, enclosed, to
prevent their capsizing, in a frame-work of large bamboo stems, two of
these being fixed transversely to bow and stern of the boat, and having
their extremities connected by others running parallel to it. The
lightness and buoyancy of the bamboos obviate all risk of the boats
swamping. I have seen them out in a rough sea, tossed upon the waves,
and showing nearly the whole of their keel, but I never knew one to
upset."

The town of Surabaya, or Sorabaya, (Crocodile Resort,) is situated
towards the eastern extremity of the north coast of Java, opposite the
island of Madura, and at five hundred English miles from Batavia. It
stands in a large plain near the mouth of the Kalimas, or Gold River;
and, at the present day, is the most flourishing of the Dutch
establishments in Java. The climate is damp and hot, the thermometer
often standing at eighty-five in the night; but it is less unhealthy
than that of Batavia. The river is not drained and frittered away by
canals; the town is well planned and open; and the handsome houses are
interspersed with beautiful gardens. As at Batavia, however, the harbour
is more or less impeded by mud-banks, which prevent the entrance of
large ships. Favoured and encouraged by the Dutch governor, General
Daendels, and by his successor, Baron Van der Capellen, the place grew
rapidly in size and prosperity. It possesses a mint, an arsenal, docks
for ship-building, anchor-founderies, and other similar establishments.
Notwithstanding these advantages, the European population amounts, in
the town and entire province, which latter is of considerable extent, to
no more than six hundred and fifty persons, exclusive of the troops. The
whole population, of all nations and colours, reaches a quarter of a
million. The mode of living is far gayer and more agreeable than at
Batavia, which, whatever it may have been in former days, is now a mere
place of business, a collection of offices, shops, and warehouses. At
Surabaya life is more secure and its enjoyment greater. Every evening,
during the fine season, the large square in the Chinese
quarter--composed of massive comfortable buildings, contrasting
favourably with the fragile huts of the Javans--is converted into a kind
of fair, where the whole city assembles. "The place is illumined with a
thousand torches, which increase, to a stranger's eyes, the curious
exotic character of the scene. Javans, Chinese, Europeans, Liplaps, (the
Batavian term for the children of Europeans and Javan women,) and
various other races, crowd thither to gaze at the shows and
performances. There jugglers and rope-dancers display their dexterity,
far surpassing that of their European brethren; Chinese comedies are
acted, and Chinese orchestras jar upon the ear of the newly arrived
foreigner; the Rongengs (dancing girls) go through their series of
voluptuous attitudes; gongs are beaten, trumpets blown; Chinese gamblers
lie upon the ground and rob the Javans at the much-loved games of tzo
and topho." The people of Java are very musical, after their fashion,
and have all manner of queer instruments, many of a barbarous
description, some borrowed from the Chinese. They are much addicted to
dramatic exhibitions and puppet shows, and claim to be the original
inventors of the _ombres chinoises_, figures moved behind a transparent
curtain. Crawford, in his "History of the Indian Archipelago," gives
them the credit of this triumph of inventive genius, which has found its
way from the far Fast to the streets of London, and to Monsieur
Seraphin's saloon in the Palais Royal.

Javan diversions are not all of the same human and gentle character as
those just cited. Although mild and peaceable in disposition, the Javans
are passionately fond of fights between animals. Whilst beholding these
encounters, their usual calm gravity and mysterious reserve disappear,
and are replaced by the noisy, vehement eagerness of an excited boy.
Cock-fights are in great vogue, and in many an old Javan poem the
exploits of the crested combatants are related in a strain of laughable
magniloquence. But other and more serious contests frequently take
place. Before speaking of them, we turn to Dr. Selberg's spirited
account of a tiger-hunt, which occurred during his stay at Surabaya.
Tigers of various species abound in Java. The commonest are the royal
tiler and the leopard, of which latter animal the black tiger is a
bastard variety. Cubs of both kinds are frequently found in the same
lair; and when the black tiger is very young, leopard-like spots are
discernible on its skin. As it grows older, they disappear, and the hair
becomes of a uniform black. In the interior of Java much mischief is
done by these cowardly but bloodthirsty and cunning beasts. In the
neighbourhood of the large European settlements, accidents are less
frequent, the tiger shunning populous districts, and retreating into the
forest on the approach of man. When one makes its appearance, the
authorities generally order a battue. Very few, however, are killed,
though a price is set upon their heads, and they continue to destroy
about three hundred Javans per annum, on a moderate average. This is, in
great measure, the fault of the natives themselves, who, instead of
doing their utmost to exterminate the breed, entertain a sort of
superstitious respect for their devourers, and carry it so far as to
place food in the places to which they are known to resort, thinking
thereby to propitiate the foe, and keep his claws off their wives and
children. They themselves, when compelled to oppose the tiger, or when
led against him by their European allies, show vast coolness and
courage, the more remarkable, as, in ordinary circumstances of danger,
they are by no means a brave people. Raffles quotes several anecdotes of
their fearlessness before wild beasts, and Dr. Selberg furnishes one of
a similar kind. "A Javan criminal was condemned by the sultan to fight a
large royal tiger, whose ferocity was raised to the highest point by
want of food, and artificial irritation. The only weapon allowed to the
human combatant was a kreese with the point broken off. After wrapping a
cloth round his left fist and arm, the man entered the arena with an air
of undaunted calmness, and fixed a steady menacing gaze upon the brute.
The tiger sprang furiously upon his intended victim, who with
extraordinary boldness and rapidity thrust his left fist into the gaping
jaws, and at the same moment, with his keen though pointless dagger,
ripped up the beast to the very heart. In less than a minute, the tiger
lay dead at his conqueror's feet. The criminal was not only forgiven but
ennobled by his sovereign."

A tiger having attacked and torn a Javan woman, a hunt was ordered, and
Dr. Selberg was invited to share in it. He got on horseback before
daybreak, but the sun was up and hot when he reached the place of
rendezvous, where he found a strong muster of Europeans and Javans. "In
front of us was a small wood, choked and tangled with bushes: this was
the tiger's lair. At about twenty paces from the trees, we Europeans
posted ourselves, with our rifles, twelve paces from each other, and in
the form of a semicircle. Behind us was a close chain of several hundred
Javans, armed with long lances, kreeses, and short swords. If the tiger
broke through our ranks, they were to kill him after their fashion. The
natives--those, at least, who have not served as soldiers--being
unskilled in the use of fire-arms, are not trusted with them, for fear
of accidents. From the opposite side of the wood a crowd of musicians
now advanced, beating drums, triangles, and gongs, and making an
infernal din, intended to scare the tiger from his lurking place, and
drive him towards us. We were all on the alert, guns cocked, eyes
riveted on the wood. The instruments came nearer and nearer, and I
expected each moment to see the monster spring forth. There were no
signs of him, however, and presently the beaters stood before us.
Heartily disappointed at this fruitless chase and unexpected result, I
was about to join the hunter stationed to my left, when the one on my
other hand called a Javan, and bade him thrust his lance into a bush on
my right front, between our line and the little wood. Impossible,
thought I, that the beast should be there: and I turned to speak to my
friend. I had uttered but a word or two, when a rustle and rush made me
look round. The Javan stood before the bush, clutching a tiger by the
throat with both hands. The brute was already pierced with bullets,
lances, and daggers: a broad stream of blood flowed over the face of the
Javan, who continued firmly to grasp his enemy, until we released the
lifeless carcase from his hands. His wound was not so serious as we had
at first feared: a bit of the scalp was torn off, and the nose slightly
injured. He stood silent, and apparently stupefied, and revived only
when an official informed him that he should receive the reward of ten
dollars, set upon the head of every tiger."

Although these field-days occasionally take place, the Javans have
another and easier way of tiger catching, by means of a magnified
rat-trap, baited with a goat, and of which the door closes as the tiger
rushes in. The captive is then killed with bamboo spears, or, more
frequently, transferred to a strong wooden cage, and taken to a town,
where he contributes to the amusement of his conquerors by fighting the
buffalo. The Java buffalo is of the largest species, is covered with
short thick hair, and has sharp horns, more than two feet long, growing
in a nearly horizontal direction. His colour is of a dirty blue-black,
and altogether he is a very ugly customer, as the unfortunate tiger
usually finds. For these duellos between the forest grandee and the lord
of the plain, a regular arena is erected, surrounded by strong
palisades, behind which stand Javans armed with lances. After the
buffalo has been brought into the ring, a native, generally a chief,
approaches the tiger's cage with a dancing step, accompanied by music,
opens it, and retires in the same manner, keeping his eyes fixed upon
the tiger. The tiger, who well knows his formidable opponent, comes
unwillingly forth, and creeps round the arena, avoiding his foe, and
watching an opportunity to spring upon his head or neck. Presently the
buffalo, who is lost always the assailant, rushes, with a tremendous
bellow, at his sneaking antagonist. The tiger seizes a favourable
moment, and fixes his long claws in the buffalo's neck; but the furious
bull dashes him against the palisades, and, yelling fearfully, he
relinquishes his hold. He now shirks the combat more than ever; but the
buffalo follows him up till he pierces him with his horns, or crushes
him to death against the barrier. Sometimes friend Tiger proves dunghill
from the very first, and then the Javans goad him with pointed sticks,
scald him with boiling water, singe him with blazing straw, and resort
to other humane devices to spur his courage. If the buffalo fights shy,
which does not often happen, he is subjected to similar persecutions.
But the poor tiger has no chance allowed him; for if he does, through
pluck and luck, prove the better beast, the Javans, who evidently have
not the slightest notion of fair play, or any sympathy with bravery,
subject him to an unpleasant operation called the _rampoh_. They make a
ring round him, and torment him till he hazards a desperate spring, and
finds his death upon their lance points.

It is a remarkable fact, that the Java tigers seldom or never attack
Europeans. They consume the natives by dozens; but Dr. Selberg could get
no account of an onslaught on a Dutchman or any other white man. The
Javans are well aware of this, and assert, that if a number of
Europeans, amongst whom there is only one native, are exposed to the
attack of a tiger, the native is invariably the victim. This assertion
is confirmed by many examples. Dr. Selberg conjectures various reasons
for this eccentricity or epicurism, whichever it may be termed, on the
part of the tiger, and amongst other hypotheses, suggests that the
animal may be partial to the hogoo of the Javans, who anoint their
yellow carcases with cocoa-nut oil. The Javans themselves explain it
differently, and maintain that the souls of Europeans pass, after death,
into the bodies of tigers--a bitter satire upon those whose mission it
was to civilise and improve, and who, but too often, have preferred to
persecute and deprave. Such a superstition demonstrates more than whole
volumes of history, after what manner the first acquaintance was made
between this artless, peaceful people, and their European conquerors.
The early administration of the Dutch in Java was marked by many acts of
cruelty. "Their leading traits," says Raffles, "were a haughty
assumption of superiority, for the purpose of over-awing the credulous
simplicity of the natives, and a most extraordinary timidity, which led
them to suspect treachery and danger in quarters where they were least
to be apprehended." Thus we find them, in the sixteenth century,
murdering the Prince of Madura, his wives, children, and followers,
merely because, when he came to visit them on board their ships, with
friendly intentions and by previous agreement, his numerous retinue
inspired them with alarm. The massacre of the Chinese in the streets of
Batavia, in the year 1731, when nine thousand were slain in cold blood
in the course of one morning, is another crime on record against the
Dutch. Step by step, their path marked with blood, the people who had at
first thankfully received permission to establish a single factory,
obtained possession of the whole island. On its southern side there are
still two nominally independent princes, in reality vassals of the
Dutch, and existing but at their good pleasure. The present character of
the Dutch administration is mild; the slaves, especially, now few and
decreasing in number, are humanely treated, and in fact are better off
than the lower orders of the free Javans, being employed as household
servants, whilst the natives drag out a painful and laborious existence
in the rice and coffee-fields. But, however good the intentions of the
Dutch government, however meritorious the endeavours of certain
governors-general, especially of the excellent Van der Capellen, to
civilise and improve the Javans, little progress has as yet been made
towards that desirable end. In the interior of the island, where
Europeans are scarce, the character of the natives is far better than on
the coast, where they have contracted all the vices of which the example
is so plentifully afforded them by their conquerors. Dwelling in
wretched huts, the cost of whose materials and erection varied, in the
time of Raffles, from five to ten shillings, they till, for a wretched
pittance, the soil that their forefathers possessed. Brutalised,
however, as they are, living from hand to mouth, and suffering from the
diseases incident to poverty and the climate, and from others introduced
from Europe, they appear tolerably contented. In the midst of their
misfortunes, they have one great solace, one consoling and engrossing
vice; they live to gamble. For a game of chance, they abandon every
thing, forget their duties and families, spend their own money and that
of other people, and even set their liberty on a cast of the die. It is
a national malady, extending from the prince to the boor, and including
the Liplaps or half-breeds, who generally unite the vices of their
European fathers and Indian mothers. The beast-fights are popular,
chiefly because they afford such glorious opportunity for betting.
Besides cocks and quails, tigers and buffaloes, other animals, the least
pugnacious possible, are stimulated to a contest. Locusts are made to
enter the lists, and are tickled on the head with a straw until they
reach the fighting pitch. Wild pigs are caught in snares and opposed to
goats, who generally punish them severely, the Javan pigs being small,
and possessing little strength and courage. Then there are races between
paper kites, whose strings are coated with lime and pounded glass, so
that, on coming in contact, they cut each other, and the falling kite
proclaims its owner's bet lost. And by day and night, Dr. Selberg,
informs us, on the high roads, and near the villages, groups are to be
seen stretched upon the earth, playing games of chance. Nor are these by
any means the lowest of the people. The doctor cites several instances
of the extraordinary addiction both of men and women to this vice. He
had ordered a quantity of cigars of a Javan, who undertook to make and
deliver a hundred daily, for which he was to be paid a florin. For two
days the man kept to his contract, and then did not show his face for a
week. On inquiry, it appeared that, although wretchedly poor, and having
a large family to support, he had been unable to resist the dice-box,
and had gone to gamble away his brace of florins. To get rid even of
this small sum might take him some time, thanks to the infinite
subdivisions of Javan coinage, which descend to a Pichi, or small bit of
tin with a hole through it, whereof 5,600 make a dollar. When Dr.
Selberg left Java, a Dutch pilot steered the ship as far as Passaruang.
The man appeared very melancholy, and, on being asked the of his
sadness, said that, during his previous trip, his wife had gambled all
his savings. He had forgotten the key in his money-box, and, on going
home, the last doit had disappeared. Dr. Selberg asked him if he could
not cure his better-half of so dangerous a propensity. "She is a Liplap,
sir," replied the man, with a shrug, meaning that correction was
useless, and a good lock the only remedy. The merchants who ship specie
and other valuable merchandise on vessels manned by Javans, supply the
crew with money to gamble, as the only means to rouse them from their
habitual indolent lethargy, and ensure their vigilance.

Whilst rowing up the Kalimas, Dr. Selberg was greatly dazzled by the
bright eyes and other perfections of a young half-breed lady, as she
took her airing in a _tambangan_, richly dressed in European style, and
attended by two female slaves. A few days afterwards, when driving out
to visit his friend Dr. F., the German chief of the Surabaya hospital,
he again caught sight of this brown beauty, reclining in an elegant
carriage-and-four, beneath the shadow of large Chinese parasols, held by
servants in rich liveries. Our adventurous Esculapius forthwith galloped
after her. Unfortunately, his team took it into their heads to stop
short in full career--no uncommon trick with the stubborn little Javan
horses--and before they could be prevailed upon to proceed, all trace of
the incognita was lost. Subsequently the doctor was introduced to her
husband, a German of good family, who had left his country on account of
an unfortunate duel, and who, after a short residence in Java, where he
held a government situation, had been glad to pay his debts and supply
his expensive habits by a marriage with a wealthy half-caste heiress.
The history of the lady is illustrative of a curious state of society.
She was the daughter of a Javan slave and a Dutch gentleman, the
administrator of one of the richest provinces of the island. As is there
the case with almost all half-breed children, and even with many of pure
European blood, she grew up under the care of her mother--that is to
say, under no care at all--in the society of Javans of the very lowest
class, her father's domestics. The Dutchman died when she was about ten
years old, having previously acknowledged her as his daughter, and left
her the whole of his property. The child, who, till then, had been
allowed to run about wild and almost naked, was now taken in hand by her
guardians, and converted, by means of European clothes, into an
exceedingly fine lady. Education she of course had none, but remained in
her original state of barbarous ignorance. Four years afterwards she
became acquainted with the German gentleman above-mentioned, and soon
afterwards they were married. Dr. Selberg gives a characteristic account
of his first visit at their house. "I went with Dr. F. to call upon Mr.
Von N., but that gentleman was out. 'Let us wait his return,' said my
friend, 'and in the meantime we will see what his lady is about, and you
can pay your respects to her. N. likes his wife to be treated with all
the ceremony used to a lady of condition in our own country.' We passed
through several apartments, filled with European and Asiatic furniture
and luxuries, and paused at the entrance of a large open room. With a
slight but significant gesture, F. pointed to a group which there
offered itself to our view. On a costly carpet lay several of Mr. Von
N.'s black servants, both male and female, and in the midst of them was
Mevrouw Von N., only to be distinguished from her companions by the
richer materials of her dress. A silken _sarong_ (a kind of plaid
petticoat,) and a _kabaya_ of the same material composed her costume; a
pair of Chinese slippers, of red velvet, embroidered with gold, lay near
her naked feet. She rattled a dice-box, and the servants anxiously
awaited the throw, watching with intense eagerness each movement of
their mistress. Down came the dice, and with an inarticulate cry the
winners threw themselves on the stakes. So preoccupied were the whole
party, that for some moments we were unobserved. At last an exclamation
of surprise warned the lady of our unwelcome presence. The slaves ran
away helter-skelter. Mevrouw Von N. snatched up her slippers, and with a
confused bow to Dr. F., disappeared. I was confounded at this strange
scene. My companion laughed, led me into another room, and desired me to
say nothing of what I had seen to N., who presently came in, and
received us with the unaffected frankness and hospitality universal in
Java." The _Vrouw_ was now summoned, and, after a while, made her
appearance in full European fig. Conversation with her was difficult,
for she could not speak Dutch, and through a feeling of shame at her
ignorance, would not speak Malay. Neglected by her husband, and placed
by her birth in an uncertain position between Javan and European women,
the poor girl had neither the education of the latter, nor the domestic
qualities inherent in the former. Subsequently Dr. Selberg passed some
time in Von N.'s house, and his account of what there occurred is not
very creditable to the tone and morals of Javan society. Driving out one
morning with his host, the latter quietly asked him if he was not
carrying on an intrigue with his wife. "You may speak candidly," said
he, with great unconcern, and to the infinite horror of the innocent
doctor. It appeared that Von N. had allowed his lady to discover a
conjugal dereliction on his part, and he suspected her of using
reprisals. "She is a Liplap," he said, "and though you are only an
_orang bar_ (a new comer,) you know what that means." Shocked by this
cynical proceeding on the part of his entertainer, Dr. Selberg left the
house the next day, after presenting Von N. with a double-barrelled gun
in payment of his hospitality. Throughout Java, and even where hotels
exist, private houses are invariably open to the stranger, and his
reception is most cordial. But on his departure, it is incumbent on him,
according to the custom of the island, to make his host a present,
sufficiently valuable to show that he has not accepted hospitality from
niggardly motives.

The credulity and superstition of the Javans exceed belief. Dreams,
omens, lucky and unlucky days, astrology, amulets, witchcraft, are with
them matters of faith and reverence. They believe each bush and rock,
even the air itself, to be inhabited by _Dhewo_ or spirits. Not
satisfied with the numerous varieties of supernatural beings with which
their own traditions supply them, they have borrowed others from the
Indians, Persians, and Arabs. The Dhewos are good spirits, and great
respect is shown to them. They regulate the growth of trees, ripen the
fruit, murmur in the running streams, and abide in the still shades of
the forest. But their favourite dwelling is the Warinzie tree (_ficus
Indica_,) which droops its long branches to the earth to form then a
palace. The Javans mingle their superstitions with the commonest events
of every-day life. Thieves, for instance, will throw a little earth,
taken from a new-made grave, into the house they intend to rob,
persuaded that the inmates will thereby be plunged into a deep sleep.
When they have done this, and especially if they have managed to place
the earth under the bed, they set to work with full conviction of
impunity. Bamboo boxes of soil are frequently found in the possession of
captured thieves, who usually confess the purpose to which they were to
be applied. During the English occupation, it was casually discovered
that a buffalo's skull was constantly carried backwards and forwards
from one end of the island to the other. The Javans had got a notion
that a frightful curse had been pronounced upon the man who should allow
it to remain stationary. After the skull had travelled many hundred
miles, it was brought to Samarang, and there the English resident had it
thrown into the sea. The Javans looked on quietly, and held the curse to
be neutralised by the white men's intervention. Dr. Selberg gives
various other examples, observed by himself, of the ridiculous
superstitions of these simple islanders. A very remarkable one is given
in the works of Raffles and Crawford. In 1814, it was found out that a
road had been made up to the lofty summit of the mountain of Sumbing.
The road was twenty feet broad, and about sixty English miles in length,
and a condition of its construction being that it should cross no
water-course, it straggled in countless zig-zags up the mountain side.
This gigantic work, the result of the labours of a whole province, and
of a people habitually and constitutionally averse to violent exertion,
was finished before the government became aware of its commencement. Its
origin was most absurd and trifling. An old woman gave out that she had
dreamed a dream, and that a deity was about to alight upon the mountain
top. A curse was to fall upon all who did not work at a road for his
descent into the plain. Such boundless credulity as this, is of course
easily turned to account by mischievous persons, and has often been
worked upon to incite the Javans to revolt. The history of the island,
even in modern times, abounds in insurrections, got up, for the most
part, by men of little talent, but possessing sufficient cunning to turn
the imbecility of their countrymen to their own advantage.

The weakness of the Javans' intellects is only to be equalled by their
strange want of memory. A few weeks after the occurrence of an event in
which they themselves bore a share, they have totally forgotten both its
time and circumstances. None of them have any idea of their own age. Dr.
Selberg had a servant, apparently about sixteen years old. He frequently
asked him how old he was, and never got the same answer twice. Marsden
remarked this same peculiarity in the Sumatra Malays, and Humboldt in
the Chaymas Indians. The latter people, however, do not know how to
count beyond five or six, which is not the case with the Javans. Their
want of memory renders their historical records of questionable value,
producing an awful confusion of dates, in addition to the childish tales
and extraordinary misrepresentations which they mingle with narratives
of real events.

Although, is already observed, the corruption and immorality of the
natives in and near European establishments is as great as their virtue
and simplicity in the interior, it cannot be said that crime abounds in
any part of Java. Within the present century prayers were read for the
Governor-general's safety when he went on a journey, and thanksgivings
offered up on his return; now the whole island may be travelled over
almost as safely as any part of Europe. The Javans are neither
quarrelsome nor covetous, and even when they turn robbers they seldom
kill or ill-treat those they plunder. On the other hand they are
terribly sensitive of any injury to their honour, and all insult is apt
to produce the terrible _Amók_, _freely_ rendered in English as "running
a muck." It is a Malay word, signifying to attack some one furiously and
desperately with intent to murder him. It is also used to express the
rush of a wild beast on his prey, or the charge of a body of troops,
especially with the bayonet. This outbreak of revengeful fury is
frequent with Malays, and by no means uncommon amongst Javans. In the
latter, whose usual character is so gentle, these sudden and frantic
outbursts strike the beholder with astonishment, the greater that there
is no previous indication of the coming storm. A Javan has received an
outrage, perhaps a blow, but he preserves his usual calm, grave
demeanour, until on a sudden, and with a terrible shriek, he draws his
kreese, and attacks not only those who have offended him, but
unoffending bystanders, and often the persons he best loves. It is a
temporary insanity, which usually lasts till he sinks from exhaustion,
or is himself struck down. The paroxysm over, remorse assails him, and
he bewails the sad results of his _matta glab_ or blinded eye, by which
term the Javans frequently designate the _amók_. Apprehension of danger
often brings on this species of delirium. "Two Javans," says Dr.
Selberg, "married men, and intimate friends, went one day to Tjandjur,
to sell bamboo baskets. One got rid of all his stock, went to a Chinese
shop, bought a handkerchief and umbrella for his wife, and set out on
his return home with his companion, who had been unfortunate, and had
sold nothing. The lucky seller was in high spirits, childishly delighted
at his success, and with the presents he took to his wife; his friend
walked by his side, grave and silent. Suddenly the former also became
mute; he fancied his comrade envied and intended to stab him. Drawing
his kreese, he fell upon the unoffending man, and laid him dead upon the
ground. Sudden repentance succeeded the groundless suspicion and cruel
deed, and some Javans, who soon afterwards came up, found him raving
over the body of his friend, and imploring to be delivered to justice."
Seldom, however, does an _amók_ make only one victim. The Javan women
are not subject to these fury-fits, but are not on that account the less
dangerous. Of an extremely jealous disposition, they have quiet and
subtle means of revenging themselves upon their rivals. They are skilled
in the preparation of poisons--of one especially, which kills slowly,
occasioning symptoms similar to those of consumption. When a Javan
perceives these, she resigns herself to her fate, knowing well what is
the matter with her, and rejecting antidotes as useless. And European
physicians have as yet done little against the effects of this poison,
whose ingredients they cannot discover with sufficient accuracy to
counteract them. A medical man told Dr. Selberg that copper dust and
human hair were amongst them, combined with other substances entirely
unknown to him. The dose is usually administered in rice, the chief food
of the Javans. Arsenic, another poison in common use, is sold in all the
bazaars. This poisoning practice is not unusual amongst Liplap women
married to Europeans, and who, although nominally Christians, possess,
for the most part, all the vices and superstitious of their Mahometan
sisters. The latter can hardly be said to have any religion, for they
know little of the faith of Mahomed beyond a few of its outward forms.
It has been remarked, that since Java has been more mildly governed, and
that the natives have been better treated by the Dutch, _amóks_ have
been far less frequent. By kindness, it is evident that much may be done
with the Javans, whose gratitude and fidelity to those who show it them
are admitted by all Europeans who have lived any time in the island.
Another excellent quality is their love of truth. The tribunals have
little trouble in ascertaining a criminal's guilt. He at once confesses
it, and seeks no other extenuation than is to be found in the usual plea
of moral and momentary blindness.

Passaruang was the last Javan town visited by Dr. Selberg. He had
promised himself much pleasure in exploring the province of the same
name, and in examining the various objects of interest it contains. He
intended to ascend the volcano of Pelian Bromo, whose fiery crater, seen
from a distance at sea, had excited his lively curiosity; he wished to
visit the ruins of old temples, vestiges of Javan civilisation a
thousand years ago, and to gaze at the cataracts which dash, from a
height of three hundred feet, down the rocky sides of Mount Arjuna. But
he was doomed to disappointment. Up to this time his health had been
excellent; neither heat nor malaria had succeeded in converting his
wholesome German complexion into the bilious tint that stains the cheeks
of most Europeans in Java. The climate, however, would not forego its
customary tribute, and, on his passage from Surabaya to Passaruang, he
fell seriously ill. After suffering for a week on board ship, he felt
somewhat better, and went on shore, but experienced a relapse, and was
carried senseless into the house of a rich Javan. He was gradually
getting acquainted with the comforts of the country he had so lunch
desired to visit. Already he had been nearly choked by the marsh vapour
at Batavia, half devoured by mosquitoes, and all but drowned in a
squall. In the island of Madura, whilst traversing a swamp, on the
shoulders of a native, his bearer had attempted to rob him of his watch,
and, on his resenting this liberty, he and his boat's crew were
attacked, and narrowly escaped massacre. And now came disease,
aggravated by the minor nuisances incidental to that land of vermin and
venom. Confined to bed by sudden and violent fever, he received every
kindness and attention from his friendly host, who, on leaving him at
night, placed an open cocoa nut by his bed-side, a simple but delightful
fever-draught. Awaking with a parched tongue and burning thirst, he
sought the nut, but it was empty. The next night the same thing
occurred, and he could not imagine who stole his milk. He ordered two
nuts and a light to be left near him: towards midnight a slight noise
attracted his attention, and he saw two small beasts steadily and
cautiously approach, stare at him with their protruding eyes, and then
dip their ugly snouts into his cocoa nuts. These free-and-easy vermin
were _geckos_, a species of lizard, about a foot long, of a pale
grayish-green colour, spotted with red, having a large mouth full of
sharp teeth, a long tall, marked with white rings, and sharp claws upon
their feet. Between these claws, by which they cling to whatever they
touch, is a venomous secretion that distills into the wounds they make.
Dr. Selberg was well acquainted with these comely creatures, and had
even bottled a couple, which now grace the shelves of a German museum;
but, in his then feeble and half delirious state, their presence
intimidated him; and, fancying that if he disturbed their repast, they
might transfer their attentions to himself, he allowed them to swill at
leisure, until an accidental noise scared them away. Their visit was,
perhaps, a good omen, for, on the following day, the doctor found
himself sufficiently recovered to return on board his transport. After
some buffeting by storms, and a passing ramble in St. Helena, he reached
Europe, his cravings after Eastern travel tolerably assuaged, to give
his countrymen the benefit of his notes and observations upon the fair
but feverish shores of the Indian Archipelago.




THE CAVE OF THE REGICIDES;

AND HOW THREE OF THEM FARED IN NEW ENGLAND.


"Oliver Newman" is a poem which I opened with trembling; for the last
new poem that ever shall be read from such an one as Southey, is not a
thing that can be looked upon lightly. Then it came to us from his
grave, "like the gleaming grapes when the vintage is done;" and the last
fruit of such a teeming mind must be relished, though far from being the
best; as we are glad to eat apples out of season, which, in the time of
them, we should hardly have gathered. But this is not to the purpose. I
was surprised to find the new poem built on a history which novelists
and story-tellers have been nibbling at these twenty years, and which
seems to be a peculiarly relishable bit of _news_ on an old subject, if
we may judge by the way in which literary epicures have snatched it up
piecemeal. In the first place, Sir Walter Scott, who read every thing,
got hold of a "North American publication,"[20] from which he learned;
with surprise, that Whalley the regicide, "who was never heard of after
the Restoration," fled to Massachusetts, and there lived concealed, and
died, and was laid in an obscure grave, which had lately been
ascertained. Giving Mr. Cooper due credit for a prior use of the story,
he made it over, in his own inimitable way, and puts it into the mouth
of Major Bridgenorth, relating his adventures in America. Southey seems
next to have got wind of it, reviewing "Holmes' American Annals,"[21] in
the _Quarterly_, when he confesses he first thought of King Philip's war
as the subject for an epic--a thought which afterwards became a flame,
and determined him to make Goffe (another regicide) the hero of his
poem. A few details of the story got out of romance and gossip into
genuine history, in a volume of "Murray's Family Library;"[22] and the
great "Elucidator" of Oliver Cromwell's mystifications condenses them
again into a single sentence, observing, with his usual buffoonery, that
"two of Oliver's _cousinry_ fled to New England, lived in caves there,
and had a sore time of it." And now comes the poem from Southey, full of
allusions to the same story, and, after all, giving only part of it; for
I do not see that any one has yet mentioned the fact, that _three_
regicides lived and died in America after the Restoration, and that
their sepulchres are there to this day.

In truth, the new poem led me to think there might be some value in a
certain MS. of my own,--mere notes of a traveller, indeed, but results
of a tour which I made in New England in the summer of 18--, during
which, besides visiting one of the haunts of the fugitives, I took the
pains to investigate all that is extant of their story. I found there a
queer little account of them, badly written, and worse arranged; the
work of one Dr. Stiles, who seems to have been something of a pious
Jacobin, and whose reverence for the murderers of King Charles amounts
almost to idolatry. He was president of Yale College, at Newhaven, and
thoroughly possessed of all the hate and cant about Malignants, which
the first settlers of New England brought over with them as an heir-loom
for their sons. A member of his college told me, that Stiles used to
tell the undergraduates that silly story about the king's being hanged
by mistake for Oliver, after the Restoration; and that he only left it
off when a dry fellow laughed out at the narration, and on being asked
what there was to laugh at, replied, "hanging a man that had lost his
neck." After reading the doctor's book on the Regicides, I cannot doubt
the anecdote, for he carries his love of Oliver into rapture; talks of
"entertaining angels" in the persons of Goffe and Whalley, and applies
to them the beautiful language in which St. Paul commemorates the
saints--"they wandered about, being destitute, afflicted, tormented;
they wandered in deserts, and in mountains, and in dens and caves of the
earth--_of whom the world was not worthy_." The book itself is the most
confused mass of repetition and contradiction I ever saw, and yet proved
to me vastly entertaining. In connexion with it, I got hold of several
others that helped to "elucidate" it; and thus, with much verbal
information, I believe I came to a pretty clear view of the case. I can
only give what I have gathered, in the off-hand way of a tourist, but
perhaps I may serve some one with facts, which they will arrange much
better, in performing the more serious task of a historian.

After spending several weeks in the vicinity of New York, I left that
city in a steamer for a visit to the "Eastern States;" our passage lying
through the East River and Long Island Sound, and requiring about five
hours sail to complete the trip to Newhaven. I found the excursion by no
means an agreeable one. The Sound itself is wide, and our way lay at
equal distances between its shores, which, being quite low, are not
easily descried by a passenger. Then there came up a squall, which
occasioned a great swell in the sea, and sickness was the consequence
among not a few of the company on board. Altogether, the steamer being
greatly inferior to those on the Hudson, and crowded with a very
uninteresting set of passengers, I was glad to retreat from the cabin,
going forward, and looking out impatiently for the end of our voyage.

Here it was that I first caught sight of two bold headlands, looming up,
a little retired from the shore, and giving a dignity to the coast at
this particular spot, by which it is not generally distinguished. We
soon entered the bay of Newhaven, and the town itself began to appear,
embosomed very snugly between the two mountains, and deriving no little
beauty from their prominent share in its surrounding scenery. I judged
them not more than four or five hundred feet high, but they are marked
with elegant peaks, and present a bold perpendicular front of trap-rock,
which, with the bay and harbour in the foreground, and a fine outline of
hills sloping away towards the horizon, conveys a most agreeable
impression to the approaching stranger of the region he is about to
visit. A person who stood looking out very near me, gave me the
information that the twin mountains were called, from their geographical
relations to the meridian of Newhaven, East and West Rocks, and added
the remark, for which I was hardly prepared, that West Rock was
celebrated as having afforded a refuge to the regicides Goffe and
Whalley.

My fellow-passenger, observing my interest in this statement, went on to
tell me, in substance, as follows. A cleft in its rugged rocks was once
actually inhabited by those scape-goats, and still goes by the name of
"The Regicides' Cave." Newhaven, moreover, contains the graves of these
men, and regards them with such remarkable veneration, that even the
railroad speed of progress and improvement has been checked to keep them
inviolate;--a tribute which, in America, must be regarded as very
marked, since no ordinary obstacle ever is allowed to interfere with
their perpetual "go-ahead." It seems the ancient grave-yard, where the
regicides repose, was found very desirable for a public square; and as a
mimic Père-la-Chaise had just been created in the outskirts of the town,
away went coffins and bones, grave-stones and sepulchral effigies, and
monumental urns, to plant the new city of the dead, and make way for
living dogs, as better than defunct lions. Such a resurrection the
towns-folk gave to their respectable grandfathers and grandmothers; but
not to the relics of the regicides. At these shrines of murder and
rebellion, the spade and the mattock stood still; and their once
restless tenants, after shifting between so many disturbances while
living, were suffered to sleep on, in a kind of sepulchral limbo,
between the marble in Westminster Abbey, to which they once aspired, and
the ditch at Tyburn, which they so narrowly escaped.

I was cautioned by my communicative friend not to speak too freely of
'the Regicides.' I must call them "the Judges," he said; for, in
Newhaven, where Puritanism perpetuates some of its principles, and all
of its prejudices, it appears that such is the prevailing euphuism which
is employed, as more in harmony with their notions of Charles as a
sinful Malignant, and of the Rebellion as a glorious foretaste of the
kingdom of the saints. "The Judges' Cave" is therefore the expression by
which they speak of that den of thieves on West Rock; and they always
use an equally guarded phrase when they mention those graves in the
square,--graves, be it remembered, that enclose the ashes of men, who
should have been left to the tender mercies of the public executioner,
had they only received in retribution what they meted out to their
betters.

Newhaven, in addition to these treasures, boasts another Puritan relic,
of a different kind. The early settlers founded here a Calvinistic
college, which has become a very popular sectarian university, and my
visit at this time was partly occasioned by the recurrence of the annual
commemoration of its foundation. I suspect the person who leaned over
the bulwarks of the steamer, and gave me the facts--which I have related
in a very different vein from that in which I received them--was a
dissenting minister going up to be at his college at this important
anniversary. There was _a tone in his voice_, as was said of Prince
Albert's, when he visited the _savans_ at Southampton, which
sufficiently indicated his sympathies.[23] The regicides were evidently
the calendared saints of his religion, and their adventures his _Acta
Sanctorum_. He was nevertheless very civil and entertaining, and I was
glad, on arriving at the quay, to find no worse companion forced upon me
in the carriage which I had engaged (as I supposed for myself alone) to
take me into the city. There was so great a rush for cabs and coaches,
however, that there was no going single; and I accordingly found myself
again in close communication with my narrative fellow-traveller, who
soon made room for two others; grave personages with rigid features and
polemical address, which convinced me that I was in presence of the dons
and doctors of a Puritan university.

"Go-ahead!" sung out somebody, as soon as our luggage was strapped
behind; and away we drove, in full chase, with drays and cabs, towards
the central parts of the city. The newer streets are built, I observed,
with snug little cottages, and intersect at right angles. The suburban
Gothic, so justly reprobated by the critics of Maga, is not quite as
unusual as it ought to be; but a succession of neat little
shrubbery-plots around the doors, and a trim air about things in
general, suits very well the environs of such a miniature city as
Newhaven. I never saw such a place for shade-trees. They are planted
every where; little slender twigs, boxed carefully from wheels and
schoolboys, and struggling apparently against the curse, "bastard slips
shall not thrive;" and venerable overarching trees, in long avenues, so
remarkable and so numerous that the town is familiarly called, by its
poets, the "City of Elms."

The Funereal Square, of which I had already learned the history, was
soon reached, and we were set down at a hotel in its neighbourhood. Its
"rugged elms" are not the only trace of the fact, that the rude
forefathers of the city once reposed in their shadow; for, in the middle
of the square, a church of tolerable Gothic still remains; in amiable
proximity to which appear two meeting-houses, of a style of architecture
truly original, and exhibiting as natural a development of Puritanism,
as the cathedrals display of Catholic religion. Behind one of these
meeting-houses protrudes, in profile, the classic pediment of a brick
and plaster temple, of which the divinity is the Connecticut Themis, and
in which the Solons of the commonwealth biennially enact legislative
games in her honour. Still farther in the back-ground are seen spire and
cupola, peering over a thickset grove, in the friendly shade of whose
academic foliage a long line of barrack-looking buildings were pointed
out to me as the colleges.

These shabby homes of the Muses were my only token that I had entered a
university town. The streets, it is true, were alive with bearded and
mustached youth, who gave some evidences of being yet _in statu
pupillari_; but they wore hats, and flaunted not a rag of surplice or
gown. In the old and truly respectable college at New York, such things
are not altogether discarded; but, at Newhaven, where they are devoutly
eschewed as savouring too much of Popery, not a member of its faculties,
nor master, doctor, or scholar, appears with the time-honoured decency
which, to my antiquated notion, is quite inseparable from the true
regimen of a university. The only distinction which I remarked between
Town and Gown, is one in lack of which Town makes the more respectable
appearance of the twain; for the college badges seem to be nothing more
than odd-looking medals of gold, which are set in unmeaning display on
the man's shirt ruffles, or dangle with tawdry effect from their watch
ribbons. I have no doubt that the smart shopmen who flourish canes and
smoke cigars in the same walks with the collegians, very much envy them
these poor decorations; but in my opinion, they have far less of the
Titmouse in their appearance without them, and would sooner be taken for
their betters by lacking them. My first impressions were, on the whole,
far from favourable, therefore; as from such things in the young men, I
was forced to judge of their _alma mater_. And I must own, moreover,
that my subsequent acquaintance with the university did little to
diminish the disappointment which I unwillingly felt in this visit to
one of the most popular seats of learning in America. I certainly came
prepared to be pleased; for I had met in New York several persons of
refined education, who had taken their degrees at this place; but, to
dismiss this digression from my main purpose, I must say that the
Commencement was any thing but a creditable affair. After carefully
observing all that I could unobtrusively hear and see, I cannot speak
flatteringly of the performances, whether the matter or the manner be
considered. I can scarcely account for it that so many educated men as
took part in the exercises should make no better exhibition of
themselves. One oration delivered by a bachelor of arts, was vociferated
with insolence so consummate, that I marvelled how the solemn-looking
divines, whom it occasionally seemed to hit, were able to endure it. In
all that I heard, with very few exceptions, there was a deficiency of
good English style, of elevated sentiment, and even of sound morality.
Many of the professors and fellows of the University are confessedly men
of cultivated minds, and even of distinguished learning: yet this great
celebration was no better than I say. I can account for it only by the
sectarian influences which imbue every thing in Newhaven, and by the
want of a thoroughly academic atmosphere, which sectarianism never can
create. It was really farcical to see the good old president confer
degrees with an attempt at ceremony, which seemed to have no rubric but
extemporary convenience, and no purpose but the despatch of business.
All this may seem to have nothing to do with my subject; yet I felt
myself that the regicides had a good deal to do with it. In this
college, one sees the best that Puritanism could produce; and I thought
what Oxford and Cambridge might have become under the invading reforms
of the usurpation, had the Protectorate been less impotent to reproduce
itself, and carry out its natural results on those venerable
foundations.

On the day following that of the Commencement, I took a drive to West
Rock. I was so happy as to have the company of a very intelligent person
from the Southern States, and of a young lady, his relative, who was
very ambitious to make the excursion. It was a pleasant drive of about
three miles to the foot of the mountain, where we alighted, the driver
leaving the horses in charge of themselves, and undertaking the office
of guide. It was somewhat tedious climbing for our fair friend; but up
we went, over rough stones, creeping vines and brushwood, that showed no
signs of being very frequently disturbed; our guide keeping the bright
buttons of his coat-skirts before us, and in some other respects
reminding me of Mephistopheles on the Hartz. It certainly was very
accommodating in Nature, to provide the lofty chambers of the regicides
with such a staircase; for in their day it must have defied any ordinary
search, and when found must have presented as many barriers of brier and
thicket, as grew up around the Sleeping Beauty in the fairy tale.

As we reached what seemed to be the top of the rock, we came suddenly
into an open place, but so surrounded by trees and shrubs, as
effectually to shut in the view. Here was the cave; and very different
it was from what we had expected to find it! We had prepared ourselves
to explore a small Antiparos, and were quite chagrined to find our
grotto diminished to a mere den or covert, between two immense stones of
a truly Stonehengian appearance and juxtaposition. I doubted for a
moment whether their singular situation, on the top of this mountain,
were matter for the geologist or the antiquary; and would like to refer
the question to the learned Dean of Westminster, who hammers stones as
eloquently as some of his predecessors have hammered pulpits. The stones
are well-nigh equal in height, of about twenty feet perpendicular, one
of them nearly conical, and the other almost a true parallelopiped.
Betwixt them another large stone appears to have fallen, till it became
wedged; and the very small aperture between this stone and the ground
beneath, is all that justifies the name of a cave, though there are
several fissures about the stones, in which possibly beasts might be
sheltered, but hardly human beings. To render the cave itself large
enough for the pair that once inhabited it, the earth must have been dug
from under the stone, so as to make a covered pit; and even then, it was
hardly so good a place as is said to have been made for "a refuge to the
conies," being much fitter for wild-cats or tigers. I could scarcely
persuade myself, that English law could ever have driven a man three
thousand miles over the sea, and then into such a burrow as this! But so
it was; and it was retribution and justice too.

Bad as it was, it looked more agreeable Goffe and Whalley, than a
cross-beam and two halters, or even than apartments in the Tower of
London. They had it fitted up with a bed, and other "creature-comforts"
of a truly Crusoe-like description. The mouth of the cave was screened
by a thick growth of bushes, and the place was in several other respects
well suited to their purposes. The parallelopiped, of which I have
spoken, was easily climbed, being furnished with something like stairs,
and its top commands a fine view of the town, the bay, and the country
for miles around. It served them, therefore, as a watch-tower, and must
have been very useful as a means of protection, and as an observatory
for amusement. I mounted the stone myself, and tried to fancy how
different was the scene two hundred years ago. There the exile would sit
hour after hour, not as one may sit there now, to see sails and steamers
entering and leaving the harbour, and post-coaches and railroad cars
passing and re-passing continually; but to gaze in astonishment and
fear, if one lone ship might be descried coming up the bay, or if a
solitary horseman was to be seen or heard pursuing his journey in the
valley below.

While the fugitives lived in this den, they were regularly supplied with
daily bread and other necessaries of life, by a woodman, who lived at
the foot of the rock. A child came up the mountain daily with a supply
of provisions, which he left on a certain stone, and returned without
seeing any body, or asking any questions of Echo. In this way he always
brought a full basket and took back an empty one, without the least
suspicion that he was becoming an accessory in high treason, and, as it
is said, without ever knowing to whom, or for what, he was ministering.
As a Brahmin sets rice before an idol, so the little one fed the stone,
or left the basket to "the unseen spirit of the wood;" and well it was
that the little Red-riding-hood escaped the usual fate of all lonely
little foresters, for it seems there were mouths and maws in the
mountain which cheesecakes would not have satisfied. The dwellers in the
rock had a terrible fright one night from the visit of some
indescribable beast--a panther, or something worse--that blazed its
horrid eyes into their dark hole, and growled so frightfully, that if
all the bailiffs of London had surrounded their den, they would have
been less alarmed. It seemed some motherly tigress in search of her
cubs, and when she discovered the intruders, she set up such an
ululation of maternal grief as made every aisle of the forest ring
again, and so scared the inmates of her den, that, as soon as they
dared, they took to their heels down the mountain, ready to hear any hue
and cry on their track, rather than hers. This story was told us by our
guide, who gave it as the reason for their final desertion of the place.

On the stone which I climbed, I found engraven a great number of names
and initials, with dates of different years. Apparently they had been
left there by visiters from the university. In more than one place, some
ardent youth, in his first love with democracy, had taken pains to renew
the inscription, which tradition says Goffe and Whalley placed over
their retreat. "Opposition to tyrants is obedience to God." I suppose
there will always be fresh men to do Old Mortality's office for this
inscription, for the maxim is one which has long been popular in America
among patriotic declaimers. How long it will continue generally popular,
may indeed be doubted, since the abolitionists have lately adopted it,
and in their mouths it becomes an incendiary watchword, which the
supporters of slavery have no little reason to dread. I myself saw this
motto on an anti-slavery placard set up in the streets of New York.

I inferred from this inscription, and the names on the rock, that the
spot is visited by some with very different feelings from those which it
excited in me and my companions. Our valuable conductor, it is true,
spoke of "the Judges" with as much reverence as so sturdy a republican
would be likely to show to any dignity whatever; and really the honest
fellow seemed to give us credit for more tenderness than we felt, and
tried to express himself in such a manner, when telling of the misery of
the exiles, as not to wound our sensibilities. But I fear his
consideration was all lost; for, sad as it is to think of any fellow-man
reduced to such extremity as to take up a lodging like this, we could
only think how many of the noble and the lovely, and how many of the
true and loyal poor, had been brought by Goffe and Whalley to greater
miseries than theirs. I could not force myself, therefore, to the
melting mood; it was enough that I thought of January 30, 1648, and said
to myself, "Doubtless there is a God that judgeth in the earth." The
lady recalled some facts from Lord Clarendon's History, and said that
her interest in the spot was far from having anything to do with
sympathy for the regicides. Her patronising protector expressed his
surprise, and jokingly assured me that she regarded it as a Mecca, or he
would not have given himself the trouble of waiting on her to a place he
so little respected. She owned that she was hardly consistent with
herself in feeling any interest at all in the memorial of regicides; but
I reminded her that Lord Capel kissed the axe which completed the work
of rebellion, and deprived his royal master of life;[24] and we agreed
that even the intelligent instruments of that martyrdom acquired a sort
of reliquary value from the blood with which they were crimsoned.

The troglodytes, then, were but two; but there was a third fugitive
regicide who came to Newhaven, and now lies there in his grave. This was
none other than John Dixwell, whose name, with those of Goffe and
Whalley, may be found on that infamous death-warrant, which some have
not scrupled to call the Major Charta. Dixwell's is set among the
oi polloi, who, in the day of reckoning, were judged hardly worth a
hanging; but Whalley's occupies the bad eminence of being fourth on the
list, and next to the hard-fisted autograph of Oliver himself; while
William Goffe's is signed just before the signature of Pride, whose
miserable penmanship that day, it will be remembered, cost his poor
body an airing on the gibbet, in the year 1660. Scott, by the way, gives
Whalley the _prænomen_ Richard; but there it is on the parchment, too
legible for his soul's good--Edward Whalley. Shall I recur to the rest of
their history in England before I come to my American narrative? Perhaps
in these days of "elucidations," when it is said that every thing about
two hundred years since is, for the first time, undergoing a calm but
earnest review, I may be indulged in recapitulating what, if every body
knows, they know only in a great confusion with other events, which impair
the individual interest.

Of Dixwell, comparatively little is known, save that his first act of
patriotism seems to have consisted in leaving his country. Enough that
he served in the parliamentary army; sat as judge, and stood up as
regicide in that High Court of Treason in Westminster Hall; was one of
Oliver's colonels during the Protectorate; became sheriff of Kent, and
no doubt hanged many a rogue that had a better right to live than
himself; and finally sat in parliament for the same county in 1656.[25]
His experiences after the Restoration are not known, till he emerged in
America almost ten years after the last-mentioned date.

Whalley was among the more notorious of the rebels. He was cousin to
Oliver, and one of the few for whom Oliver sometimes exhibited a savage
sort of affection. He proved himself a good soldier in a bad cause, at
Naseby; and a furious one at Banbury. When the rogues fell out among
themselves, he was the officer that met Cornet Joyce as he was convoying
the king's majesty from Holmby,[26] and offered to relieve the royal
prisoner of his protector; an offer which Charles with great dignity
refused, preferring to let them have all the responsibility in the
matter, and not caring a straw which of the two villains should be his
jailor. At Hampton Court, however, fortune decided in favour of Whalley,
and put the king, for a time, into his power; till like fortune put it
into the king's power to get rid of his brutality by flight, an accident
for which our hero got a hint of displeasure from parliament. Just at
this point Cromwell addressed a letter to his "dear cousin Whalley,"[27]
begging him _not to let_ any thing happen to his majesty; in which his
sincerity was doubtless as genuine as that of certain patriots in the
Pickwick history, who, out of regard to certain voters coming down to
the election, with money in their hands and tears in their eyes,
besought the senior Weller _not to upset_ the whole cargo of them into
the canal at Islington. After getting out of this scrape, and doing the
damning deed that got him into a worse one, he fleshed his sword against
the king's Scottish kinsmen, at Dunbar, where he lost a horse under him,
and received a cut in his wrist,[28] though not severe enough to prevent
his writing a saucy letter to the governor of Edinburgh castle. He was
the man that took away the mace, when Cromwell broke up his Barebones'
parliament. Then he rode through Lincoln, and five other counties,
dealing with recusant Anabaptists,[29] as one of the "Major Generals;"
demurred a little, at first, at the king-manufacturing conference, but
finally came into the project; and, from a sense of duty, so far
overcame his republican scruples as to allow himself to take a seat in
the House of Lords, as one of the Oliverian peerage.[30] If titles were
to be had with estates, like the Lordship of Linne, he was surely
entitled to his peerage, for he was growing fat on the Duke of
Newcastle's patrimony, with part of the jointure of poor Henrietta
Maria, when, God be praised, the day of reckoning arrived; and my Lord
Whalley, surmising that, should any one come to the rope, he was likely
to swing if he remained in England, made off beyond seas.

Goffe, too, was of the Cromwellian cousinry, having married a daughter
of Whalley.[31] He was a soldier, but could do a little exposition
besides, when there was any call for such an exercise; as, for instance,
at that celebrated groaning and wrestling which was performed at
Windsor, and ended in resolving on the murder of the king,[32] after
extraordinary supplication and holding forth. When father Whalley
removed the mace, son-in-law Goffe led in the musqueteers, and bolted
out the Anabaptists, against whom he rode circuit through Sussex and
Berks, growing rich, and indulging dreams of disjointing the nose of
Richard, and thrusting himself into the old shoes of the Protector, as
soon as they should be empty.[33] He, too, sacrificed his feelings so
far as to become a lord; and, perhaps, thinking that royal shoes would
fit him as well as republican ones, he at last consented to making
Oliver a king.[34] Nor were his honours wholly of a civil character, for
he was made an M.A. at Oxford, and so secured himself a notice in
Anthony Wood's biographies, where his story concludes with a set of
mistakes, so relishably served up, that I must give it in the very words
of the _Fasti_, as follows:--"In 1660, a little before the restoration
of King Charles II., he betook himself to his heels to save his neck,
without any regard had to his majesty's proclamation; wandered about
fearing every one that he met should slay him; and was living at
Lausanna in 1664, with Edmund Ludlow, Edward Whalley, and other
regicides, when John l'Isle, another of that number, was there, by
certain generous royalists, despatched. He afterwards lived several
years in vagabondship; but when he died, or where his carcase was
lodged, is as yet unknown to me."[35]

On Christmas day, 1657, good John Evelyn went to London, in spite of
many severe penalties incurred thereby, to receive the holy sacrament
from a priest of the Church of England.[36] Mr. Gunning, afterwards
Bishop of Ely, was the officiating clergyman, and preached a sermon
appropriate to the festival. As he was proceeding with the Eucharist,
the place where they were worshipping was beset by Oliver's ruffians,
who, pointing their muskets at the communicants, through the doors and
windows, threatened to shoot them as they knelt before the altar. Evelyn
surmises that they were not authorised to go so far as that, and
consequently they did not put their threat into execution; but both
priest and people were taken prisoners, and brought under guard before
the magistrates to answer for the serious misdemeanour of which they had
been guilty. Before whom should the gentle friend of Jeremy Taylor find
himself standing as a culprit, but these worshipful Justices, Whalley
and Goffe! It was, doubtless, by their orders that the solemnities of
the day had been profaned.

Evelyn seems to have got off with only a severe catechizing; but many of
his fellow-worshippers were imprisoned, and otherwise severely punished.
The examination was probably conducted by the theologically exercised
Goffe, for the specimen preserved by Evelyn is worthy of his genius in
every way. The amiable confessor was asked how he dared to keep "the
superstitious time of the Nativity;" and was admonished that in praying
for kings, he had been praying for Charles Stuart, and even for the king
of Spain, who was a Papist! Moreover, he was told that the Prayer-book
was nothing but the Mass in English, and more to the like effect; "and
so," says Evelyn, "they dismissed me, pitying much my ignorance."

This anecdote, accidentally preserved by Evelyn, shows what kind of
characters they were. They seem to have been as sincere as any of their
fanatical comrades, though it is always hard to say of the Puritan
leaders which were the cunning hypocrites, and which the deluded
zealots. Whatever they may have been, their time was short, so far as
England is concerned with them; and in three years after this event,
they suddenly disappeared. So perfectly did they bury themselves from
the world, that from the year 1660, till the romance of Scott[37] again
brought the name of Whalley before the world, it may be doubted whether
any thing was known in England of lives, which in another hemisphere
were protracted almost into another generation. Nobody dreamed there
was yet an American chapter in the history of the regicides.

Yet, considering the known disposition of the colonies, and their
inaccessible fastnesses, it is remarkable that only three of the
fugitives found their way across the Atlantic. Another, indeed, there
was, a mysterious person, of whom it is only known, that though
concerned in the regicide, he was not probably one of "the judges." He
lived in Rhode Island till he was more than a hundred years old,
begetting sons and daughters, to whom he bequeathed the surname of
Whale. Whoever he was, he seems to have been a sincere penitent, whose
conscience would not let him rest. He slept on a deal board instead of a
bed, and practised many austerities, accusing himself as a man of blood,
and deprecating the justice of God. The particulars of his guilt he
never disclosed; and as his name was probably an assumed one, it is
difficult to surmise what share he had in the murder of his king. There
was in Hacker's regiment one Whalley, a lieutenant; and Stiles, the
American writer, thinks this Whale may have been the same man. But then,
what did this Whalley perpetrate to account for such horrible remorse?
Considering Hacker's active part in the bloodiest scene of the great
tragedy, and the conflicting testimony in Hulet's trial,[38] as to the
man that struck the blow; and coupling this with the fact, that an
effort was made to procure one of several lieutenants to do the
work,[39] I confess I once thought there was some reason to suspect that
this fellow's accusing conscience was terribly earned, and that he at
least had been one of the masks that figured on the scaffold. This
surmise, though shaken by nothing that came out on the state trials, I
have since discharged, in deference to the opinion of Miss
Strickland,[40] who is satisfied that the greybeard was Hulet, and the
actual regicide, Gregory Brandon.

The American history of the regicides begins with the 27th of July
following the Restoration, when Whalley and Goffe landed at Boston,
bringing the first news that the king had been proclaimed, of which it
seems they had tidings before they were clear of the Channel. Proscribed
as they were, they were heroes among the colonists, and even Endicott,
the governor, ventured to give them a welcome. The inhabitants of Boston
and its environs paid them many attentions, and they appeared at large
with no attempt at concealing their names and character. The Bostonians
were not all Republicans, however; and several zealously affected
Royalists having been noticed among their visiters, they suddenly
conceived the air of Cambridge more salubrious than that of Boston, and
took up their abode in that village, now a mere suburb of the city.
There they freely mingled with other men, and were admitted as
communicants in the Calvinistic meetings of the place; and sometimes, it
appears, they even ventured, like the celebrated party at the Peak, "to
exhibit their gifts in extemporaneous prayer and exposition." On
visiting the city, they once received some insult, for which the
assailant was bound over to keep the peace; though, if he had but known
it, he was so far from having done any wrong in the eye of law, that he
was entitled to a hundred pounds reward, for bringing before a
magistrate either of the worthies who appeared against him. The
authorities, however, had received no official notice of the
Restoration, and chose to go on as if still living under the golden sway
of the second Protector.

A story is told of one of the regicides, while living at Cambridge,
which deserves preservation, as it not only illustrates the open manner
in which thy went to and fro, but also shows how well exercised were the
soldiers of Cromwell in military accomplishments. A fencing-master had
appeared at Boston, challenging any man in the colonies to play at
swords with him; and this bravado he repeated for several days, from a
stage of Thespian simplicity, erected in a public part of the town. One
day, as the mountebank was proclaiming his defiance, to the terror and
admiration of a crowd of bystanders, a country-bred fellow, as it
seemed, made his appearance in the assembly, accepting the challenge,
and pressing to the encounter with no other weaponry than a cheese done
up in a napkin for a shield, and a broom-stick, well charged with puddle
water, which he flourished with Quixotic effect as a sword. The shouts
of the rabble, and the confusion of the challenger, may well be
imagined; but the countryman, throwing himself into position, lustily
defied the man of foils to come on. A sharp command to be gone with his
nonsense, was all the notice which the other would vouchsafe; but the
rustic insisted on having satisfaction, and so stubbornly did he persist
in brandishing his broomstick, and opposing his cheese, that the
gladiator, in a towering fury, at last drove at him desperately enough.
The thrust was very coolly received in the soft and savoury shield of
the countryman, who instantly repaid it by a dexterous daub with his
broom, soaking the beard and whiskers of the swordsman with its odorous
contents. A second and more furious pass at the rustic was parried with
masterly skill and activity, and rewarded by another salute from the
broomstick, which ludicrously besmeared the sword-player's eyes; the
crowd setting up a roar of merriment at his crest-fallen appearance. A
third lunge was again spent upon the cheese, amid shouts of laughter;
while the broomsman calmly mopped nose, eyes, and beard, of his
antagonist's puffing and blowing physiognomy. Entirely transported with
rage and chagrin, the champion now dropped his rapier, and came at his
ridiculous adversary with the broadsword. "Hold, hold, my good fellow,"
cried Broomstick, "so far all's fair play! but if that's the game, have
a care, for I shall certainly take your life." At this, the confounded
gladiator stood aghast, and staring at the absurd apparition before him,
cried out, amid the jeers of the mob, "Who is it? there were but two in
England that could match me! It must be Goffe, Whalley, or the Devil!"
And so it proved, for it was Goffe.

In November, came out the Act of Indemnity, by which it appeared that
Goffe and Whalley were not included in the amnesty which covered a
multitude of sins. It was nevertheless far in February before the
governor had entered upon even a formal inquiry of his council, as to
what he should do with the fugitives; a formality which, empty as it
was, must have occasioned their abrupt departure from Massachusetts. At
Newhaven, a concentrated Puritanism seems to have offered them a much
safer asylum;[41] and as a brother-in-law of Whalley's had lately held a
kind of pastoral dignity in that place, it is not improbable that they
received pledges of protection, should they choose it for their city of
refuge. One now goes from Boston to Newhaven, by railroad and steamer,
in less than a day; but in those times it was very good travelling which
brought them to their Alsatia in less than a fortnight. There they were
received as saints and confessors; and Davenport, the strait-laced
pastor of the colony, seems to have taken them under his especial
patronage. He seems to have been a kind of provincial Hugh Peters,
though he was not without his virtues: and there was far more fear of
him before the eyes of the local authorities, than there was of King
Charles and his Council. His Majesty was in fact completely browbeaten
and discomfited, when his warrant was afterwards brought into collision
with the will of this doughty little Pope: and to him the regicides owed
it, that they finally died in America.

The government at home seems really to have been in earnest in the
matter, and a royal command was not long in reaching Endicott, requiring
him to do all his power for the arrest of the runaways. He seems to have
been scared into something like obedience, and two zealous young
royalists offering their services as pursuers, he was obliged to
despatch them to Newhaven. So vigorously did these young men prosecute
their errand, that but for the bustling fanaticism of Davenport, they
would certainly have redeemed the honour of the colonies, and given
their lordships at Westminster Hall the trouble of two more state
trials. For its own sake, no one, indeed, can be sorry that such was not
the result. But when one thinks how many curious details of history
would have transpired on the trials of such prominent rebels, it seems a
pity that they could not have been made serviceable in this way, and
then set, with Prynne, to do penance among the old parchments in the
Tower.

The governor of the Newhaven colony, one Leete, lived a few miles out of
the town, but not far enough off to be out of the control of Davenport,
whose spiritual drill had got him in good order for the expected
encounter. That painstaking pastor had, moreover, felt it his duty to
give no uncertain blast of preparation on his Sabbath-day trumpet, and
had sounded forth his deep concern for the souls committed to his care,
should they, by any temptation of the devil, be led to think it
scriptural to obey the king and magistrate, instead of him, their
conscience-keeper and dogmatist. With a skill in the application of holy
writ, peculiar to the Hugh Peters' school of divinity, he had
laboriously pounded his cushion, in some thirty or forty illustrations
of the following text from the prophet Isaiah: "Hide the outcasts,
bewray not him that wandereth. Let mine outcasts dwell with thee, Moab!
be thou a covert to them from the face of the spoiler."[42] After this
exposition, there was of course no dispute as to duty. The Pope is a
deceiver, and Catholic Councils are lies; but when was a Puritan
preacher ever doubted, by his followers, to be an oracle from heaven?

It was in vain that the loyal pursuers came to Newhaven, after the
little general had thus got his forces prepared for the contest.
Wellington, with the forest of Soignies behind him, at Waterloo, was not
half so confident of wearing out Napoleon, as Davenport was of beating
back King Charles the Second, in his presumptuous attempt to govern his
Puritan colonies. Accordingly, when the pursuers waited on Governor
Leete, they found his conscience peculiarly tender to the fact, that
they were not provided with the original of his Majesty's command, which
he felt it his duty to see, before he could move in the business. He
finally yielded so far, however, as to direct a warrant to certain
catchpoles, requiring them to take the runaways, accompanying it, as it
would seem, with assurances of affectionate condolence, should they
happen to let the criminals, when captured, effect a violent escape. A
preconcerted farce was enacted, to satisfy the forms of law, the
bailiffs seizing the regicides, a mile or two from town, as they were
making for East Rock; and they very sturdily defending themselves, till
the officers had received bruises enough, to excuse their return without
them. But after this pleasant little exercise, the regicides had an
escape of a more really fortunate character, and quite in the style of
King Charles Second's Boscobel adventures. For while cooling themselves
under a bridge, they discovered the young Bostonians galloping that way,
and had only time to lie close, when a smart quadrupedal hexameter was
thundered over their heads, as they lay peering up through the chinks of
the bridge at their furious pursuers. No doubt the classic ear of Goffe,
the Oxford Master of Arts, was singularly refreshed with the delightful
prosody, which the retiring horse-hoofs still drummed on the dusty
plain; but they seem to have been so seriously alarmed by their escape,
that if they ever smiled again, they certainly had little cause for
their good-humour; for that very day they took to the woods, and entered
upon a long and wretched life of perpetual apprehension, from which
death, in any shape, would have been, to better men, a comfortable
relief. They immediately directed their course towards West Rock, where,
with an old hatchet which they found in the forest, they built
themselves a booth in a spot which is still called, from the
circumstance, "Hatchet-Harbour." Here they became acquainted with one
Sperry, the woodman who finally fitted up the cave, and introduced them
to their life in the rock.

It seems that on stormy days, and sometimes for mere change of air, the
poor Troglodytes would come down the mountain, and stay a while with the
woodman at his house. They had lived about a month in their cave, when
such an excursion to the woodman's had nearly cost them their liberty.
The pursuers, meantime, had accomplished a wild-goose chase to New York,
and had returned, after more perils and troubles than the regicides were
worth. Somehow or other, they got scent of their game this time, and
actually came upon them at Sperry's before they had any notice of their
approach. Fortune favouring them, however, they escaped by a back-door,
and got up to their nest, without giving a glimpse of themselves to the
pursuers, or even leaving any trace of their visit to favour a suspicion
that they had recently been in Sperry's protection. But Leete, who had
received at last the original warrant, and thus was relieved of his
scruples, seems to have been so alarmed about this time, that he sent
word to the fugitives that they must hold themselves ready to surrender,
if it should prove requisite for his own safety and that of the town. To
the credit of the poor men, on receiving this notice, they came out of
their cave like brave fellows, and went over to their cowardly
protector, offering to give themselves up immediately.

Here the redoubtable Davenport again interfered, and though all the
colony began to be of another opinion, he fairly drubbed the prudent
Leete into a postponement of the time of surrender; and Goffe and
Whalley were accordingly respited for a week, during which they lived in
painful suspense, in the cellar of a neighbouring warehouse, supplied
with food from the governor's table, but never admitted to his presence.
Meantime, the bustling pastor preached and exhorted, and stirred up all
the important settlers to take his part against the timorous counsels of
the governor, and finally succeeded in preventing the surrender
altogether; and the fugitives went back to their cave, never again to
show themselves openly before men, though their days were prolonged
through half another lifetime.

It seems incredible that there was any real call for such singular
caution, under the loose reign of Charles the Second: yet it is
remarkable how timid they had become, and how long they supported their
patient mousing in the dark. Nothing seems to have inspired them with
confidence after this. The pursuers returned to Boston, and made an
indignant report of the contempt with which his Majesty's authority had
been treated at Newhaven; all which had no other effect than to give
colour to a formal declaration of the united colonies of New England,
that an ineffectual though thorough search had been made. On this the
hue-and-cry was suffered to stop; but the regicides still kept close,
and shunned the light of day. Who would have believed that the lusty
Goffe and Whalley, whose fierce files of musqueteers seemed once their
very shadow, could have subsided into such decorous subjects, as to live
for three lustres in the heart of a village, so quietly, that, save
their feeder, not a soul ever saw or heard of them. Yet so it proved;
for so much do circumstances make the difference between the anchorite
and the revolutionist, and so possible is it for the same character to
be very noisy and very still.

After two months more in the cave, they probably found it time to go
into winter quarters, and accordingly shifted to a village a little
westward of Newhaven, where one Tompkins received them into his cellar.
There they managed to survive two years, during which their only
recreation seems to have been, the sorry one of hearing a maid abuse
them, as she sung an old royalist ballad over their heads. Even this was
some relief to the monotony of their life in the cellar, and they would
often get their attendant to set it agoing. The girl, delighted to find
her voice in request, and little dreaming what an audience she had in
the pit, would accordingly strike up with great effect, and fugue away
on the names of Goffe and Whalley, and their fellow Roundheads, another
Wildrake. Perhaps the worthies in the cellar consoled themselves with
recalling the palmy days, when the same song, trolled out on the night
air from some royalist pothouse, had been their excuse for displaying
their vigilant police, and putting under arrest any number of drunken
malignants.

If they had any additional consolation, it seems to have been derived
from an enthusiastic interpretation of Holy Writ, in which, after the
manner of their religion, they saw their own peculiar history very
minutely foreshadowed. They had heard of the sad end of Hugh Peters, and
his confederates, which they were persuaded was the slaying of the two
witnesses, predicted in the Apocalypse;[43] and they now looked in sure
and certain hope for the year 1666, which they presumed would be marked
by some great revolution, probably on account of its containing "the
number of the Beast."[44] But after two years in this cellar, there
arrived in Boston certain royal commissioners, in fear of whom they
again retreated to their cave, and stayed there two months, till the
wild beast drove them away. About the same time, an Indian getting sight
of their tracks, and finding their cave, with a bed in it, made such an
ado about his discovery, that they were obliged to abandon Newhaven for
ever. It is probable that Davenport now counselled their removal, and
provided their retreat; for one Russell, the pastor of Hadley, a
backwood settlement in Massachusetts, engaged to receive and lodge them;
and thither they went by star-light marches, a distance of an hundred
miles, through forests, where, if "there is a pleasure in the pathless
woods," they probably found it the only one in their journey. Rogues as
they were, who can help pitying them, thus skulking along by night
through an American wilderness, in terror of a king, three thousand
miles away, who all the while was revelling with his harlots, and
showing as little regard for the memory of his father as any regicide
could desire.

At Hadley, pastor Russell received them into his kitchen, and then into
a closet, from which, by a trap-door, they were let down into the
cellar--there to live long years, and there to die, and there--one of
them--to be buried, for a time. While dwelling in this cellar, poor
Goffe kept a record of his daily life; and it is much to be regretted
that this curious journal perished, at Boston, in the succeeding
century, during the riots about the Stamp Act, in which several houses
were burned. Scraps of it still exist, however, in copies; and enough is
known of it, to prove that the exiles were kept in constant information
of the progress of events in England; that Goffe corresponded with his
wife, addressing her as his mother, and signing himself Walter
Goldsmith; and that pastor Russell was supplied with remittances for
their support. One leaf of the diary which, fortunately, was copied, is
a mournful catalogue of the regicides, and their accomplices, all
classed according to their fate, with some touching evidences of the
melancholy humour in which the records had been set down. It is a table
of sixty-nine as great rogues, or as deluded fanatics, as have left
their names on the page of English history; but there they stand on
Goffe's list, a doleful registry indeed,

                 "Some slain in war,
  Some haunted by the ghosts they had deposed;"

but all noted by the wanderer as his friends, "faithful and just to
him." Twenty-six are marked as certainly dead; others, as condemned and
in the Tower; some as fugitives, and some, as quietly surviving their
ruin and disgrace. How dark must have been the past and the future
alike, to men whose histories were told in such chronicles; but thus
timorously from their "loop-hole of retreat," did they look out on the
Great Babel; and saw their cherished year of the Beast go by, and still
no change; and then consoled themselves with hoping there was some
slight error in the vulgar computation; and so hoped on against hope,
and kept in secret their awful memories, and perchance with occasional
misgivings of judgment to come, pondered them in their hearts.

At Hadley they had one remarkable visiter, from whom they probably
learned much gloomy gossip about things at home. In 1665, John Dixwell
joined them, having made his escape to the colonies with astonishing
secrecy. He seems to have been a venturous fellow, who was far from
willing to spend his days in a cellar, and accordingly he soon left them
to their own company, and went, nobody knows where; but it is certain
that in 1672 he appeared in Newhaven as Mr. James Davids, took a wife,
and settled down with every sign of a determination to die in his bed.
The first Mrs. Davids dying without issue, we find him, a few years
after, married again, begetting children, and supporting the reputation
of a grave citizen, who kept rather shy of his neighbours, and was fond
of long prosy talks with his minister--the successor of Davenport, who
seems to have rested from his labours. I wonder if those talks were so
prosy! The good wife of the house, no doubt, supposed Mr. Davids and her
husband engaged in edifying conclave upon the five points of Calvinism:
but who does not envy that drowsy New England pastor the stories he
heard of the great events of the Rebellion, from the lips of one who had
himself been an actor therein! How often he filled his pipe, and puffed
his pleasure, or laid it down at a more earnest moment, to hear the
stirring anecdotes of Oliver; how he looked; how he spoke and commanded!
What unwritten histories the pastor must have learned of Strafford,--of
Laud,--of Pym pouncing on his quarry,--of how the narrator felt, when he
sat as a regicide judge,--and of that right royal face which he had
confronted without relenting, with all its combined expressions, of
resignation and resolution, of kingly dignity and Christian submission.

Time went on, and the Hadley regicides wasted away in their cellar,
while Dixwell thus flourished like a bay-tree in green old age. A letter
from Goffe, to his "mother Goldsmith," written in August, 1674, of which
a copy is preserved, shows that years had been doing their work on the
once bold and stalwart Whalley. "Your old friend Mr. R.," he says, using
the feigned initial, "is yet living, but continues in that weak
condition. He is scarce capable of any rational discourse (his
understanding, memory, and speech, doth so much fail him,) and seems not
to take much notice of any thing ... and it's a great mercy to him, that
he hath a friend that takes pleasure in being helpful to him ... for
though my help be but poor and weak, yet that ancient servant of Christ
could not well subsist without it. The Lord help us to profit by all,
and to wait with patience upon him, till we shall see what end he will
make with us."

Boys grew to be men, and little girls marriageable women, while they
thus dwelt in the cellar; and the people of Hadley passed in and out of
their pastor's door, and doubled and trebled in number around his house,
and not a soul dreamed that such inhabitants lived amongst them. This
remarkable privacy accounts for the historical fact, given as a story in
"Peveril of the Peak."[45] It occurred during the war of King Philip, in
1675, the year following the date of Goffe's letter, and when Whalley
must have been far gone in his decline, so that he could not have been
the hero, as is so dramatically asserted by Bridgenorth to Julian
Peveril. It was a fast day among the settlers, who were imploring God
for deliverance from an expected attack of the savages; and they were
all assembled in their rude little meeting-house, around which sentinels
were kept on patrol. The house of the pastor was only a few rods
distant; and probably, through the miserable panes that let in all the
sun-light of their cellar, Goffe watched the invasion of the Indians,
and all the horrors of the fight, till the fires of Dunbar began to burn
again in his old veins, and, overcoming his usual caution, sent him
forth to his last achievement in this world, and perhaps his best. On a
sudden, as the settlers were giving up all for lost, and about to submit
to a general massacre, a strange apparition was seen among them
exhorting them to rally in the name of God. An old man, with long white
locks, and of unusual attire, led the last assault with the most daring
bravery. Not doubting that it was an angel of God, they followed up his
blows, and in a short time repulsed the savages; but their deliverer was
gone. No clue or trace could be found of his coming or going. He was to
them as Melchisedek, "without beginning of life, or end of days;" and
their confirmed superstition that the Lord had sent his angel in answer
to their prayers, though quite in accordance with their enthusiasm, was
doubtless not a little encouraged by the wily pastor himself, as an
innocent means of preventing troublesome inquiries. In many parts of New
England it was long regarded as a miracle, and the final disclosure of
the secret has spoiled the mystery of a genuine old wives' tale.

About three years after this, Whalley gave his soul to God, and was
temporarily buried in the cellar, where he had lived a death-in-life of
fourteen years. Russell was now in a great fright, and with good reason,
for a new crown officer was at work in New England, with a zealous
determination to bring all offenders to justice, and if not the
offenders themselves, then somebody instead of them. Edward Randolph,
who has left a judge Jeffreys' reputation in America to this day, was a
Jehu for the government, and his feelings towards the regicides are well
touched off by Southey, in the words put into his mouth in "Oliver
Newman:"--

                 "Fifteen years,
  They have hid among them the two regicides,
  Shifting from den to cover, as we found
  Where the scent lay. But, earth them as they will,
  I shall unkennel them, and from their holes
  Drag them to light and justice."

Alarmed by the energetic measures of such a man, Goffe, who was now
released from his personal attentions to his friend, appears to have
departed from Hadley for a time; while Russell gave currency to a
report, that when last seen, he was on his way towards Virginia. It was
soon added, that he had been actually recognised in New York, in a
farmer's attire, selling cabbages; but he probably went no further than
Newhaven, where he would naturally visit Dixwell, and so returned to
Hadley, whence his last letter bears date, 1679, and where he
undoubtedly died the following year.

How the two bodies ever got to Newhaven has long been the puzzle. It
seems that Russell buried Goffe at first in a grave, dug partly on his
own premises, and partly on those adjoining, intending by this stratagem
to justify himself, should he ever be forced to deny that the bones were
in his garden. But, in the years 1680 and 1684, Randolph's fury being at
its height, he probably dug up the remains of both the regicides, and
sent them to Newhaven, where they were interred secretly by Dixwell and
the common gravedigger of the place. Some suppose, indeed, that they
were not removed till the sad results of the Duke of Monmouth's
rebellion had put the colonists in terror of the inexorable Jeffreys.
The fate of Lady Alicia Lisle,--herself the widow of a regicide,--who
had suffered for concealing two of the Duke's followers, may very
naturally have alarmed the prudent Russell, and led him to remove all
traces of his share in harbouring Goffe and Whalley. His friendship for
two "unjust judges" seems to have led him to dread the acquaintance of a
third. As for Dixwell, he lived on in Newhaven, maintaining the
character of Mr. James Davids with great respectability, and so quietly,
that Randolph seems never to have suspected that a third regicide was
hiding in America. He had one narrow escape, nevertheless, from another
zealous partisan of the crown, quite as lynx-eyed, and even more
notorious in American history. In 1686, Sir Edmund Andross paid a visit
to Newhaven, and was present at the public worship of the inhabitants,
when James Davids did not fail to be in his usual place, nor by his
dignity of person and demeanour to attract the special notice of Sir
Edmund, who probably began to think he had got scent of Goffe himself.
After the solemnities were over, he made very particular inquiries as to
the remarkable-looking worshipper, but suffered himself to be diverted
from more searching measures, by the natural and unstudied description
which he received of Mr. Davids and his interesting family. It was well
that they could answer so unaffectedly, for Andross was ready to pick a
quarrel with them, conceiving himself to have received a great affront
at the religious exercise which he had honoured with his presence. It
seems the clerk had felt it his duty to select a psalm not incapable of
a double application, and which accordingly had hit Sir Edmund in a
tender part, by singing "to the praise and glory of God" the somewhat
insinuating stave--

  "Why dost thou, tyrant, boast abroad,
  Thy wicked works to praise."

After this, though for forty years the righteous blood of a murdered
king had been crying against him, Dixwell's hoar hairs were suffered to
come to the grave in a peace he had denied to others, in 1688. Meantime,
that king had lain in his cerements at Windsor, "taken away from the
evil to come," and undisturbed alike by the malice that pursued his
name, and the far more grievous contempt that fell on his martyr-memory
from the conduct of his two sons, false as they were to his honour,
recreant to his pure example, and apostate to the holy faith for which
he died. Such sons had at last accomplished for the house of Stuart that
ruin which other enemies had, in vain, endeavoured; and two weeks after
James Davids was laid in his grave, came news which was almost enough to
wake him from the dead. "The glorious Revolution," as it is called, was
a "crowning mercy" to the colonies; and the friends of the late regicide
now boldly produced his will, and submitted it to Probate. It devised to
his heirs a considerable estate in England, and described his own style
and title as "John Dixwell, _alias_ James Davids, of the Priory of
Folkestone, in the county of Kent, Esquire."

After my visit to West Rock, I went in the early twilight to the graves
of the three regicides. I found them in the rear of one of the
meeting-houses, in the square, very near together, and scarcely
noticeable in the grass. They are each marked by rough blocks of stone,
having one face a little smoothed, and rudely lettered. Dixwell's
tomb-stone is far better than the others, and bears the fullest and most
legible inscription. It is possibly a little more than two feet high, of
a red sand-stone, quite thick and heavy, and reads thus:--"I. D. Esq.,
deceased March y{e} 18th, in y{e} 82{d} year of his age, 1688-9." To
make any thing of Whalley's memorial, I was obliged to stoop down to it,
and examine it very closely. I copied it, head and foot, into my
tablets, nor did I notice, at the time, any peculiarity, but took down
the inscription, as I supposed correctly, "1658, E. W." While I was busy
about this, there came along one of the students, escorting a young
lady, who bending down to the headstone of Goffe's grave, examined it a
few minutes attentively, and then started up, and went away with her
happy protector, exclaiming, "I must leave it to Old Mortality, for I
can see nothing at all." I found it as she had said, and left it without
any better satisfaction; but, during the evening, happening to mention
these facts, I was shown a drawing of both Goffe's and Whalley's
memorials; by help of which, on repeating my visit early next morning, I
observed the very curious marks which give them additional interest.
Looking more carefully at Whalley's headstone, one observes a 7 strongly
blended with the 5, in the date which I had copied; so that it may be
read as I had taken it, or it may be read 1678, the true date of
Whalley's demise. This same cipher is repeated on the footstone, and is
evidently intentional. Nor is the grave of Goffe less curious. The stone
is at first read, "M. G. 80;" but, looking closer, you discover a
superfluous line cut under the M, to hint that it must not be taken for
what it seems. It is in fact a W reversed, and the whole means, "W. G.
1680;" the true initials, and date of death of William Goffe. If Dixwell
was not himself the engraver of these rude devices, he doubtless
contrived them; and they have well accomplished their purpose, of
avoiding detection in their own day, and attracting notice in ours.

There was something that touched me, in spite of myself, in thus
standing by these rude graves, and surveying the last relicts of men
born far away in happy English homes, who once made a figure among the
great men, and were numbered with the lawful senators of a free and
prosperous state! I own that, for a moment, I checked my impulses of
pity, and thought whether it would not be virtuous to imitate the Jews
in Palestine, who, to this day, throw a pebble at Absalom's pillar, as
they pass it in the King's Dale, to show their horror of the rebel's
unnatural crime. But I finally concluded that it was better to be a
Christian in my hate, as well as in my love, and to take no worse
revenge than to recite, over the ashes of the regicides, that sweet
prayer for the 30th of January, which magnifies God, for the grace given
to the royal martyr, "by which he was enabled, in a constant meek
suffering of all barbarous indignities, to resist unto blood, and then,
according to the Saviour's pattern, to pray for his murderers."

Two hundred years have gone, well-nigh, and those mean graves continue
in their dishonour, while the monarchy which their occupants once
supposed they had destroyed, is as unshaken as ever. Nor must it be
unnoticed, that the church which they thought to pluck up, root and
branch, has borne a healthful daughter, that chaunts her venerable
service in another hemisphere, and so near these very graves that the
bones of Goffe and Whalley must fairly shake at Christmas, when the
organ swells, hard-by, with the voices of thronging worshippers, who
still keep "the superstitious time of the Nativity," even in the
Puritans' own land and city. What a conclusion to so much crime and
bloodshed! Such a sepulture--thought I,--instead of a green little
barrow, in some quiet churchyard of England, "fast by their fathers'
graves!" Had these poor men been contented with peace and loyalty, such
graves they might have found, under the eaves of the same parish church
that registered their christening; the very bells tolling for their
funeral, that pealed when they took their brides. How much better the
"village Hampden," than the wide-world's Whalley; and how enviable the
uncouth rhyme, and the yeoman's honest name, on the stone that loving
hands have set, compared with these coward initials, and memorials that
skulk in the grass!

  Sta, viator, _judicem_ calcas!

A judge, before whose unblenching face the sacred majesty of England
once stood upon deliverance, and awaited the stern issues of life and
death; an _unjust judge_, who, for daring to sit in judgment, must yet
come forth from this obscure grave, and give answer unto Him who is
judge of quick and dead.




LATEST FROM THE PENINSULA.[46]


We have lately been surfeited with the affairs of that portion of Europe
south of the Pyrenees, and did intend not again to refer, at least for
some time, to any thing connected with it. We are sick of Spanish
revolutions, disgusted with causeless _pronunciamentos_, and corrupt
intrigues, weary of Madame Muñoz and "the innocent Isabel," of palace
plots and mock elections, base ministers and imbecile Infantas. We care
not the value of a flake of _bacallao_, if Das Antas the Bearded,
Schwalbach the German, Saldanha the Duke, or any other leader of
Lusitania's hosts, wins a fight or takes to his heels. Profoundly
indifferent is it to us whether her corpulent majesty of Portugal,
(eighteen stone by the scale, so she is certified,) holds on at the
Necessidades, or is necessitated to cut and run on board a British
frigate. Portugal we leave to the care of Colonel Wylde, homoeopathic
physician-in-ordinary to all trans-Pyrennean insurrections and civil
wars; and Spain we consign to the tender mercies of Camarillas, propped
by bayonets and inspired by the genial influences of the Tuileries. We
have been pestered with these two countries, and with their annual
revolutions, reminding us of a whirlwind in a wash-tub, until, in
impatience of their restless, turbulent population, we have come to
dislike their very names. Nevertheless, here are a brace of books about
the Peninsula, concerning which we have a word to say, although we shall
not avail ourselves of the opportunity they offer to discuss Portuguese
rebellions and Spanish politics.

Writers on Spain, long resident in the country, acquire a _borracha_
twang, a smack of the pig-skin, a propensity to quaint and proverb-like
phrases, characteristic of the land they write about. The peculiarity is
perceptible in the books before us; in both of them the racy Castilian
flavour reeks through the pages. And first--to begin with the most
worthy--as regards Mr. Ford's "Gatherings." There be cooks so cunning in
their craft, that out of the mangled remains of yesterday's feast, they
concoct a second banquet, less in volume, but more savoury, than its
predecessor. This to do, needs both skill and judgment. Spice must be
added, sauces devised, heavy and cumbrous portions rejected, great
ingenuity exercised, fitly to furnish forth to-day's delicate collation
from the fragments of yesterday's baked meats. Mr. Ford has shown
himself an adept in the art of literary _rechauffage_. His masterly and
learned "Handbook of Spain," having been found by some, who love to run
and read, too small in type, too grave in substance, he has skimmed its
cream, thrown in many well-flavoured and agreeable condiments, and
presented the result in one compact and delightful volume. He has at
once lightened and condensed his work. Mr. Hughes, the Lisbon pilgrim,
has gone quite upon another tack. He makes no pretensions to brevity or
close-packing, but starts with a renunciation of method, and an avowed
determination to be loquacious. Dashing off in fine desultory style,
with a fluent pen, and a flux of words, he proclaims that his sole
ambition is to amuse, and with that view he proposes to be discursive
and parlous. Amusing he certainly is; his irrepressible tendency to
exaggeration is exceedingly diverting, whilst the excellent terms he is
upon with himself, frequently compel a smile. His prolixity we can
overlook, but we have difficulty in pardoning the questionable taste of
certain portions of his book. In commenting on its defects, however,
allowances must be made for the bad health of the writer. Doubtless he
intends that they should be, for he repeatedly informs us that he is
troubled with a pulmonary complaint of many years' standing, to which he
anticipates a fatal termination. "I strive," he says, "to escape, by
observation of the outer world, and of mankind, from the natural
tendency to brood over misfortune, and seek to discover in occupation
that cheerfulness which would be inevitably lost in an unemployed
existence, and in dwelling on the phases of my illness." What can we say
after such an appeal to our feelings? how criticise with severity a book
written under these circumstances? If we hint incredulity as to the
gravity of the author's malady, we shall be classed with those unfeeling
persons, "whose levity and heartlessness not only refuse to sympathise,
but often even doubt if my sickness be real." Truly, when we learn that
between the months of September and December last, the sick man
travelled fifteen hundred miles--the latter portion of the distance
through districts where he was compelled to rough it--exposed to
frequent vicissitudes of temperature, and to the unhealthy climate of
Madrid--sudden death to consumptive patients--eating, according to his
own record, with the appetite of a muleteer, "rushing into ventas, and
roaring lustily for dinner," (vide vol. i. p. 206.)--holding furious
discussions in coffee-houses, and winding them up, after utterly
extinguishing his opponents, with Propagandist harangues eight pages
long, (ibid. p. 334,)--and, finally, writing--in the intervals of his
journey, we presume,--the two bulky and closely printed volumes now upon
our table, we must say that many persons in perfect health would rejoice
to vie with so sturdy an invalid. We do hope, therefore, and incline to
believe, that the yellow flag thus despondingly hung out is a false
signal; that Mr. Hughes, if not to be ranked altogether under the head
of imaginary valetudinarians, is at any rate in a far less desperate
state than he imagines; and that he will live long, long enough to amend
his style, refine his tone, and write a book as commendable in all
respects as this one often is for its fun and originality.

It is very unfavourable to the "Overland Journey," that its coincidence
of publication and similarity of subject with the "Gatherings from
Spain," render a comparison between them scarcely avoidable. A
comparison with so elegant and scholarly a book as Mr. Ford's, very few
works on the Peninsula that have come under our notice could
advantageously sustain. But, after dismissing all idea of establishing a
contrast, we still find much to quarrel with in Mr. Hughes's recent
production. It is careless, often flippant, sometimes even coarse, and
as we read, we regret that a shrewd observer and intelligent man should
thus run into caricature, and neglect the proprieties expected from all
who present themselves in print before the public. Against these he
offends at the very outset. Scarcely has he put foot in France, when he
begins his comments on the fair sex, in which, whilst aiming at
acuteness and wit, he displays very little delicacy. Neither are his
inferences the most charitable. The young ladies at Havre, who, to
preserve their drapery from mud and dust, display, according to the
universal French custom, some inches of their very handsome legs, are
assumed to do so at mamma's instigation, and to ensnare husbands. "She
is not more than seventeen, and appears to have no consciousness--her
face all seeming simplicity and serenity, as are those of most French
unmarried misses, (after marriage it is a little t'other.) How
ridiculous to suppose that she is not conscious of _her exquisite
shapes_!" Mr. Hughes has a shocking opinion of the maidens of Gaul,
whose conduct towards him seems to have been somewhat indecorous. "Very
young girls abroad appear to have attained to consciousness, and often
laugh out if you only give them a casual glance." We know not whether
there is any thing especially mirth-provoking in the glances of our
lively invalid, but this is the first time we have heard tell of such
very unbecoming behaviour on the part of respectable young French women.
The next insinuation we stumble upon is of a different nature, although
it would scarcely be more relished by its objects. Mr. Hughes is at
Paris, indulging in a _flânerie_ on the Boulevards, and taking notes of
the latest fashions. "The dresses are now worn extravagantly high, stuck
up into the throat, and suggesting a suspicion that there may be
_something blotchy underneath_." To say nothing of the suggestive and
unsavoury nature of this remark, we are quite puzzled to know what would
satisfy so captious a critic. One lady shows her ankle, and is set down
as an immodest schemer; another covers her neck, and is suspected of a
cutaneous affection. On a par with such an inference, is the gross
account of an alabaster group in a shop window, and the wit of the
conjecture whether Dr. Toothache, who attends to the "teeth, gums,
tongue, throat, &c., has any cure for a long tongue, or if he _patches
the gums with gum elastic_!" Such stuff as this would hardly pass muster
in familiar conversation, or in a gossipping letter to an intimate
friend; but in a printed book, intended, doubtless, for the perusal of
thousands, it is sadly out of place. It is a relief to revert from it to
the strong good sense and graceful raillery of Mr. Ford's pages.

Sure, where all is good, to fall in a pleasant place, we open the
"Gatherings" at random. Upon what have we stumbled? Railroads.
Interesting to Threadneedle Street. True that the mania days are past,
when an English capitalist caught at any new line puffed by a plausible
prospectus, however impossible the gradients and desolate the district.
Nevertheless, and in case of relapse, a word or two about the
practicability of Spanish railroads will not be out of place. Mr. Ford
is a man who knows Spain thoroughly: that none can doubt. Neither can
there be any question of his veracity and impartiality. Whatever
interest he might have to cry up such projects, he can have none to cry
them down. We, therefore, recommend all persons who have not already
made up their minds as to the bubble nature of Peninsular railway
schemes, to send forthwith to Mr. Murray for a copy of the "Gatherings,"
and to read thrice, with profound attention, the last six pages of
Chapter Five. They may also glance at pages 8 and 13, and learn, what
the majority of them are probably ignorant of, that the Peninsula is an
agglomeration of mountains, divided by Spanish geographers into seven
distinct chains, all more or less connected with each other, and having
innumerable branches and off-shoots. Notwithstanding this very
discouraging configuration of the land, "there is," says Mr. Ford, "just
now much talk of railroads, and splendid official and other documents
are issued, by which 'the whole country is to be intersected (on paper)
with a net-work of rapid and bowling-green communications,' which are to
create a 'perfect homogeneity amongst Spaniards.'" The absurdity of this
last notion is only appreciable by those who know the vast differences
that exist, in character, interests, feelings, and even race, between
the different provinces of Spain. Time, tranquillity, and a secure and
paternal government, may eventually produce the blending deemed so
desirable, and railways would of course largely contribute to the same
end, could they be made. But to say nothing of the mountains, there are
a few other impediments nearly as formidable. Spain is an immense
country, thinly peopled, whose inhabitants travel little, and whose
commerce is unimportant. And, moreover, projectors of Peninsular rails
have reckoned without a certain two-legged animal, indigenous to the
soil, and known as the MULETEER. To this gentleman is at present
committed the whole inland carrying trade of Spain. What will he say
when he finds his occupation gone? how will he get his chick peas and
sausage when he has been run off the road by steam? Mr. Ford opines that
he, as well as the smuggler, who also will be seriously damaged by the
introduction of locomotives, will turn robber or patriot,--the two most
troublesome classes in all Spain. As to prevailing on him to act as
guard to a railway carriage, to trim lamps, ticket portmanteaus, or
stand with outstretched arm by the road-side, the idea will only be
entertained by persons who know nothing either of Spain or Spanish
muleteers. By the side of the line he doubtless would often be found;
but not as a telegraph to warn of danger. In his new capacity of
brigand, his look-out would be for the purses of the passengers. He
could hardly stop an express train in the old Finchley style of
presenting himself and his pistol at the carriage window, but a few
stones and tree-trunks would answer the purpose as well. "A handful of
opponents," says Mr. Ford, "in any cistus-grown waste, may at any time,
in five minutes, break up the road, stop the train, stick the stoker,
and burn the engines in their own fire, particularly smashing the
luggage-train." To English ears this may sound like absurd exaggeration.
We have difficulty in imagining a gang of stage-coachmen, even though
they have been puffed off their boxes by the mighty blast of steam,
combining, under the orders of Captain Brown or Jones, the gentleman
driver of some Cambridge, Rockingham, or Brighton bang-up, to build
barricades across railways and pick off engineers from behind a quickset
hedge. Here there would be no impunity for such malefactors; their
campaign against innovation would speedily conduct them to Newgate and
the hulks. Not so in the Peninsula, where roads are few, police
defective, and where, at the present time, smugglers and other notorious
law-breakers strut upon the crown of the causeway, appear boldly in
towns, and hold themselves in every respect for as honest men as their
neighbours. But it is not to be supposed that popular opposition,
probable, almost certain, as it is, to be met with in such a half
African, semi-civilized country, would be held worth a moment's
consideration by the dashing schemers who propose to cover the Peninsula
with iron arteries. The audacity of those persons is only to be equalled
by their consummate geographical ignorance, several instances of which
are shown up with much humour and irony by the author of the
"Gatherings." Some of the most notoriously absurd of the schemes set
afloat, have had their origin with Englishmen, of whom, since the close
of the civil war, and especially within the last year or two, a vast
number have betaken themselves to Spain, to follow up ventures more or
less hopeful or hopeless. Owing to a long peace, to a rapid growth of
population, and to the daily-increasing difficulty of fortune-making,
the class ADVENTURER has of late years, both in this country and the
sister kingdom, greatly augmented its numbers. This is evident from the
throng of unemployed and aspiring gentlemen ever ready to engage in any
undertaking, however desperate and doubtful of success. Let a
clandestine expedition be contemplated to some hole-and-corner state or
antipodean republic, and up start a host of mettlesome cavaliers, from
all ranks and classes, including Irish lords and English baronets and
squires of low degree, having all fought in three or four services, more
or less piratical or illegitimate, all bearded like the pard, and
be-ribboned like maypoles, and all eager once more to rush to the fray,
and signalise themselves under a foreign banner. These are specimens of
the adventurer bellicose, the Mike Lambournes and Dugald Dalgettys of
the nineteenth century. Of a more calculating and ambitious class is the
adventurer speculative, who possesses a Dousterswivel aptitude for
discovering mines, devising railways, projecting canals, and the like
undertakings. Spain has of late been favoured with the attentions of
many of these gentlemen, flying at every thing, from a common sewer to a
coal mine, an omnibus company to a hundred leagues of railway. With
geniuses of this stamp have originated some of the impracticable
projects so eagerly caught at by English capitalists, whose unemployed
cash had mounted, as Mr. Ford expresses it, from their pockets to their
heads. We know not who was the projector of that most magnificent scheme
to connect Madrid with the Atlantic, in defiance of such trifling
impediments as the Guadarama range and the Asturian Alps, but we learn
from the "Gatherings" that he was "to receive £40,000 for the cession of
his plan to the company, and actually did receive £25,000, which,
considering the difficulties, natural and otherwise, must be considered
an inadequate remuneration." Unfortunately, when he sold his plan, he
did not show the buyers how to surmount the difficulties; and indeed he
would have been puzzled to do so, since they subsequently proved
insurmountable. But the whole of the facts relating to Spanish railroads
lie in a nutshell, and may be set forth in ten lines. Neither by the
nature of its surface, nor by amount of population and importance of
trade, is Spain adapted to receive this greatest invention of the
present century. As to a regular system of railways, diverging from
Madrid to the frontiers and principal seaport towns, on the plan laid
down for France, it is not to be thought of, and can never be
accomplished. And with respect to those lines which _might_ be made
along the valleys, and by following the course of rivers, the country is
not yet ripe for them. Spain has not yet been able to get canals; her
highroads, worthy of the name, are few and far between, leading only
from the capital to coast or frontier, whilst cross roads and
communications between towns are for the most part mere _caminos de
herradura_, horse-shoe or bridle roads of a wretched description. A few
short lines of cheap construction over level tracts, and favoured by
peculiar circumstances, such as a populous district, the proximity of
large towns, or of a country unusually rich in natural productions, are
the only railways that can as yet be undertaken in Spain without
certainty of heavy loss. The line between Madrid and Aranjuez is the
only one, Mr. Ford thinks, at all likely to be at present carried out.

We have been greatly delighted with the pictures scattered through Mr.
Ford's book, pictures that owe nothing to pencil or graver, half pages
of letter-press placing before our eyes, with the brilliant minuteness
of a richly-coloured and highly-finished painting, men, things, and
scenes characteristic of Spain. Amongst these, the sketch of the
muleteer, that errant descendant of the old Morisco carriers, is full of
life; and we defy the brush of the most cunning artist to bring the man,
in all his peculiarities, more vividly before us than is done by Mr.
Ford's vigorous and graceful pen and ink touches. We see the long line
of tall mules, with dusty flanks and well-poised burdens, winding their
way over some rugged sierra, or across a weary _despoblado_, their gay
worsted head-gear nodding in the sunbeams, the tinkle of their
innumerable bells mingling with the mournful song of their conductor, to
which, when the latter, weary of striding beside his beasts, mounts
aloft upon the bales for a temporary rest, is added the monotonous thrum
of a guitar. The song is as unceasing as the bells, unless when
interrupted by a pull at the wine _bota_, or by the narration of some
wild story of bandit cruelty or contrabandist daring. "The Spanish
muleteer is a fine fellow; he is intelligent, active, and enduring; he
braves hunger and thirst, heat and cold, mud and dust; he works as hard
as his cattle, never robs or is robbed; and whilst his betters in this
land put off every thing till to-morrow, except bankruptcy, _he_ is
punctual and honest." Mr. Ford's book will hardly find much favour in
the country of which it treats. It tells too many home truths. We have
heard his "Hand-book" found fault with by Spaniards, although it was
evident they were puzzled where to attack him, and equally so that their
hyper-critical censure of certain trifling inaccuracies, real or
imaginary, was merely a mode of venting their vexation at the
shrewdness, wit, and delicious impertinence with which he shows up the
national vices and foibles. He dives into the most secret recesses of
the Spanish character, and whilst admitting its good points, probes its
weakness with an unsparing hand. No people in the world entertain such
an arrogant overstrained good opinion of themselves and their country as
Spaniards. To hear them refer to Spain, one would imagine it to be the
first kingdom in the world, combining the advantages of all the most
civilized and flourishing countries in Europe. We here speak of the
masses; of course there is an enlightened and clear-sighted minority,
that sees and deplores its fallen condition. But the popular notion is
the other way. "Who says Spain, says every thing;" so runs the proverb.
And yet whilst they mouth about España, and exalt it, not in the way of
an empty boast, which the utterer believeth not, but in full conviction
of the good foundation of their vaunts, above all the kingdoms of the
earth, they are, in fact, the least homogeneous nation in
existence,--the least patriotic, in the comprehensive sense of the word.
Nowhere are distinctions of provinces so strongly marked, in no country
are so many antipathies to be found between inhabitants of different
districts. "Like the German, they may sing and spout about Fatherland:
in both cases the theory is splendid, but in practice each Spaniard
thinks his own province or town the best in the Peninsula, and himself
the finest fellow in it." The _patriotisme du clocher_, with which
French provincials have been reproached, but which, in France, the
system of centralisation has done so much to eradicate, the prejudice
which narrows a man's sympathies to his own country or department, is
extra-ordinarily conspicuous in Spaniards. It is traceable to various
causes; to the former divisions of the country, when it consisted of
several kingdoms, independent and jealous of each other; to want of
convenient communications and to the stay-at-home habits of the people;
and also to the unimportance of the capital, which title has been so
frequently transferred from city to city. When one Spaniard talks of
another as his countryman, he does not refer to their being both
Spaniards, but means that both are from the same province. "The much
used phrase, 'Españolismo,'" says Mr. Ford, who is very hard upon the
poor Dons on this head, "expresses rather a dislike of foreign
dictation, and the self-estimation of Spaniards, 'Españoles sobre
todos,' than any real patriotic love of country, however highly they
rate its excellencies and superiority to every other one under heaven."

So much for a go off. We find this in the first chapter, and few of the
subsequent ones conclude without some similar rap on the knuckles for
the countrymen of Don Quixote; raps always dexterously applied, and in
most instances well deserved. On Spanish securities, (to use a
misnomer,) whether loan, land, or rail, and on the _unremitting_
punctuality of Spanish finance ministers, Mr. Ford is particularly
severe, and not without good cause. The _Hispanica fides_ of the present
day may well rival the _Punica fides_ of the ancients. It has become as
proverbial. Painful is it to behold a people, possessing so many noble
qualities, held up to the scorn of surrounding nations for repeated acts
of dishonesty, which, under a good government, and with a proper
administration of their immense resources, they would never have been
tempted to perpetrate. Under the present plan, however, with their
absurd tariff, the parent of the admirably organised system of smuggling
that supplies the whole country with foreign commodities, and reduces
the customs revenue to a tithe of what it might be made, we see no
possible exit for Spain from the labyrinth of financial embarrassment in
which dishonesty and corruption have plunged her. She resembles a
reckless spendthrift, who, having exhausted his credit and ruined his
character amongst honest money-lenders, has been compelled to resort to
Jews and usurers, and who now, when the days of his hot youth and
uncalculating dissipation are past, and he wishes to redeem his
character and compound with his creditors, lacks resolution to
economise, and judgment to avail himself of, the resources of his
encumbered but fertile estates. The debts of Spain are stated by Mr.
Ford at about two hundred and eighty millions sterling, this estimate
being based on reports laid before parliament in 1844 by Mr. Macgregor.
The statement, however, whose possible exaggeration, owing to the
difficulty of getting at correct information, is admitted in the
"Gatherings," is fiercely contradicted by an anonymous correspondent,
whose letter Mr. Ford prints at the end of his volume. Some of the
assertions of this "Friend of Truth" (so he signs himself) are so
astonishing, as utterly to disprove his right to the title. According to
him, the whole Spanish debt is less than a fourth of the sum above set
down, the country is very rich, quite able to meet her trifling
engagements, and Spanish stock is a fortune to whomsoever is lucky
enough to possess it! After this, it was supererogatory on the part of
the unknown letter-writer to inform us that he is a large holder of the
valuable bonds he so highly esteems, and whose rise to their _proper_
price, about 60 or 70, he confidently predicts. Crumbs of comfort these,
for the creditors of insolvent Spain. Nevertheless, Mr. Ford persists
in his incredulity as to the sunny prospects of Peninsular bond-holders;
and whilst hoping that the bright visions of his anonymous friend may be
fully and promptly realised, declares his extreme distaste for any thing
in the shape of Spanish stock, whether active, passive, or deferred.
"Beware," he says, in his pithy and convincing style, "of Spanish stock,
for, in spite of official records, _documentos_, and arithmetical mazes,
which, intricate as an Arabesque pattern, look well on paper without
being intelligible; in spite of ingenious conversions, fundings of
interest, &c. &c. the thimblerig is always the same. And this is the
question:--Since national credit depends on national good faith, and
surplus income, how can a country pay interest on debts, whose revenues
have long been, and now are, miserably insufficient for the ordinary
expenses of government? You cannot get blood from a stone; _ex nihilo
nihil fit_." After which warning, coming from such a quarter, sane
persons on the look-out for an investment will, we imagine, as soon
think of making it in Glenmutchkin railway shares, as in the dishonoured
paper of all-promising, non-performing Spain.

The popular notion prevalent in England, and still more so in France,
that Spain is an unsafe country to travel in, is energetically combated
by Mr. Ford. It, of course, would be highly impolitic in the author of a
hand-book to admit that, in the country he described, the chances were
about equal whether a man got to his journey's end with a whole throat
or a cut one. But this consideration, we are sure, has had no weight
with Mr. Ford, both of whose books are equally adapted to amuse by an
English fireside or to be useful on a Spanish highway. His contempt for
the exaggerated statements and causeless terrors of tourists leads him,
however, rather into the opposite extreme. Believe him, and there is
scarcely a robber in the Peninsula, although he admits that thieves
abound, chiefly to be found in confessional boxes, lawyers' chambers,
and government offices. The _naiveté_ of the following is amusing:--He
speaks of travellers who, by scraping together and recording every idle
tale, gleaned from the gossip of muleteers and chatter of coffee-houses,
"keep up the notion entertained in many counties of England, that the
whole Peninsula is peopled with banditti. If such were the case society
could not exist." The assertion is undeniable. Equally so is it that in
a country where civil war so lately raged, and where, until a very
recent date, revolutions were still rife, where a large portion of the
population lives by the lawless and demoralising profession of
smuggling, where the police is bad, where roads are long and solitary
and mountains many, highwaymen must abound and travelling be unsafe.
That it is so, may be ascertained by a glance at any file of Spanish
newspapers. And the peculiar state of Spain, its liability to the petty
insurrections and desperate attempts of exiled parties and pretenders,
encourages the growth of robber bands, who cloak their villanous calling
with a political banner. These insurgents, Carlists, Progresista, or
whatsoever they may style themselves, act upon the broad principle that
those who are not with them are against them, and consequently are just
as dangerous and disagreeable to meet as mere vulgar marauders of the
"stand and deliver" sort, who fight upon their own account, without
pretending to defend the cause either of King or Kaiser, liberty or
absolutism. At the same time to believe, as many do, that of travellers
in Spain the unrobbed are the exceptions or even the minority, is a
gross absurdity, and the delusion arises from the romancing vein in
which scribbling tourists are apt to indulge. It is certain that nearly
all travellers, especially French ones, who take a run of a month or two
in the Peninsula, and subsequently print the eventful history of their
ramble, think it indispensable to introduce at least one robber
adventure, as having occurred to themselves or come within their
immediate cognisance. And if they cannot manage to get actually robbed,
positively put down with their noses in the mud, whilst their carpet
bags are rummaged, and their Chub-locks smashed by gloomy ruffians with
triple-charged blunderbusses, and knives like scythe-blades, they at
least get up a narrow escape. They encounter a troop of thorough-bred
bandits, unmistakable purse-takers, fellows with slouched hats,
truculent mustaches and rifle at saddle-bow, who lower at them from
beneath bushy brows, and are on the point of commencing hostilities,
when the well-timed appearance of a picket of dragoons, or perhaps the
bold countenance of the travellers themselves, makes them change their
purpose and ride surlily by. Mr. Ford shows how utterly groundless these
alarms usually are. Most Spaniards, when they mount their horses for a
journey, discard long-tailed coats and Paris hats, and revert in great
measure to the national costume as it is still to be found in country
places. A broad-brimmed, pointed hat, with velvet band and
trimmings--the genuine melodramatic castor--protects head and face from
the sun; a jacket, frequently of sheepskin, overalls, often of a
half-military cut and colour, and a red sash round the waist, compose
the habitual attire of Spanish wayfarers. Such a dress is not usual out
of Spain, and to French and English imaginations does not suggest the
idea of domestic habits and regular tax-paying. And when the cavaliers
thus accoutred possess olive or chocolate complexions, with dark
flashing eyes and a considerable amount of beard, and are elevated upon
demi-pique saddles, whose holsters may or may not contain "pistols as
long as my arm," whilst some of their number have perhaps fowling-pieces
slung on their shoulder, it is scarcely surprising if the English
Cockney or Parisian _badaud_ mistakes them for the banditti whom he has
dreamed about ever since he crossed the Bidassoa or landed at Cadiz. And
upon encounters of this kind, and incidents of very little more gravity,
repeated, distorted, and hugely exaggerated, are founded five-sixths of
the robber stories to which poor Spain is indebted for its popular
reputation of a country of cut-throats and highwaymen.

Amongst the measures adopted for the extirpation of banditti, was the
establishment of the _guardias civiles_, a species of gendarmerie,
dressed upon the French model, and who, from their stations in towns,
patrol the roads and wander about the country in the same prying and
important style observable amongst their brethren of the cocked hat
north of the Pyrenees. Spaniards have a sneaking regard for bold
robbers, whom they look upon as half-brothers of the contrabandist--that
popular hero of the Peninsula: they have also an innate dislike of
policemen, and a still stronger one for every thing French. They have
bestowed upon the Frenchified _guardias_ the appellations of
_polizones_,--a word borrowed from their neighbours,--and of _hijos de
Luis Felipe_, sons of Louis Philippe. "Spaniards," saith Richard Ford,
"are full of dry humour;" he might have added, and of sharp wit. Nothing
escapes them: they are ever ready with a sarcasm on public men and
passing events, and when offended, especially when their pride is hurt,
they become savage in their satire. When it was attempted to force Count
Trapani upon Spain as a husband for the Queen, the indignation of the
people burst out in innumerable jokes and current allusions, any thing
but flattering to the Neapolitan prince. Every thing filthy and
disgusting received his name. In the Madrid coffee-houses, when a dirty
table was to be wiped, the cry was invariably for a _Trapani_, instead
of a _trapo_, the Spanish word for a dishclout or rag used for the most
unclean purposes. Since then, the Duke of Montpensier has come in for
his share of insulting jests. The Madrileños got all unfounded notion
that he was short-sighted, and made the most of it. Mr. Hughes was at a
bull-fight where one of the bulls showed the white feather, and ran from
the _picador_. "The crowd instantly exclaimed, '_Fuera el toro
Monpenseer! Fuera Monpenseer!_ Turn him out!' They used to call every
lame dog and donkey a _Trapani_; and now every blind animal is sure to
be christened a _Monpenseer_."

If the danger to which peaceable travellers are exposed, in Spain, from
the knives of robbers, be considerably less than is generally believed,
great peril is often incurred at the hands of men who wield cutting
weapons professedly for the good of their species. The ignorance and
inefficiency of Spanish surgeons and physicians is notorious, and
admitted even by their countrymen, who, it has already been shown, are
not prone to expose the nakedness of the land. "The base, bloody, and
brutal _Sangrados_ of Spain," says Mr. Ford, "have long been the butts
of foreign and domestic novelists, who spoke many a true word in their
jests." The eagerness with which Spaniards have recourse to French and
English medical men whom chance throws in their way, proves how low they
estimate the skill and science of their professional countrymen. Many a
naval surgeon whose ship has been stationed on the Spanish coast, could
tell strange tales of the fatal ignorance he has had opportunity to
observe amongst the native faculty. It will be remembered how
Zumalacarregui, whose wound would have offered little difficulty to an
English village practitioner, was hurried out of the world by the
butchering manoeuvres of his conclave of Spanish quacks and _medicos_,
terms too often synonymous. And it may be remarked, that in Spain, where
there has been so much fighting during the last fifteen years, amputated
persons are more rarely met with than in countries that have enjoyed
comparative peace during the same period. The natural inference is, that
the unlucky soldier whose leg or arm has been shattered by the enemy's
fire, usually dies under the hands of unskilful operators. "All
Spaniards," Mr. Ford remarks, "are very dangerous with the knife, and
more particularly if surgeons. At no period were Spaniards careful even
of their own lives, and much less of those of others, being a people of
untender bowels." If the Peninsula surgeon is reckless and destructive
with his steel, the physician, on the other hand, is usually
overcautious with his drugs. Almond-milk and vegetable decoctions,
impotent to cure or aggravate disease, are prominent remedies in the
Spanish pharmacopoeia; minerals are looked upon with awe, and the
timid _tisane_ practice of the French school is exaggerated to
absurdity. Upon the principle of keeping edged tools out of the hands of
children, it is perhaps just as well that Spanish doctors do not venture
to meddle with the strong drugs commonly used in England. Left to
nature, with whose operation asses'-milk and herb-broth can in few cases
interfere, the invalid has at least a chance of cure.

Unassailed by either variety of Spanish bloodletters, the doctor or the
bandit, Mr. Hughes pursued, in high spirits and great good humour, his
long and leisurely journey from Irun to Lisbon, _via_ Madrid. We left
him at Paris, strolling in the passages, dining with his friends of the
_Charivari_, frequenting the _foyer de l'opera_, leading, in short,
rather a gay life for a man in such delicate health; we take him up
again upon his own favourite battle-ground of the Peninsula, where we
like him far better than in the French metropolis. At Burgos he is in
great feather, winning hearts by the dozen, frightening the garrison by
sketching the fortress, waging a victorious warfare of words at the
_table-d'hôte_, and playing pranks which will doubtless cause him to be
long remembered in the ancient capital of Castile. There the maid of the
inn, a certain black-eyed Francisca, fell desperately in love with him,
and so far forgot maidenly reserve as to confess her flame. "She had
large and expressive eyes," says the fortunate man, "and had tried their
power on me repeatedly, and the like, I am bound to say, (in narrating
this truthful history,) did sundry Burgalese dames and damsels of more
pretensions and loftier state." These were far from being the sole
triumphs achieved at Burgos by this lover of truth, and loved-one of the
ladies. He managed to excite the suspicions of the whole population,
especially of the police, who set spies to dog him. He was taken for a
political agent, a propagandist, and at last for a diplomatist of the
first water, and secretary of legation at Madrid. The origin of these
suspicions was traceable to his disregard of a ridiculous and barbarous
prejudice, a relic of orientalism worthy of the Sandwich islanders,
still in force amongst Spaniards. "Nothing throughout the length and
breadth of the land"--we quote from Mr. Ford--"creates greater suspicion
or jealousy than a stranger's making drawings, or writing down notes in
a book; whoever is observed 'taking plans,' or 'mapping the
country,'--for such are the expressions of the simplest pencil
sketches,--is thought to be an engineer, a spy, or, at all events, to be
about no good." Mr. Hughes was caught taking notes; forthwith Burgos was
up in arms, whilst he, on discovering the sensation made by his
sketch-book, and by his free expression of political opinions, did his
utmost to increase the mysterious interest attached to him. He galloped
about the castle, book and pencil in hand, making imaginary sketches of
bastions and ravelins; he talked liberalism by the bushel, and raved
against the Montpensior alliance. The results of the triumphant logic
with which he electrified a brigadier-general, a colonel, and the whole
company at his hotel, are recorded by him in a note. It will be seen
that they were not unimportant. "I have the satisfaction to state that
the words which I said that day bore good fruit subsequently, for the
Ayuntamiento of Burgos declined to vote any taxation for extraordinary
expenses to commemorate the Duke of Montpensier's marriage." A dangerous
man is the overland traveller to Lisbon, and we are no way surprised
that, at Madrid, Señor Chico, chief of police, vouchsafed him his
special attention, and even called upon him to inquire whether he did
not intend to get up a commotion on the entrance of the Infanta's
bridegroom. Mr. Bulwer also, aware that a book was in embryo, and
anxious for a patronising word in its pages, paid his court to the
author by civilities, "all of which I carefully abstained from
accepting, except one formal dinner, to which I first declined going;
but, on receiving a renewal of the invitation, could not well refrain
from appearing.... I have had six years' experience of foreign
diplomatists, and know that the dinner was pressed on me a second time
for the very purpose of committing me to a particular line of
observation." After this, let any one tell us that Mr. Hughes has not
fulfilled his promise of being amusing. Unfettered by obligations, he
runs full tilt at poor Mr. Bulwer, the fatal error of whose career is,
he says, an excessive opinion of himself. This fault must be especially
odious to the author of the "Journey to Lisbon." The British ambassador
at Madrid, we are told, by his vanity and lack of energy, left full
scope for the active and tortuous intrigues of M. Bresson, who fairly
juggled and outmanoeuvred him. "The marriages were arranged in his
absence. He was not consulted on the question, nor was its decision
submitted to him; and when the news, on the following day, reached the
British legation, after having become previously known to the
metropolis, our minister was at Carabanchal! (one of his
country-houses.) Then, indeed, he became very active, and displayed much
_ex post facto_ energy, writing a series of diplomatic notes and
protests, in one of which he went the length of saying, 'Had he known
this result, he would have voted for Don Carlos instead of Queen
Isabel,'--for even the ambassador cannot lose sight of the
individual,--'when he (Mr. Bulwer) was member of Parliament!'" Did Mr.
Hughes _see_ this note or protest? Unless he did, we decline believing
that a man of Mr. Bulwer's talents and reputation would expose himself
to certain ridicule by so childish and undiplomatic a declaration. Such
loose and improbable statements need confirmation.

Very graphic and interesting is Mr. Hughes' narrative of his journey
from Madrid to Portugal, especially that of the three days from Elvas to
Aldea Gallega, which were passed in a jolting springless cart, drawn by
mules, and driven by Senhor Manoel Alberto, a Portuguese carrier and
cavalheiro, poor in pocket, but proud as a grandee. Manoel was a good
study, an excellent specimen of his class and country, and as such his
employer exhibits him. At Arroyolos Mr. Hughes ordered a stewed fowl for
dinner, and made his charioteer sit down and partake. "I soon had
occasion to repent my politeness, for Manoel, without hesitation,
plunged his fork into the dish, and drank out of my glass; and great was
his surprise when I called for another tumbler, and, extricating as much
of the fowl as I chose to consume, left him in undisturbed possession of
the remainder." His next meal Mr. Hughes thought proper to eat alone,
but sent out half his chicken to the muleteer. "He refused to touch it,
saying that he had ordered a chicken for himself! This was a falsehood,
for he supped, as I afterwards ascertained, on a miserable _sopa_, but
his pride would not permit him to touch what was given in a way that
indicated inferiority." In his rambles through Alemtejo, a province
little visited and not often described by Englishmen, Mr. Hughes exposes
some of the blunders of Friend Borrow, of Bible and gipsy celebrity,
whose singularly attractive style has procured for his writings a
popularity of which their mistatements and inaccuracies render them
scarcely worthy. He refers especially to the absurd notion of the
English _caloro_, that the Portuguese will probably some day adopt the
Spanish language; a most preposterous idea, when we remember the
shyness, not to say the antipathy, existing between the two nations, and
the immense opinion each entertains of itself and all belonging to it.
He regrets "that one who has so stirring a style should take refuge in
bounce and exaggeration from the honourable task of candid and searching
observation, and prefer the fame of a Fernão Mendez Pinto to that of an
honest and truthful writer." With respect to exaggeration, Mr. Borrow
might, if so disposed, retaliate on his censor, who, whilst wandering in
the olive groves of Venda do Duque, encounters "black ants as large
almost as _figs_, unmolested in the vivid sun-beam." Before such
monsters as these, the terrible _termes fatalis_ of the Indies, which
undermines houses and breakfasts upon quarto volumes, must hide its
diminished head. A misprint can scarcely be supposed, unless indeed an
_f_ has been substituted for a _p_, which would not mend the matter.
Apropos of Mr. Borrow: it appears that the ill success of his tract and
Testament crusade did not entirely check missionary zeal for the
spiritual amelioration of the Peninsula. His followers, however, met
with small encouragement. One of their clever ideas was to bottle
tracts, throw them into the sea, and allow them to be washed ashore!
This ingenious plan, adopted before Cadiz, did not answer, "first," says
Mr. Hughes, who, we must do him the justice to say, is a stanch foe to
humbug, "because the bottling gave a ludicrous colour to the
transaction; and, secondly, for the conclusive reason, that Cadiz, being
surrounded by fortified sea walls, mounted with frowning guns and
sentries, the bottles never reached the inhabitants."

Whilst touching on Portuguese literature, Mr. Hughes refers to what he
considers the depreciating spirit of English critics. "There is a
ludicrous difference," he says, "in the criticism of London and Lisbon.
Every thing is condemned in the former place, and every thing hailed
with rapture in the latter. There are faults on both sides." We have
been informed that previous literary efforts of the author of the
"Overland Journey" met, at the hands of certain reviewers, with rougher
handling than they deserved. His present book is certainly not so
cautiously written as to guarantee it against censure. The good that is
in it, which is considerable, is defaced by triviality and bad taste. We
shall not again dilate on faults to which we have already adverted, but
merely advise Mr. Hughes, when next he sits down to record his rambles,
to eschew flimsy and unpalatable gossip, and, bearing in mind Lord
Bacon's admonition to travellers, to be "rather advised in his discourse
than forward to tell stories."




TO THE STETHOSCOPE

  "Tuba mirum spargens sonum."
                              _Dies Iræ._

[The Stethoscope, as most, probably, of our readers are aware, is a
short, straight, wooden tube, shaped like a small post-horn. By means of
it, the medical man can listen to the sounds which accompany the
movements of the lungs and heart; and as certain murmurs accompany the
healthy action of these organs, and certain others mark their diseased
condition, an experienced physician can readily discover not only the
extent, but also the nature of the distemper which afflicts his patient,
and foretell more or less accurately the fate of the latter.

The Stethoscope has long ceased to excite merely professional interest.
There are few families to whom it has not proved an object of horror and
the saddest remembrance, as connected with the loss of dear relatives,
though it is but a revealer, not a producer of physical suffering.

As an instrument on which the hopes and fears, and one may also say the
destinies of mankind, so largely hang, it appears to present a fit
subject for poetic treatment. How far the present attempt to carry out
this idea is successful, the reader must determine.]


  STETHOSCOPE! thou simple tube,
    Clarion of the yawning tomb,
  Unto me thou seem'st to be
    A very trump of doom.

  Wielding thee, the grave physician
    By the trembling patient stands,
  Like some deftly skilled musician;
    Strange! the trumpet in his hands.
  Whilst the sufferer's eyeball glistens
    Full of hope and full of fear,
  Quietly he bends and listens
    With his quick, accustomed ear--
  Waiteth until thou shalt tell
    Tidings of the war within:
  In the battle and the strife,
  Is it death, or is it life,
    That the fought-for prize shall win?

  Then thou whisperest in his ear
  Words which only he can hear--
  Words of wo and words of cheer.
    Jubilatés thou hast sounded,
      Wild exulting songs of gladness;
    Misererés have abounded
      Of unutterable sadness.
  Sometimes may thy tones impart,
  Comfort to the sad at heart;
  Oftener when thy lips have spoken,
  Eyes have wept, and hearts have broken.

  Calm and grave physician, thou
    Art like a crownéd KING;
  Though there is not round thy brow
    A bauble golden ring,
  As a Czar of many lands,
  Life and Death are in thy hands.
  Sceptre-like, that Stethoscope
    Seemeth in thy hands to wave:
  As it points, thy subject goeth
    Downwards to the silent grave;
    Or thy kingly power to save
  Lifts him from a bed of pain,
  Breaks his weary bondage-chain,
  And bids him be a man again.

  Like a PRIEST beside the altar
    Bleeding victims sacrificing,
  Thou dost stand, and dost not falter
    Whatsoe'er their agonising:
  Death lifts up his dooming finger,
  And the Flamen may not linger!

  PROPHET art thou, wise physician,
    Down the future calmly gazing,
    Heeding not the strange amazing
  Features of the ghastly vision.
  Float around thee shadowy crowds,
  Living shapes in coming shrouds;--
  Brides with babes, in dark graves sleeping
    That still sleep which knows no waking;
  Eyes all bright, grown dim with weeping;
    Hearts all joy, with anguish breaking;
  Stalwart men to dust degraded;
  Maiden charms by worms invades;
  Cradle songs as funeral hymns;
  Mould'ring bones for living limbs;
  Stately looks, and angel faces,
  Loving smiles, and winning graces,
  Turned to skulls with dead grimaces.
  All the future, like a scroll,
    Opening out, that it may show,
  Like the ancient Prophet's roll,
    Mourning, lamentation, anguish,
    Grief, and every form of wo.

  On a couch with kind gifts laden,
    Flowers around her, books beside her,
    Knowing not what shall betide her,
  Languishes a gentle maiden.
  Cold and glassy is her bright eye,
    Hectic red her hollow cheek,
  Tangled the neglected ringlets,
    Wan the body, thin and weak;
  Like thick cords, the swelling blue veins
    Shine through the transparent skin;
  Day by day some fiercer new pains
    Vex without, or war within:
  Yet she counts it but a passing,
    Transient, accidental thing;
  Were the summer only here,
    It would healing bring!
  And with many a fond deceit
    Tries she thus her fears to cheat:
  "When the cowslip's early bloom
  Quite hath lost its rich perfume;
  When the violet's fragrant breath
  Tasted have the lips of death;
  When the snowdrop long hath died,
  And the primrose at its side
    In its grave is sleeping;
  When the lilies all are over,
  And amongst the scented clover
    Merry lambs are leaping;
  When the swallow's voice is ringing
    Through the echoing azure dome,
    Saying, 'From my far-off home
  I have come, my wild way winging
  O'er the waves, that I might tell,
  As of old, I love ye well.
  Hark! I sound my silver bell;
  All the happy birds are singing
               From each throat
               A merry note,
  Welcome to my coming bringing.'
  When that happy time shall be,
  From all pain and anguish free,
  I shall join you, full of life and full of glee."

  Then, thou fearful Stethoscope!
  Thou dost seem thy lips to ope,
  Saying, "Bid farewell to hope:
  I foretell thee days of gloom,
  I pronounce thy note of doom--
  Make thee ready for the tomb!
  Cease thy weeping, tears avail not,
  Pray to God thy courage fail not.
  He who knoweth no repenting,
  Sympathy or sad relenting,
  Will not heed thy sore lamenting--
  Death, who soon will be thy guide
  To his couch, will hold thee fast;
  As a lover at thy side
  Will be with thee to the last,
  Longing for thy latest gasp,
  When within his iron grasp
  As his bride he will thee clasp."

  Shifts the scene. The Earth is sleeping,
    With her weary eyelids closed,
      Hushed by darkness into slumber;
    Whilst in burning ranks disposed,
      High above, in countless number,
  All the heavens, in radiance steeping,
         Watch and ward
         And loving guard
  O'er her rest the stars are keeping.

  Often has the turret-chime
  Of the hasty flight of time
      Warning utterance given;
  And the stars are growing dim
  On the gray horizon's rim,
      In the dawning light of heaven.
  But there sits, the Bear out-tiring,
  As if no repose requiring,
  One pale youth, all unattending
  To the hour; with bright eye bending
  O'er the loved and honoured pages,
  Where are writ the words of sages,
  And the heroic deeds and thoughts of far distant ages.

  Closed the book,
    With gladsome look
    Still he sits and visions weaveth.
    Fancy with her wiles deceiveth;
      Days to come with glory gildeth;
        And though all is bleak and bare,
      With perversest labour buildeth
        Wondrous castles in the air.
    He who shall possess each palace,
    Fortune has for him no malice,
        Only countless joys in store:
    Over rim,
    And mantling brim,
        His full cup of life shall pour.
    Whilst he dreams,
    The future seems
      Like the present spread before him:
    Nought to fear him,
    All to cheer him,
      Coming greatness gathers o'er him;
    And into the ear of Night
    Thus he tells his visions bright:--

  "I shall be a glorious Poet!
  All the wond'ring world shall know it,
    Listening to melodious hymning;
      I shall write immortal songs.

    "I shall be a Painter limning
  Pictures that shall never fade;
  Round the scenes I have portrayed
    Shall be gathered gazing throngs:
  Mine shall be a Titian's palette!

  "I shall wield a Phidias' mallet!
    Stone shall grow to life before me,
    Looks of love shall hover o'er me,
    Beauty shall in heart adore me
  That I make her charms immortal.
  Now my foot is on the portal
    Of the house of Fame:
    Soon her trumpet shall proclaim
    Even this now unhonoured name,
  And the doings of this hand
  Shall be known in every land.

  "Music! my bewitching pen
  Shall enchant the souls of men.
  Aria, fugue, and strange sonata,
  Opera, and gay cantata,
  Through my brain,
  In linkéd train,
  Hark! I hear them winding go,
  Now with half-hushed whisper stealing,
  Now in full-voiced accent pealing,
  Ringing loud, and murmuring low.
  Scarcely can I now refrain,
  Whilst these blessed notes remain,
  From pouring forth one undying angel-strain.

  "Eloquence! my lips shall speak
    As no living lips have spoken--
  Advocate the poor and weak,
    Plead the cause of the heart-broken;
  Listening senates shall be still,
  I shall wield them at my will,
  And this little tongue, the earth
      With its burning words shall fill.

    "Ye stars which bloom like flowers on high,
    Ye flowers which are the stars of earth,
  Ye rocks that deep in darkness lie,
  Ye seas that with a loving eye
  Gaze upwards on the azure sky,
    Ye waves that leap with mirth;
  Ye elements in constant strife,
  Ye creatures full of bounding life:
  I shall unfold the hidden laws,
  And each unthought-of wondrous cause,
    That waked ye into birth.
  A high-priest I, by Nature taught
    Her mysteries to reveal:
  The secrets that she long hath sought
    In darkness to conceal
  Shall have their mantle rent away,
  And stand uncovered to the light of day.
  O Newton! thou and I shall be
    Twin brothers then!
  Together link'd, our names shall sound
    Upon the lips of men."

  Like the sullen heavy boom
    Of a signal gun at sea,
  When athwart the gathering gloom,
  Awful rocks are seen to loom
    Frowning on the lee;
  Like the muffled kettle-drum,
    With the measured tread,
  And the wailing trumpet's hum,
    Telling that a soldier's dead;
  Like the deep cathedral bell
  Tolling forth its doleful knell,
  Saying, "Now the strife is o'er,
  Death hath won a victim more"--
  So, thou doleful Stethoscope!
      Thou dost seem to say,
  "Hope thou on against all hope,
     Dream thy life away:
     Little is there now to spend;
     And that little's near an end.
     Saddest sign of thy condition
     is thy bounding wild ambition;
     Only dying eyes can gaze on so bright a vision.
     Ere the spring again is here,
          Low shall be thy head,
  Vainly shall thy mother dear,
  Strive her breaking heart to cheer,
  Vainly strive to hide the tear
      Oft in silence shed.
  Pangs and pains are drawing near,
  To plant with thorns thy bed:
  Lo! they come, a ghastly troop,
      Like fierce vultures from afar;
  Where the bleeding quarry is,
      There the eagles gathered are!
  Ague chill, and fever burning,
  Soon away, but swift returning,
  In unceasing alternation;
      Cold and clammy perspiration,
  Heart with sickening palpitation,
      Panting, heaving respiration;
  Aching brow, and wasted limb,
  Troubled brain, and vision dim,
  Hollow cough like dooming knell
  Saying, 'Bid the world farewell!'
  Parchéd lips, and quenchless thirst,
  Every thing as if accurst;
  Nothing to the senses grateful;
  All things to the eye grown hateful;
  Flowers without the least perfume;
  Gone from every thing its bloom;
  Music but an idle jangling;
  Sweetest tongues but weary wrangling;
  Books, which were most dearly cherished,
  Come to be, each one, disrelished;
  Clearest plans grown all confusion;
  Kindest friends but an intrusion:
    Weary day, and weary night--
      Weary night, and weary day;
    Would God it were the morning light!
      Would God the light were pass'd away!
  And when all is dark and dreary,
  And thou art all worn and weary,
  When thy heart is sad and cheerless,
  And thine eyes are seldom tearless,
  When thy very soul is weak,
  Satan shall his victim seek.
  Day by day he will be by thee,
  Night by night will hover nigh thee,
  With accursed wiles will try thee,
  Soul and spirit seek to buy thee.
  Faithfully he'll keep his tryst,
  Tell thee that there is no Christ,
  No long-suffering gracious Father,
  But an angry tyrant rather;
  No benignant Holy Spirit,
  Nor a heaven to inherit,
  Only darkness, desolation,
  Hopelessness of thy salvation,
  And at best annihilation.

  "God with his great power defend thee!
  Christ with his great love attend thee!
  May the blessed Spirit lend thee
  Strength to bear, and all needful succour send thee!"
  Close we here. My eyes behold,
  As upon a sculpture old,
  Life all warm and Death all cold
  Struggling which alone shall hold--
  Sign of wo, or sign of hope!--
  To his lips the Stethoscope.

  But the strife at length is past,
  They have made a truce at last,
  And the settling die is cast.
  Life shall sometimes sound a blast,
      But it shall be but "Tantivy,"
    Like a hurrying war reveillie,
      Or the hasty notes that levy
    Eager horse, and man, and hound,
      On an autumn morn,
    When the sheaves are off the ground,
      And the echoing bugle-horn
    Sends them racing o'er the scanty stubble corn.
    But when I a-hunting go,
      I, King Death,
    I that funeral trump shall blow
      With no bated breath.
    Long drawn out, and deep and slow
      Shall the wailing music go;
      Winding horn shall presage meet
      Be of coming winding-sheet,
    And all living men shall know
      That beyond the gates of gloom,
      In my mansions of the tomb,
      I for every one keep room,
    And shall hold and house them all, till the very
                                Day of Doom.

                                                V. V.




EPIGRAMS.


  Bait, hook, and hair, are used by angler fine;
  Emma's bright hair alone were bait, hook, line.

       *       *       *       *       *

Faraday was the first to elicit the electric spark from the magnet; he
found that it is visible at the instants of breaking and of renewing the
contact of the conducting wires; and _only then_.

  Around the magnet, Faraday
  Is sure that Volta's lightnings play;
    But _how_ to draw them from the wire?
  He took a lesson from the heart:
  'Tis when we meet, 'tis when we part,
    Breaks forth the electric fire.

                                                M.




LETTERS ON THE TRUTHS CONTAINED IN POPULAR SUPERSTITIONS.

1.--THE DIVINING ROD.


_February_, 1847.

DEAR ARCHY,--As a resource against the long ennui of the solitary
evenings of commencing winter, I determined to betake me to the
neglected lore of the marvellous, the mystical, the supernatural. I
remembered the deep awe with which I had listened many a year ago to
tales of seers, and ghosts, and vampires, and all the dark brood of
night; and I thought it would be infinitely agreeable to thrill again
with mysterious terrors, to start in my chair at the closing of a
distant door, to raise my eyes with uneasy apprehension towards the
mirror opposite, and to feel my skin creep with the sensible "afflatus"
of an invisible presence. I entered, accordingly, upon what I thought a
very promising course of appalling reading; but, alack and well-a-day! a
change has come over me since the good old times, when Fancy, with Fear
and Superstition behind her, would creep on tiptoe to catch a shuddering
glimpse of Cobbold Fay, or Incubus. Vain were all my efforts to revive
the pleasant horrors of earlier years. It was as if I had planned going
to the play to enjoy again the full gusto of scenic illusion, and
through some unaccountable absence of mind, was attending a morning
rehearsal only; when, instead of what I had expected, great coats, hats,
umbrellas, and ordinary men and women, masks, tinsel, trap-doors,
pulleys, and a world of intricate machinery, lit by a partial gleam of
sunshine, had met my view. The spell I had anticipated was not there.
But yet the daylight scene was worth a few minutes' study. My
imagination was not to be gratified; but still it might be entertaining
to see how the tricks are done, the effects produced, the illusion
realised. I found myself insensibly growing philosophical; what amused
me became matter of speculation--speculation turned into serious
inquiry--the object of which shaped itself into "the amount of truth
contained in popular superstitions." For what has been believed for ages
must have something real at bottom. There can be no prevalent delusion
without a corresponding truth. If the dragons, that flew on scaly wings
and expectorated flames, were fabulous, there existed nevertheless very
respectable reptiles, which it was a credit to a hero or even a saint to
destroy. If the Egyptian worship of cats and onions was a mistake, there
existed nevertheless an object of worship.

Among the immortal productions of the Scottish Shakspeare,--you smile,
but _that_ phrase contains the true belief, not a popular delusion; for
the spirit of the poet lived not in the form of his productions, but in
his creative power and vivid intuition of nature; and the form even is
often nearer you than you think: See the works of imaginative prose
writers, _passim_.

Well, among the novels of Scott, I was going to say, none perhaps more
grows upon our preference than the Antiquary. In no one has the great
Author more gently and more indulgently, never with happier humour,
displayed the mixed web of strength and infirmity of human character,
(never, besides, with more facile power evoked pathos and terror, or
disported himself in the sublimity and beauty of nature.) Yet gentle as
is his mood, he misses not the opportunity, albeit in general he betrays
an honest leaning towards old superstitions, mercilessly to crush one of
the humblest. Do you remember the Priory of St. Ruth, and the pleasant
summer party made to visit it, and the preparation for the subsequent
rogueries of Dousterswivel, in the tale of Martin Waldeck, and the
discovery of a spring of water by means of the divining rod?

I am disposed, do you know, to rebel against the judgment of the
novelist on this occasion,--to take the part of the charlatan against
the author of his being, and to question, whether his performance last
alluded to might not have been something more and better than a trick.
Yet I know not if it is prudent to brave public opinion, which has
stamped this pretension as imposture. But, courage! I will not flinch. I
will be desperate, with Sir Arthur, defy the sneeze of the great
Pheulphan, and trust to unearth a real treasure in this discredited
ground.

Therefore leave off appealing to the shade of Oldbuck, and listen to a
plain narrative, and you shall hear how much truth there is in the
reputed popular delusion of the divining rod.

I see my tone of confidence has already half-staggered your disbelief;
but pray do not, like many other incredulous gentry, run off at once
into the opposite extreme. Don't let your imagination suddenly instal
you perpetual chairman of the universal fresh-water company, or of the
general gold-mine-discovery-proprietary-association. What I have to fell
you falls very far short of so splendid a mark.

But perhaps you know nothing at all about the divining rod. Then I will
enlighten your primitive ignorance.

You are to understand, that, in mining districts, a superstition
prevails among the people, that some are gifted with an occult power of
detecting the proximity of veins of metal, and of underground springs of
water. In Cornwall, they hold that about one in forty possesses this
faculty. The mode, of exercising it is very simple. They cut a hazel
twig that forks naturally into two equal branches; and having stripped
the leaves off, they cut the stump of the twig, to the length of three
or four inches, and each branch to the length of a foot or something
less: for the end of a branch is meant to be held in each hand, in such
a manner that the stump of the twig may project straight forwards. The
position is this: the elbows are bent, the forearms, and hands advanced,
the knuckles turned downwards, the ends of the branches come out between
the thumbs and roots of the forefingers, the hands are supinated, the
inner side of each is turned towards its fellow, as they are held a few
inches apart. The mystic operator, thus armed, walks over the ground he
intends exploring, with the full expectation, that, when he passes over
a vein of metal, or underground spring of water, the hazel fork will
move spontaneously in his hands, the point or stump rising or falling as
the case may be. This hazel fork is the DIVINING ROD. The hazel has the
honour of being preferred, because it divides into nearly equal branches
at angles the nearest equal.

Then, assuming that there is something in this provincial superstition,
four questions present themselves to us for examination.

Does the divining fork really move of itself in the hands of the
operator, and not through motion communicated to it by the intentional
or unintentional action of the muscles of his hands or arms?

What relation has the person of the operator to the motion observed in
the divining rod?

What is the nature of the influence to which the person of the operator
serves as a conductor?

Finally, what is the thing divined? the proximity of veins of metal or
of running water? what or what not?

Then, let me at once premise, that upon the last point I have no
information to offer. The uses to which the divining fork may be turned,
are yet to be learned. But I think I shall be able to satisfy you, that
the hazel fork in some hands, and in certain localities, held as I have
described, actually moves spontaneously, and that the intervention of
the human body is necessary to its motion; and that it serves as a
conductor to an influence, which is either electricity, or something
either combined with electricity, or very much resembling that principle
in some of its habitudes.

I should observe, that I was no wiser than you are upon this subject,
till the summer of 1843, and held the tales told of the divining rod to
be nonsense, the offspring of mere self-delusion, or of direct
imposture. And I think the likeliest way of removing _your_ disbelief,
will be to tell you the steps by which my own conversion took place.

In the summer of 1843, I lived some months under the same roof with a
Scottish gentleman, well informed, of a serious turn of mind, endowed
with the national allowance of caution, shrewdness, and intelligence. I
saw a good deal of him; and one day by accident the subject of the
divining rod was mentioned. He told me that at one time his curiosity
having been raised upon the subject, he had taken pains to learn what
there was in it. And for that purpose he had obtained an introduction to
Mrs. R., sister of Sir G. R., then residing at Southampton, whom he
learned to be one of those in whose hands the divining rod was said to
move. He visited the lady, who was polite enough to show him what the
performance amounted to, and to answer all his questions, and to allow
him to try some simple experiment to test the reality of the phenomenon
and its nature.

Mrs. R. told my friend, that being at Cheltenham in 1806, she saw for
the first time the divining rod used by the late Mrs. Colonel Beaumont,
who possessed the power of imparting motion to it in a very remarkable
degree. Mrs. R. tried the experiments herself at the time, but without
any success. She was, as it happened, very far from well. Afterwards, in
the year 1815, being asked by a friend how the divining rod was held,
and how it is to be used, on showing it she observed that the hazel fork
moved in her hands. Since then, whenever she had repeated the
experiment, the power has always manifested itself, though with varying
degrees of energy.

Mrs. R. then took my friend to a part of the shrubbery, where she knew,
from former trials, the divining rod would move in her hands. It did so,
to my friend's extreme astonishment; and even continued to do so, when,
availing himself of Mrs. R.'s permission, my friend grasped her hands
with such firmness, as to preclude the possibility of any muscular
action of her wrist or fingers influencing the result.

On another day my friend took with him pieces of copper and iron wire
about a foot and a half long, bent something into the form of the letter
V, with length enough in the horizontal limbs of the figure to form a
sufficient _handle_ for either branch of these new-fashioned divining
forks. He found that these instruments moved quite as freely in Mrs.
R.'s hands as the hazel fork had done. Then he coated the two handles of
one of them with sealing-wax, leaving, however, the extreme ends free
and uncovered. When Mrs. R. used the rod so prepared, grasping it by the
parts alone which were coated with sealing-wax, and walked over the same
piece of ground as before, the wires exhibited no movement whatever. As
often, however, as, with no greater change than touching the free ends
of the wire with her thumbs, Mrs. R. established again a direct contact
with the instrument, it again moved. The motion again ceased, as often
as that direct contact was interrupted.

This simple narrative, made to me by the late Mr. George Fairholm,
carried conviction to my mind of the reality of the phenomenon. I asked
my friend why he had not pursued the subject further. He said he had
often thought of doing so; and had, he believed, been mainly prevented
by meeting with a work of the Count de Tristan, entitled, "Recherches
sur quelques Effluves Terrestres," published at Paris in 1826, in which
facts similar to those which he had himself verified were narrated, and
a vast body of additional curious experiments detailed.

At my friend's instance, I sent to Paris for the book, which I have,
however, only recently read through. I recommend it to your perusal, if
the subject should happen to interest your wayward curiosity. Any thing
like an elaborate analysis of it is out of the question in a letter of
this sort; but I shall borrow from it a few leading facts and
observations, which, at all events, will surprise you. I am afraid,
after all, I should have treated the Count as a visionary, and not have
yielded to his statements the credence they deserve, but for the good
British evidence I had already heard in favour of their trustworthiness;
and still I suspect that I should have imagined many of the details
fanciful had I perused them at an earlier period than the present; for,
it is but lately that I have read Von Reichenbach's experiments on the
action of crystals, and of what not, upon sensitive human bodies; a
series of phenomena utterly unlike those explored by the Count de
Tristan, but which have, nevertheless, the most curious analogy and
interesting points of contact with them, confirmatory of the truth of
both.

But permit me to introduce you to the Count: he shall tell you his own
tale in his own way; but as he does not speak English, at least in his
book, I must serve as dragoman.

"The history of my researches is simply this:--Some twenty years ago, a
gentleman who, from his position in society, could have no object to
gain by deception, showed to me, for my amusement, the movements of the
divining rod. He attributed the motion to the influence of a current of
water, which I thought no unlikely supposition. But my attention was
rather engaged with the action produced by the influence, let that be
what it might. My informant assured me he had met with many others,
through whom similar effects were manifested. When I was returned home,
and had opportunities of making trials under favourable circumstances, I
found that I possessed the same endowment myself. Since then I have
induced many to make the experiment; and I have found a fourth, or at
all events a fifth of the number, capable of setting the divining rod in
motion at the very first attempt. Since that time, during these twenty
years, I have often tried my hand, but for amusement only, and
desultorily, and without any idea of making the thing an object of
scientific investigation. But at length, in the year 1822, being in the
country, and removed from my ordinary pursuits, the subject again came
across me, and I then determined to ascertain the cause of these
phenomena. Accordingly, I commenced a long series of experiments, from
1500 to 1800 in number, which occupied me nearly fifteen months. The
results of above 1200 were noted down at the time of their performance."

The scene of the Count's operations was in the valley of the Loire, five
leagues from Vendôme, in the park of the Chateau de Ranac. The surface
of ground which gave the desired results, was from 70 to 80 feet in
breadth. But there was another spot equally efficient near the Count's
ordinary residence at Emerillon, near Clery, four leagues southwest of
Orleans, ten leagues south of the Loire, at the commencement of the
plains of Sologne. The surface was from north to south, and was about of
the same breadth with the other. These _exciting tracts_ form, in
general, bands or zones of undetermined, and often very great length.
Their breadth is very variable. Some are only three or four feet across,
while others are one hundred paces. These tracts are sometimes sinuous
and sometimes ramify. To the most susceptible they are broader than to
those who are less so.

The Count thus describes what happens when a competent person, armed
with a hazel fork, walks over these _exciting_ districts.

When two or three steps have been made upon the exciting tract of
ground, the fork (which I have already said is to be held horizontally
with its central angle forward,) begins gently to ascend; it gradually
attains a vertical position--sometimes it passes beyond that, and
lowering itself with its point towards the chest of the operator, it
becomes again horizontal. If the motion continue, the rod, descending,
becomes vertical with the angle downwards. Finally, the rod may again
ascend and reassume its first horizontal position, having thus completed
a revolution. When the action is very lively, the rod immediately
commences a second revolution; and so it goes on as long as the operator
walks over the exciting surface of ground.

It is to be understood that the operator does not grasp the handles of
the fork so tightly but that they may turn in his hands. If, indeed, he
tries to prevent this, and the fork is only of hazel twig, the rotatory
force is so strong as to twist it at the handles and crack the bark, and
finally, fracture the wood itself.

I can imagine you at this statement endeavouring to hit the proper
intonation of the monosyllable "Hugh," frequently resorted to by Uncas,
the son of Chingachkook, as well as by his parent, on similar occasions;
though I remember to have read of none so trying in their experience. I
anticipate the remarks you would subsequently make, which the graver
Indian would have politely repressed:--"By my patience, this bangs
Banagher, and exhausts credulity. The assertion of these dry
impossibilities is too choking to listen to. The fork cannot go down in
this crude and unprotected state. It is as inconvenient a morsel as the
'Amen' inopportunely suggested to the conscience-stricken Macbeth.
Cannot you contrive some intellectual cookery to make the process of
deglutition easier? Suppose you mix the raw facts with some flowery
hypothesis, throw in a handful of familiar ideas to give a congenial
flavour, and stir into the mess some leaven of stale opinion to make it
rise; so, do try your hand at a philosophical soufflé."

_Do manus._

Then you are to imagine that a current of electricity, or of something
like it, may use your legs as conductors, as you walk over the soil from
which it emanates, the circuit which it seeks being completed through
your arms and the divining rod.

Nothing, then, would be more likely, upon analogy,--the extreme part of
the current traversing a _curved_ and movable conductor,--than that the
latter should be attracted or repelled, or both alternately, by or from
the soil below, or by your person, or both.

And see, what would render such an explanation plausible? Why, the
cessation of the rotatory motion of the divining fork, on the operator
simultaneously holding in his hands a _straight_ rod of the same
substance,--that is, conjointly with the other,--offering a shorter road
to the journeying fluid, and so superseding the movable one. Well, the
Count de Tristan did this, and the result was conformable to the
hypothesis. When he walked over the exciting soil, with two rods held in
his two hands, the one a hazel fork, the other a straight hazel twig, no
motion whatever manifested itself in the former.

I flatter myself, that if you now continue to disbelieve, the fault is
not mine: the fault must lie in your organisation. You must have a very
small bump of credulity, and a very large bump of incredulity. You must
be, actively and passively, incapable of receiving new ideas. How on
earth did you get your old ones?--They must come by entail. But you are
still a disbeliever?

Bless me! how am I to proceed? I catch at the slenderest straw of
analogical suggestion. I have heard that the best cure, when you have
burned your finger, is to hold it to the fire. Let me try a
corresponding proceeding with you. My first statement has sadly
irritated and blistered your belief; oblige me by trying the soothing
application of the following fact:--

Although, in general, the divining rod behaves with great gravity and
consistency, and looks contemplatively upward, when it comes upon
grounds that move it, and then twirls respectably round, as you might
twirl your thumbs in a tranquil continuity of rotation, yet there are
some--a small proportion only--in whose hands it gibs at starting, and
with whom it delights to go in the opposite direction. I say "delights"
considerately; for it has a voice in the matter. So that a divining rod
that has been used for some little time to go the wrong way, requires
further time before it will go round right again.

The Count de Tristan found out the key to this anomaly.

He had discovered that a thick cover of silk upon the handles of the
divining fork, like Mr. Fairholm's coating of sealing wax, entirely
arrested its motion. Then he tried thinner covers, and found they only
lowered, as it were, and lessened it. The thin layer of silk was only an
imperfect impediment to the transmission of the influence. Then he tried
the effect of covering one handle only of the divining rod with a thin
layer of silk stuff. He so covered the right handle, and then the enigma
above proposed was explained. The divining fork, which hitherto had gone
the usual way with him, commencing by ascending, now, when set in
motion, descended, and continued to perform an inverse rotation.

I think this is the place for mentioning, that when the Count walked
over the exciting soil, rod in hand, but trailing likewise, from each
hand, a branch of the same plant, (which therefore touched the ground
with one end, and with the other touched, in his hand, the magic fork,)
the latter had lost its virtue. There is no motion when the ends of the
divining rod are in direct communication with the soil. The intervention
of the human body is necessary for our result.

Then we are at liberty to suppose that the two sides of our frame have
some fine difference of quality; that there is in general a sort of
preponderance upon the right side; that in general, in reference to the
divining rod, there is a superior vigour of transmission in the right
side; that _this difference_, whatever it may be, of kind or degree,
determines a current, causes motion, in the unknown fluid, which, in a
simple arched conductor, with its ends upon the soil, remains in
equilibrium. To explain the result of the last experiment I have cited
of the Count de Tristan, no difference in quality in the two sides of
the body need be assumed. Difference in conducting power alone will do.
Then it might be said, that by covering the right handle of the divining
rod, he checked the current rushing through the right side of the frame,
and so gave predominance to the left current. One cannot help
conjecturally anticipating, by the way, that with left-handed diviners,
the divining rod will be found habitually to move the wrong way.

But it will not do _now_, to let this indication of a curious
physiological element pass slurred over and unheeded,--this evidence so
singularly furnished by the Count de Tristan's experiments, of a
positive difference between the right and left halves of the frame, as
if our bodies were the subjects of a transverse polarity. I expect it is
too late to pass over now any such facts, the very genuineness of which
derives confirmation, from their pointing to a conclusion so new to, and
unexpected by their observer, yet recently made certain through an
entirely different order of phenomena, observed by one clearly not
cognisant of the Count de Tristan's researches.

I allude to the investigations of the Baron Freyherr von Reichenbach,
published in Wohler and Liebig's "Annals of Chemistry," and already
translated for the benefit of the English reader, and familiar to the
reading public.

I take it for granted, Archy, that you have read the book I refer to,
and that I have only to bring to your recollection two or three of the
facts mentioned in it, bearing upon the present point.

Then you remember that Von Reichenbach has shown, that the two ends of a
large crystal, moved along and near the surface of a limb, in certain
sensitive subjects, produced decided but different sensations, one that
of a draught of cool air, the other of a draught of warm air. That the
proximity of the northward pole of a magnet again produces the former,
of the southward pole the latter; of the negative wire of a voltaic
pile, the former, of the positive wire, the latter; finally, that _the
two hands_ are equally and similarly efficient, the right acting like
the negative influence, the left like the positive, of those above
specified. Von Reichenbach came to the conclusion, from these and other
experiments, that the two lateral halves of the human body have opposite
relations to the influence, the existence of which he has proved, while
he has in part developed its laws. And he throws out the very idea of a
transverse polarity reigning in the animal frame. Do you remember, in
confirmation of it, one of the most curious experiments which he leads
Fräulein Maix to execute; valueless it might be thought if it stood
alone, but joined with parallel effects produced on others, its weight
is irresistible. Miss M. holds a bar magnet by its two ends. In any case
it is sensibly inconvenient to her to do so. But when she holds the
southward or positive pole of the magnet in her right hand, the
northward or negative pole in her left, the thing is bearable. When, on
the contrary, she reverses the position of the magnet, she immediately
experiences the most distressing uneasiness, and the feeling as of an
inward struggle in her arms, chest, and head. This ceases instantly on
letting go the magnet.

I will not inflict upon you more of Von Reichenbach, though sorely
tempted, so much is there in common between his Od and the influence
investigated by the Count de Tristan. If you know the researches of the
former already, why _verbum sat_; if not, I had better not attempt
further to explain to you the _ignotum per ignotum_.

And in truth, with reference to the divining rod, I have already given
my letter extension and detail enough for the purpose I contemplated,
and I will add no more. I had no intention of writing you a scientific
analysis of all that I believe to be really ascertained upon this
curious subject. My wish was only to satisfy you that there is something
in it. I have told you where you may find the principal collection of
facts elating to it, should you wish further to study them; most likely
you will not. The subject is yet in its first infancy. And what interest
attaches to a new-born babe, except in the eyes of its parents and its
nurse? I do not in the present instance affect even the latter relation.
I am contented with exercising the office of registrar of the births of
this and of two or three other as yet puling truths, the feeble voices
of which have hitherto attracted no attention, amidst the din and roar
of the bustling world. Hoping that I have not quite exhausted your
patience, I remain, Dear Archy, yours faithfully.

MAC DAVUS.




HORÆ CATULLIANE.

LETTER TO EUSEBIUS.


MY DEAR EUSEBIUS,--I have lately spent a few weeks with our old friend
Gratian, at his delightful retreat in Devonshire, which he has planted,
fenced, and cultivated, and made as much a part of himself in its every
fit and aspect as his own easy coat. You see him in every thing, in the
house and out of it. Cheerful, happy, kind, and best of men! Not an
animal in his stall, or his homestead, but partakes of his temper. His
horses neigh to you, his cows walk up to you, his pigs run to you,
rather disappointed, for you have not his stick to rub their backs with.
Rise in the early morning, when the dew is sparkling on the lawn, and
his spaniel greets you, runs round and round you with a bark of joyous
welcome; and even his cat will, as no other cat will, show you round the
gravel walks. And thrice happy are all when their expected master
appears, somewhat limping in his gait, (and how few, under his continual
pain, would preserve his cheerfulness as he does!) Every creature looks
up into his face as better than sunshine, and he forgets none. He has a
good word for all, and often more than that in his pockets. The alms
beggar, the Robin, is remembered and housed. There is his little
freehold of wood raised some feet from the ground opposite the breakfast
room window--an entrance both ways--there is he free to come and go, and
always find a meal laid for him. Happy bird, he pays neither window-tax
nor servant's tax, and yet who enjoys more daylight, or is better
served?

Our good old friend still goes on improving this and improving that--has
his little farm and his garden all in the highest perfection. Nor is the
_least_ care bestowed on the greenhouse, and the little aviary
adjoining; for here are objects of feminine pleasure, and he loves not
himself so well as he does the mistress of all, the mother and the
partner. O the terrestrial paradise, in which to wait old age, and still
enjoy, and breathe to the last the sunshiny breath of heaven, and feel
that all is blessed and blessing; for there is peace, and that is the
true name for goodness within! You shall have, my dear Eusebius, no
farther description. A drop-scene, however, is not amiss to any little
conversational drama. You may shift it, if you like, occasionally to the
small snug library--just such a one as you would have for such a
retreat. Our excellent friend took less part in our talk than we could
have wished; for it began generally at night, and his infirmity sent
him to bed early. But in spite of a little remnant of influenza, I and
the Curate often kept it up to a late hour, which you, Eusibius, will
construe into an _early_ one. Never mind; though, perhaps, it was
whispered to his discredit that the Curate kept bad hours. Those,
however, who _knew_ the fact did not keep better, and so he thought all
safe. How sweet and consoling is sometimes ignorance!

Now, the Curate--let me introduce you,--"My dear Eusebius, the Curate, a
class man some year or two from Oxford--a true man, in a word, worthy of
this introduction to you, Eusebius." "Mr. Curate, my friend Eusebius;
see, don't trust to his gravity of years; it is quite deceptive, and the
only deceit he has about him. He is Truth in sunshine and a fresh
healthy breeze. So now you know each other." I wish, Eusebius, this were
not a passage out of an imaginary conversation. Wait but for the
swallow, and you shall shake hands; and you, I know, will laugh merrily
within ten minutes after; and a laugh from you is as good as a ticket
upon your breast, "All is natural here;" and for the rest, let come what
will, that is uppermost. There will be no restraint. I cannot forbear,
Eusebius, writing to you now, early in this new year, paying you this
compliment, that your real conversations resemble in much "Landor's
Imaginary," which you tell me you so greatly admire. Full, indeed, are
they, these last two volumes, his works, of beautiful thoughts set off
with exquisitely appropriate eloquence. You are in a garden, and if you
do not always recognise the fruit as legitimate, you are quite as well
pleased to find it like Aladdin's, and would willingly store all, as he
did, in the bosom of your memory. Precious stones, bigger than plums and
peaches, are good for sore eyes, and something more, though they have
not the flavour of apricots.

We--that is, the Trio--had been reading one evening; or rather, our
friend Gratian read to me and the Curate, the "Conversation with the
Abbé Delille and W. L." We loitered, too, in the reading, as we do when
the country is of a pleasant aspect, to look about us and admire--and we
interspersed our own little talk by the way. Our friend could not
consent that Catullus should walk with, and even, as it should seem,
take the lead of his favourite Horace. "Catullus and Horace," says
Landor, "will be read as long as Homer and Virgil, and more often, and
by more readers."

"If," said the Curate, "Catullus were not nearly banished from our
public schools and our universities."

"As he deserves," replied Gratian; "for although there is in him great
elegance, yet is there much that should not be read; and his most
beautiful and most powerful little poem, his 'Atys,' is in its very
subject unfit for schoolboys."

CURATE.--Yes, if in the presence of a master; that makes the only
difficulty. The poem itself is essentially chaste, and of a grand tragic
action, and grave character--is in fact a serious poem, and as such any
youth may read it _to himself_, scarcely to another. The very subject
touches on that mystical, though natural sanctity that every uncorrupted
man is conscious of in the temple of his own person. To _impart_ a
thought of it is a deterioration. But a master must not hear it; and
even for a very inferior reason. He cannot be a critical instructor.

GRATIAN.--You are right: that was a deep observation of Juvenal; it gave
the caution,

  "Maxima debetur pueris _reverentia_."

I have often thought that good masters have ever shown very great tact
in reading the Classics, where there is so much, even in the purest,
that it is best not to understand.

AQUILIUS. (I choose to give myself that name)--Or rather to pass lightly
over, for you cannot help seeing it; put your foot across it, and not
lengthways; as you would over a rut in a bad bit of road, which may
nevertheless lead to a most delightful place at the end. I cannot but
think the "Atys" to be a borrowed poem. It is quite Greek--unlike any
thing Roman. What Roman ever expressed downright mad violent action? How
much there is in it that reminds you of the story of Pentheus of
Euripides. Both deny a deity, and both are punished by their own hands.
But the resemblance is less in the characters than in the vivid pictures
and rapidity of action; and the landscape glows like one fresh from
Titian's pencil. Our friend Landor, here, I see, calls the author
"graceful." He says of Virgil that he is not so "graceful as Catullus."

CURATE.--Grace, as separate from beauty, I suppose, means something
lighter. It admits a feeling not quite in earnest, not so serious but it
may be sported with.

GRATIAN.--It is a play, however, at which only genius is expert. It is
many years since I read Catullus,--I confess I thought him rather a
careless fellow, and that his Lesbia was but a doll to dress out in the
tawdry ribbons of his verse.

AQUILIUS.--Whatever his Lesbia was, his verses are chaste; and if I find
a Lesbia that is not as his verse, I think it a duty of charity to
conclude there were two of the name; and we know that one Lesbia was a
feigned name for Clodia.

GRATIAN.--That is not very complimentary to the constancy of Catullus.

CURATE.--I am afraid we are speaking of a virtue that was not Roman. I
have been reading Catullus very recently, and was so much pleased with
his gracefulness, that I thought it no bad practice to translate one or
two of his small pieces: as I translated I became more and more aware of
the clear elegance of his diction.

AQUILIUS.--I have always been an admirer of Catullus; and as I think a
little employment will dissipate the remaining imaginary symptoms of
influenza, when our friend and host is indulging his pigs by rubbing
their backs with the end of his stick, and extending his walk to admire
his mangel-worzel, or talking to his horses, his dogs, or his cat, and
learning their opinions upon things in general, (for he is persuaded
they have opinions, and says he knows many of them, and intends one day
to catalogue them;) or while he is beyond his own gates, (and whoever
catches a sight of his limp and supporting stick, is sure to hasten pace
or to slacken it, loving his familiar talk,) looking out for an object
of human sociality, I will steal into his library--take down his
Catullus, and try my hand, good master Curate, against you. We will be,
or at least believe ourselves to be,

  "Et cantare pares et decantare parati."

GRATIAN.--Ay, do; and as the shepherds were rewarded by their umpires of
old, will I reward one or both with this stick. Shall I describe its
worth and dignity after the manner of Homer, that it may be worthy of
you, if you are "baculo digni;" but whatever Aquilius may say in its
disparagement, it is not a bit the worse for its familiarity with my
pig's back. It is a good pig, and shall make bacon for the winner, which
is the best lard he will get for his poetry. But I feel a warning hint,
and must to bed--it is no longer with me the

                "Cynthius aurem
  Vellit et admonuit."

The warning comes rather stronger upon bone and muscle. Heaven preserve
you both from the pains of rheumatism in your old age. I suppose a
troubled conscience, which they say never rests, is but the one turn
more of the screw: so good night.

Our friend gone, we took down Catullus, and read with great pleasure
many of his short pieces, agreeing with Landor as to the gracefulness of
the poet, and resolved, if it be trifling, to trifle away some portion
of our time in translating him, and with this resolve we parted for the
night.

We did not, Eusebius, meet again for some days, the Curate being fully
employed in his rounds of parochial visiting by day, and in preparation
by night for his weekly duty. You must imagine you now see us after tea
retired to the snug library. Gratian, some years the elder, resting, (if
that word may be allowed to his pain,--if not to his pain, however, it
shall be due to his patience) resting, I say, his whole person in his
easy chair, and tapping pretty smartly with his stick the thigh from his
hip to his leg, and then settling himself into the importance of a
judge; but do not imagine you see us like two culprits about to be
condemned for feloniously breaking into the house of one Catullus, and
stealing therefrom sundry articles of plate, which we had melted down in
our own crucibles, and which were no longer, therefore, to be recognised
as his, but by evidence against us. All translators show a bold front;
for if they come short of the meed of originality, they shift off from
them the modesty of responsibility, and unblushingly ascribe all faults
to their author. We were therefore easy enough, and ready to make as
free with our Rhadamanthus as with our Catullus. Not to be too
long--thus commenced our talk.

AQUILIUS.--The first piece Catullus offers is his dedication--it is to
an author to whom I owe a grudge, and perhaps we all of us do. He has
caused us some tears, and more visible marks, and I confess something
like an aversion to his concise style. It is to Cornelius Nepos. How
much more like a modern dedication, than one of Dryden's day, both as to
length and matter.

AD CORNELIUM NEPOTEM.

  This little-book--and somewhat light--
  'Tis polished well, and smoothly bright,
  To whom shall I now dedicate?
  To you, Cornelius, wont to rate
  My trifling wares at highest worth.
  E'en then, when boldly you stepped forth,
  First of Italians to compose,
  In three short books of nervous prose,
  All age's annals--work of nice
  Research, and studiously concise.
  Such as it is receive--and look
  With usual favour on my book;
  And grant, O queen of wits and sages,
  Motherless Virgin, these my pages
  May pass from this to future ages.

CURATE.--Queen of wits and sages,--"O Patrima Virgo"--is that
translating?

GRATIAN.--That's right--have at him!

AQUILIUS.--To be sure it is. What English reader would know else that
Minerva was meant by "Motherless Virgin?" he would have to go back to
the story of Jupiter beating her out of his own brains. So as he is not
familiar with the creed, as one of it, I let him into the secret of it
at once; and thus out comes the book from the "Minerva Press," "labe to
bublion."

GRATIAN.--(Reads, "O Patrima Virgo," &c.) Well, well--let it pass. The
dedication won't pay along reckoning. We must not look too nicely into
the mouth of the book--let it speak for itself. Now, Mr. Curate, what
have you?

CURATE.--I didn't trouble myself with such a dedication, but passed on
to "Ad Passerem Lesbiæ."

GRATIAN.--More attractive metal.

CURATE.--Not at all attractive; for there is considerable difficulty,
and as I suppose a corrupted text, before we reach six lines. Here I let
the bird loose.

  Sparrow, minion of my dear,
    Little animated toy,
  Whom the fair delights to bear
    In her bosom lapt in joy.

  Whom she teases and displeases,
    With her white forefinger's end,
  Thus inviting savage biting
    From her tiny feather'd friend.

  Image burning of my yearning,
    When at fondness she would play;
  Thus she takes her aught that makes her
    Pensive moments glide away.

  'Tis a balm for her soft sorrow,
    Tranquillising beauty's breast;
  Would I might her plaything borrow,
    So to lull my cares to rest.

  I would prize it, as the maiden
    Prized the golden apple thrown,
  Which displacing her in racing,
    Loosed at last her virgin zone.

AQUILIUS.--Here lies the difficulty:

  "Quum desiderio meo nitenti
  Carum nescio quid lubet jocari,
  (Ut solatiolum sui doloris
  Credunt, quum gravis acquiescet ardor.")

Another edition has it:

  "Credo ut gravis acquiescat ardor."

GRATIAN.--Leave it to OEdipus--make sense of it, and we must not be
too nice.

AQUILIUS.--Well, then, it possibly means, that she passes off the pain
of the bite with a little coquetry and action, as we move about a limb
pretty briskly when it tingles.

GRATIAN.--O, the cunning--argumentum ad hominem.

AQUILIUS.--Thus I venture--

AD PASSEREM LESBIÆ.

  Little sparrow, gentle sparrow,
    Whom my Lesbia loveth so;
  Her sweet playmate, whom she petteth,
      And she letteth
    To her bosom come and go.

  Loving there to hold thee ever,
    Her forefinger to thy bill,
  Oft she pulleth and provoketh;
      And she mocketh,
    Till you bite her harder still.

  Then new beauty glistening o'er her,
    Pain'd and blushing doth she feign,
  Some sweet play of love's excesses,
      And caresses
    More to soothe or hide her pain.

  Would thou wert my pretty birdie,
    Plaything--playmate unto me,
  Knowing when her loss doth grieve me,
      To relieve me,
    For she seeks relief from thee.

  Birdie, thou shouldst be such treasure
    As the golden apple thrown,
  Was to Atalanta, spying
      Which in flying,
    Cost the loosening of her zone.

CURATE.--That may be a possible translation of the difficulty, if the
text be somewhat amended; but who ever heard of a hurt from the peck of
a sparrow?

GRATIAN.--I'll take you into our aviary to-morrow, and you shall try on
your own rough-work finger the peck of a bullfinch; and I think you may
grant that Lesbia's finger was a little softer. Who would trust the
tenderness of a Curate's forefinger, case-hardened as it is with his
weekly steel-pen work, and deadened by the nature of it, against all
Lesbias and their sparrows. Lesbia's forefinger was the very pattern of
a forefinger, soft to touch as to feel--that did no work. I dare to say
Shakspeare was thinking of such a one, when he said,

  "The hand of little employment hath the daintier sense."

There's something playfully pretty, and lightly tender in this little
piece; but I don't see by what link of thought poor Atalanta is brought
in, and thus stripped to the skin, as she was out-stripped in the race.
Admitting the text emendable, may not there be supposed such a connexion
as this,--that he wishes the bird would be his plaything, that he might
lay it as an offering at her feet,--that she might take it, as did
Atalanta the golden apple, and become herself the winner's reward? Why
should not I come in with an ad libitum movement? We, limping
rheumaticists, have ever a spiteful desire to trip up the swift-footed.
Now, then, for an old man's limp against Atalanta's speed.

  Birdie, be my plaything, go--
  At her flying feet be thrown;--
  Like the golden apple, woo her,
  Atalanta's wise pursuer
  Cast and won her for his own;--
  Pretty birdie aid me so.

Galatea won her lover by the apple. "Malo me Galatea petit."

CURATE.--A well thrown apple that golden pippin, grown doubtless from a
pip dropt on Mount Ida, and hence the name. We shall not run against
you, I perceive.

GRATIAN.--Don't talk of golden pippins, or I shall mount my hobby, and
go through the genealogy of my whole orchard, and good-bye to Catullus.

CURATE.--If you give way to your imagination, you may invent a thousand
meanings to the passage; but taking it as I find it, I would attach only
this meaning to it,--that Catullus would say, "Lesbia's favourite
sparrow" would be as attractive to me as was the golden apple which was
thrown in her way when she was racing, to Atalanta. She was to be
married to the first youth who could outrun her, so that literally she
was very much run after.

GRATIAN.--Run after, indeed! Her pursuer, Hippomanes, hadn't my
rheumatism (tapping his knee and leg with his stick) or she would have
had the apple, and not him. You young men of modern days do not throw
your golden apples, but look to pick up what you can. These old tales,
or old fables, cast a shade of shame upon our unromantic days. There was
a king's daughter offered like a "handy-cap," as if the worthy of
mankind were a racing stud.

AQUILIUS.--But the lady was not so easily won after all; for there were
three golden apples to be picked up: and a bold man was he that threw
them, for if he lost, there was neither love nor mercy for him. The
condition was worse than Sinbad's. It is a strange story this of
Atalanta and her lover, turned into lions by Cybele. The passage in
Catullus being corrupt, there is probably an omission, for, as it is,
the transition is very abrupt.

GRATIAN.--I see the golden apples running about in all directions, and
am half asleep, and should be quite so but for this rheumatic hint that
it is time to retire: so good-night.

Now you will conclude, Eusebius, that I and the Curate made a night and
morning of it. On the present occasion, at least, it was not the case;
we very soon parted.

The following morning, which for the season was freshly sunny, found us
on a seat under a verandah near the breakfast room, and close to the
aviary, from which we had a moment before come; and the Curate was then
wringing his finger after the bites and pecks the bullfinch had given
him, which Gratian told him, jocularly, was having a comment on the text
at his finger's end, and immediately asked for Catullus. The book was
opened--and the Curate put his finger upon the "Death of Lesbia's
Sparrow,"--which he read as he had thus rendered it:--

DE PASSERE MORTUO LESBIÆ.

  Ye Graces, and ye Cupids, mourn,
  And all that's graceful, woman born,
    My sweet one's sparrow dead!
  Smitten by death's fatal arrow
    Lies my darling's darling sparrow!
  As the eyes in her sweet head
    She did love him, and he knew her
    As my fair one knows her mother;
    He was sweet as honey to her,
    In her lap for ever sitting,
    Hither thither round her flitting,
    To his mistress and no other
    He address'd his twittering tale.
    Now adown death's darksome vale
    He is gone to seek a bourn
    Whence they tell us none return.
    Plague upon you, dark and narrow
    Shades of Orcus, without pity
    Swallowing every thing that's pretty--
    As ye took the pretty sparrow.
    Wo's the day that you lie dead!
    Little wretch, 'tis all your doing
    That my fair one's eyes are red,
    Swoln and red with tearful rueing.

AQUILIUS.--It would be childish to blame the poor bird for the crime of
dying, as if he had died out of spite; when, if the truth could be told,
perhaps the cat killed him. (At this moment, Gratian's favourite cat
rubbed herself against his legs, first her face and head, and then her
back, and looked up to him, as if begging him to plead for her race; and
he did so, and spoke kindly to her, and said, pussey would not kill any
bird though he should trust her in the aviary; and she, as if she knew
what he said, walked off to it, and rubbed her face against the wires,
and returned to us again.) Well, I continued, I don't see why the bird
should be called wretch fer that; and _factum male_ means to express
misfortune, not fault. So let the _malefactum_ be the Curate's, and
treat him accordingly.

GRATIAN.--Come, let us see your bird. Perhaps it may be necessary to
kill two with one stone. But I forget--_the_ bird is dead already.

AQUILIUS.--

DE PASSERE MORTUO LESBIÆ.

  Ye Cupids, every Queen of Love,
    Whate'er hath heart or beauty, shed
    Your floods of tears, now hang the head--
  My darling's sparrow, pet, and dove,
  Is dead: that bird she prized above
    Her own sweet eyes, is dead, is dead.

  That little bird, that honey bird,
    As fair child knows her mother, knew
    His own own mistress; and he, too,
  From her sweet bosom never stirred,
  As prompt at every look and word,
    He to that nest of softness flew.

  But archly pert and debonnair,
    Still further in he fondly nestled,
    For her alone piped, chirped, and whistled.
  But he has reached that dismal where,
  Whose dreary path none ever dare
    Retrace, with whom death once hath wrestled.

  O Orcus' unrequiting shade,
    Devouring all the good, the dear,
    Couldst thou not spare one birdling here?
  Alas, poor thing! for thou hast made
  Her eyes, how loved, with grief o'erweighed,
    Grow red, and gush with many a tear.

CURATE.--Is that translating? Look at the first line of the original--

  Lugete, o Veneres, Cupidinesque.

You have acted the undertaker to the sorrow, dressed it out, and
protracted it, and set it afloat upon a river of wo, with Queens of Love
as chief-mourners, hanging out their weepers.

AQUILIUS.--Yes, for the Zephyrs to blow. They are light, airy, graceful.
They did not come from the first room of the mourning institution, where
the soft-slippered man in black gently, and bowing low as he shows his
grief-items, whispers, "Much in vogue for deep affliction." The Queens
of Love pass on to "the mitigated wo department," and I hope you will
confess they have _put on_ their sorrow with grace and taste.

GRATIAN.--That's good--"the mitigated wo department." But there's a
department in these establishments farther on still. There is a little
glass door, generally left half open, where there is a most delicate
show of "orange blossoms." But my good worthy Curate, I don't blame our
friend for this little enlargement, because, if it is not in the _words_
of the original, it is every bit of it in the tune and melody of the
verses. See how it swells out in full flow in "venustiorum,"--stays but
a moment, and is off again without stop to "puellæ,"--and that again is
repeated ere grief can be said to take any rest. I shall acquit the
translator as I would the landscape painter, who, seeing how flowing a
line of easy and graceful beauty pervades all nature, and is indeed her
great characteristic, rather aims to realise that, than laboriously to
dot in every leaf and flower. Characteristic expression is every thing.
I am not quite satisfied that either of you have hit the

  Flendo turgiduli rubent ocelli.

CURATE.--If we have not, you remember that Juvenal has, and hit those
eyes rather hard, considering whose they are. He, however, only meant
the hit for Catullus:

                        nec tibi, cujus
  Turbavit nitidos extinctus passer ocellos.

GRATIAN.--_Turbavit_ is "mitigated wo" again:

  Unlike the Lesbias of our modern years,
  Who for a sparrow's death dissolve in tears.

AQUILIUS.--Satire is like a flail, an ugly weapon in a crowd, and hits
more than it aims at. I won't allow the blow to be a true hit on
Catullus. But let us pass on; there is a vessel waiting for us, though
we should be loth to trust to her sheathing, no longer sea-worthy. Our
poet now addresses his yacht. Are there many of the "Club" who would
write better verses on theirs?

DE PHASELO, QUO IN PATRIAM REVECTUS EST.

  This bark that now, my friends, you see,
    Asserts she once was far more swift
  Than other craft, whate'er the tree
    Might ply the oar or sailyard shift,
  She passed them all on every sea.

  She asked the Cyclad Isles to say--
  Can they deny--rough Adria's shore,
  Proud Rhodes, and every land that lay
    Where savage Thracia's tempests roar--
  She asked her native Pontic bay--

  Where first her leafy crown was stirred
    By winds that swept Cytorian rocks.
  (Through rustling leaves her voice was heard.)
    And you, Cytorus, crowned with box,
  And you, Amastris, hear the word.

  For all, she says, was known to you,
    And still is known. For on your top
  She first took root and proudly grew,
    Till severed trunk and branches drop,
  And keel and oars thy waves embue.

  How oft she bore, when winds were light,
    Her master over sea and strait,
  Stemmed currents strong, and tacked to right
    Or left, and bravely held the weight
  Of breeze that strained her canvass tight.

  Nor was there need for her to make
    Or costly vows, or incense burn;
  Or sea-shore gods her guides to take
    On her last voyage, last return,
  From sea-ward to this limpid lake.

  Now all is o'er--grown old, in rest
    She waits decay--with homage due,
  And grateful thought, and prayer addressed,
    She dedicates herself to you,
  Twin stars, twin gods, twin brothers blest.

GRATIAN.--Ah! well done, poor old timber-toe--laid up at last--no
"mutile lignum," that's clear enough. I hope she had a soft berth, and
lay evenly in it. It is quite uncomfortable to see a poor thing, though
it be little more than decayed ribs, with hard rock piercing them here
and there, and the creature labouring still to keep the life in and
weather out of her unsupported sides and bottom, and looking piteously
to be moved off those jutting points that pin her down in pain, as boys
serve a cock-chafer. He is a hard man that does not animate inanimate
things. He is out of nature's kin. All sailors love their ships, and
they are glorious. Catullus is more to my humour here than in his
love-lines on Lesbia. She could get another lover, and if truth be told,
and that by Catullus himself, did; but his poor boat! If captured and
taken to the slave-market, she would not find a bidder. Well, well, it
is pleasanter to see her laid up high and dry, with now and then her
master's and owner's affectionate eye upon her, than to look at the
broom at her mast head. Catullus knew the wood she came from, and how it
grew--it had vitality, and he never can believe it quite gone.

AQUILIUS.--There is a poem by Turner on this subject.

GRATIAN.--By Turner?--what Turner?--You don't mean, "The Fallacies of
Hope" Turner?

AQUILIUS.--The same--but I should be sorry indeed, to see a vessel built
after the measure of his verses. She would require too nice an
adjustment of ballast. I doubt if she would bear a rough sea. The poem I
speak of was written with his palette's pen. It was the towing in the
old Temeraire to be broken up. There she was, on the waters, as her own
element, a Leviathan still, a history of "battle and of breeze"--behind
her the night coming in, sun setting, and in glory too. Her days are
over, and she is towed in to her last anchorage. The feeling of the
picture was touching, and there was a dignity and greatness in it of
mighty charm.

GRATIAN.--I remember it well, and it is well remembered now: but here is
the Curate with his paper in his hand: let us hear what he has to say.

CURATE.--I have the worse chance with you, for you have poeticised the
subject so much more largely than Catullus himself, that you will listen
with less pleasure to my translation; but you shall have it.

DEDICATIO PHASELI.

  Strangers, the bark you see, doth say
    Of ships the fleetest far was she.

AQUILIUS.--Stay for a moment: "the fleetest," then she was one of a
_fleet_, and sailed perhaps under convoy, and ought not to have
outsailed the _fleet_--say quickest.

GRATIAN.--No interruption, or by this baculus! Go on, Mr. Curate.

CURATE.--If you please, I'll heave anchor again.

  Strangers, this bark you see doth say,
    Of ships the fleetest far was she:
  And that she passed and flew away
    From every hull that ploughed the sea,
  That fought against, or used the gale
    With hand-like oar or wing-like sail.

  She cites, as witness to her word,
    The frowning Adriatic strand;
  The Cyclades which rocks engird,
    And noted Rhodus' distant land;
  Propontis and unkindly Thrace,
    And Savage Pontus' billowy race.

  That which is now a shallop here,
    Was once a tract of tressed wood,
  Its foliage was Cytorus' gear,
    Upon the topmost ridge it stood,
  And when the morning breeze awoke
    Its whistling leaves the silence broke.

  Pontic Amastris, says the bark,
    Box-overgrown Cytorus, you
  Know me by each familiar mark,
    And testify the tale is true.
  She says you saw her earliest birth
    Upon your nursing mountain-earth,

  She dipped her blades, a maiden launch,
    First in your waves, and bent her course
  Thence, ever to her master staunch,
    Through seas that plied their utmost force.
  If right or left the breeze did strike,
    Or gentle Jove did strain alike,

  Each sheet before the wind. She came
    From that remotest ocean-spot
  To this clear inlet, still the same,
    And yet audaciously forgot
  The bribes which, under doubtful skies,
  Are vowed to sea-side deities.

  Her deeds are done, her tale is told,
    For those were feats of bygone strength;
  In secret peace she now grows old,
    And dedicates herself at length,
  Twin-brother Castor, at thy shrine,
  And Castor's brother twin, at thine.

GRATIAN.--Hand me the book. I thought so--that "audaciously forgot" is
your audacious interpolation. She does not forget her vows, for she
never made any. You bring her back, good Master Curate, not a little in
the sulks, like a runaway wife, that had forgotten her vows, and
remembered all her audacity. We see her reluctantly taken in
tow--looking like a profligate, weary, and voyage worn, buffeted and
beaten by more storms than she likes to tell of. You must alter
audaciously.

AQUILIUS.--And I object to bribes; it is a satire upon the underwriters.

CURATE.--The underwriters?

AQUILIUS.--Yes, the "Littoralibus Diis;" what were they but an insurance
company, with their chief temple, some Roman "Lloyd's," and offices in
every sea-port?

CURATE.--Or perhaps the "Littoralibus Diis," referred to a
"coast-guard."

GRATIAN.--Worse and worse, for that would imply that they took bribes,
and that she was an old smuggler. Keep to the original, and if you will
modernize Catullus, you must merely say, she was so safe a boat that the
owner did not think it worth while to insure.

CURATE.--The learned themselves dispute as to the identity of the "Dii
Littorales." In the notes, I find they are said to be Glaucus, Nereus,
Melicerta, Neptune, Thetis, and others; but in the notes to Statius, you
will find Gevartius bids the aforesaid learned tell that to the marines.
He knows better. I remember his words,--"Sed male illi marinos et
littorales deos confundunt. Littorales enim potissimum Dii Cælestes
erant, Pallas, Apollo, Hercules, &c., unde illi potius apud Catullum
sunt intelligendi."

GRATIAN.--She might have been doubly insured; for besides Glaucus,
Neptune, Thetis, and Co., there was the company registered by Gevartius.

CURATE.--I have looked again at the passage, and think I have not quite
given the meaning of "novissimo." I doubt if it does mean remote--it
more likely means the last voyage--so let me substitute this:--

                   She came,
  'Twas her last voyage, from far sea,
  To this clear inlet-home, the same
  Good bark and true, and proudly free
  From vows which under doubtful skies,
  Are made to sea-side Deities.

GRATIAN.--_Probatum est._--We have, however, run the vessel down. Let me
see what comes next. Oh, "To Lesbia." This is the old well-known
deliciously elegant little piece that I remember we were wont to try our
luck with in our youth; and many a translation of it may yet be found
among half-forgotten trifles. We are, some of us, it is true, a little
out of this cherry-season of kissing--there is a time for all things,
and so there was a time for that. It is pleasant still to trifle with
the subject: even the wise Socrates played with it in one of his
dialogues, and so may we, innocently enough. Though there be some
greybeards, (no, I am wrong, they are not greybeards, but grave-airs,
and they, more shame to them, with scarcely a beard at all,) that would
open the book here, and shut it again in haste, and look as if they had
just come out of the cave of Trophonius. That is not a healthy and
honest purity.

AQUILIUS.--But these do not object to a little professional kissing.

GRATIAN.--More shame to them--that is the worst of all, but pass on;
here is nothing but a little harmless play. Yet I don't see why the
young poet, (you know he died at thirty,) should mock his elders in
"rumoresque senum severiorum," these "sayings of severe old men." Why
should old men be severe? O' my conscience, I believe they are far less
severe than the young. Had I been present when the poet indited this to
his Lesbia, I might just have ventured to hint to him thus:--"My dear
friend, you have had enough, perhaps too much of kissing; my advice is,
that you keep it to yourself, and tell it to no one; and don't despise
the words of us old men, and mine are words of advice, that if not
married already, after all this kissing, you take her, your Lesbia, to
wife, as soon as you conveniently can."

This was pronounced with an amusingly affected gravity. I and the Curate
assumed the submissive. We were, as I told you, Eusebius, sitting under
the verandah, and very near the breakfast room; the window of which
(down to the ground) was open. While our good old friend and host was
thus Socratically lecturing, I saw a ribbon catch the air, and float out
towards us a little from the window--then appeared half a bonnet,
inclined on one side, and downwards, as of one endeavouring to catch
sounds more clearly. Seeing that it continued in this position, as soon
as my friend had uttered the last words, I walked hastily towards the
room, and saw the no very prepossessing countenance of a lady, whose
privilege it is to be called young. She blushed, or rather reddened, and
boldly came forward, and addressed our friend,--that she had come to see
some of the family on a little business for the "visiting and other
societies," and seeing us so enjoying ourselves out of doors, she could
not but come forward to pay her respects, adding, with a look at the
Curate, whom she evidently thought to be under reproof, that she hoped
she had not arrived mal-apropos. Our friend introduced her thus,--Ah, my
dear Miss Lydia Prate-apace, is that you?--glad to see you. But
(retaining his assumed gravity,) you are not safe here: there has been
too much kissing, and too much talk about it, for one of your known
rectitude to hear. Dear me, said she, you don't say so: then I shall bid
good-day; and with an inquisitive look at me, and an awful one at the
Curate, she very nimbly tripped off. You will be sure to hear of that
again, said I to the Curate. He laughed incredulous, in his innocency.
Not unlikely, upon my word, said Gratian; for I see them there trotting
down the church-path, Lydia Prate-apace, and her friend Clarissa
Gadabout; so look to yourself, Mr. Curate. But we have had enough for
the present. I must just take a look at my mangel, and my orchard, which
you must know is my piggery. Good-bye for the present. In the evening we
meet again in the library, and let Catullus be of our company. It was
time to change our quarters; for the little spaniel, knowing the hour
his master would visit his stock, and intending as usual to accompany
him, just then ran in to us, and jumping about and barking, gave us no
rest for further discussion.

You must now, my dear Eusebius, behold us in the library as before--G.
reads,--

  "Vivamus, mea Lesbia, atque amemus,
  Rumoresque senum severiorum."

Ah, that's where we were; I remember we did not like the senum
severiorum.

CURATE.--We!!

G.--Yes, we; for the veriest youth that shoots an arrow at old age, is
but shooting at himself some ten or a dozen paces off. I remember, when
a boy, being pleased with a translation of this by Langhorne; but I only
remember two stanzas, and cannot but think he left out the "soles
occidere et redire possunt;" if so, he did wrong; and I opine that he
vulgarised and removed all grace from it by the word "pleasure." Life
and love, Catullus means to say, are commensurate; but "pleasure" is a
wilful and wanton intrusion. If I remember, his lines are,--

  "Lesbia, live to love and _pleasure_,
    Careless what the grave may say;
  When each moment is a treasure,
    Why should lovers lose a day?

  Give me then a thousand kisses--
    Twice ten thousand more bestow;
  Till the sum of endless blisses,
    Neither we nor envy know."

Catullus himself might as well have omitted the "malus invidere." Why
should he trouble his head about the matter--envied or not? but now, Mr.
Curate, let us hear your version.

CURATE.--AD LESBIAM.

  Love we, live we, Lesbia, proving
  Love in living, life in loving,
  For all the saws of sages caring
  Not one single penny's paring.
  Suns can rise again from setting,
    But our short light,
    Once sunk in night,
  Sleeps a slumber all forgetting:
  Give me then a thousand kisses,
  Still a hundred little blisses--
  Yet a thousand--yet five score,
  Yet a thousand, hundred more.
  Then, when we have made too many
  Thousands, we'll confound them all,
  So as not to know of any
    Number, either great or small;
  Or lest some caitiff grudge our blisses
    When he knows the tale of kisses----

GRATIAN.--Tale is an ambiguous word, "Kiss and tell" is not fair
play--Tale, talley, number. I hope it will be so understood at first
reading.--It reminds me of the critical controversy respecting a passage
in "L'Allegro,"--

  "And every shepherd tells his tale
  Under the hawthorn in the dale."

The unsusceptible critic maintained that the shepherd did but count, or
take the _tale_ of his sheep. Why not avoid the ambiguity thus--a hasty
emendation.

  "Knowing our amount of kisses."

AQUILIUS.--In the other sense, it will go sadly against him, if Miss
Prate-apace should be a listener--she would like to have all the telling
to herself.

GRATIAN.--Doubtless, and matter to tell of too--but, as I suppose that
paper in your hand is your translation of this common-property bit of
Latin, read it.

AQUILIUS.--Here it is.

AD LESBIAM.

  We'll live and love while yet 'tis ours,
    To live and love, my Lesbia, dearest,
    And when old greybeard saws thou hearest,
  (Since joy is but the present hour's,)
    We'll laugh them down as none the clearest.

  For suns will set again to rise,
    But our brief day once closed--we slumber
    Long nights, long days--too long to number;--
  Perpetual sleep shall close our eyes,
    And one dark night shall both encumber.

  A thousand kisses then bestow;
    Ten thousand more,--ten thousand blisses,--
    And when we've counted million kisses--
  Begin again,--for, Lesbia, know,
    We way have made mistakes and misses.

  Then let our lips the full amount
    Commingle so, in one delusion,
    Blending beginning with conclusion,
  Nor we, nor envy's self can count
    How many in the sweet confusion.

CURATE.--I protest against this as a translation. There is addition.
Catullus says nothing of "mistakes and misses."

AQUILIUS.--I maintain it is implied in "conturbabimus illa:" it shows
they had given up all idea of counting correctly.

GRATIAN.--I think it may pass; but you have a word twice,--"day closed,"
and "_close_ our eyes." Why not have it thus:--

"But our brief day once o'er," or once pass'd,--yet it is not so good,
as "closed." I see in the note on "conturbabimus," great stress is laid
on the mischievous spell that envy was supposed to convey, like the
"evil eye." This does not make much for Catullus--for a good kiss in
real earnest, not your kiss poetical, might bid defiance to every
_charm_ but its own.

CURATE.--There is something of the same superstition in the piece but
one following, "malâ fascinare lingua" alludes evidently to the euphêmia
of the Greeks,--the superstition of the evil eye and evil tongue. The very
word _invidere_ seems to have been adopted in its wider sense, from the
particular superstition of the evil eye. The Neapolitans of the present
day inherit, in full possession, both superstitions.

GRATIAN.--Nor are either quite out of England; and I can hardly think
that a legacy left us by the Romans. There is something akin to the
feeling in the dislike old country gossips show to having their
likenesses taken. I have known a sketcher pelted for putting in a
passing figure. And I have seen a servant girl, in the house of a
friend, who, having never, until she came into his service, seen a
portrait, could not be prevailed upon, for a long while, to go alone
into a room where there were some family portraits. What comes next
after all these kisses?

AQUILIUS.--More kisses.

GRATIAN.--Then you force a bad pun from me, and put my aching bones into
an _omni-bus_, and it is as much as I can do to bear the shaking. Give
your account of them, Aquilius.

AQUILIUS.--AD LESBIAM.

  How many kisses will suffice,
    You ask me, Lesbia,--ask a lover!
  Go bid him count the sands;--discover,
    Even to a very grain precise,
  How many lie in heaps, or hover,
  When gusty winds the sand hills stir
    About the benzoin-bearing plain,
    Between Jove's Cyrenean fane,
  And Battus' sacred sepulchre.

  How many stars, in stillest night,
    On loving thefts look down approving,--
  So many kisses should requite
    Catullus, ah too madly loving.--
  Ye curious eyes, be closed in slumber,
    That would be spies upon our wooing,
  That there be none to note the number,
    Nor tongue to babble of our doing.

GRATIAN.--Read that last again--for "my eyes," I confess, were not as
"curious" as they should have been, and were just closing as you came to
the wooing.

AQUILIUS.--

  That there be none to note the number,
  Nor tongue to babble of our doing.

GRATIAN.--Well, rubbing his eyes, I am quite awake now; let us have your
version, Master Curate.

CURATE.--AD LESBIAM.

  Dost bid me, my Lesbia,
    A number define,
  To fill me, and glut me
    With kisses of thine?

  When equal thy kisses
    The atoms of sand,
  By spicy Cyrene
    On Lybia's strand,

  The sand grains extending
    From Ammon's hot shrine,
  To the tomb of old Battus,
    That land-mark divine.

  Or count me the star-lights
    That see from above,
  In still night, the thievings
    Of mortals in love.

  Thus canst thou, my Lesbia,
    A number assign,
  To glut thy mad lover
    With kisses of thine.

  A number the prying
    To reckon may spare;
  And gossips, unlucky,
    Give up in despair.

GRATIAN.--(After a pause, his eyes half closed,)

  "Give up in despair."

Very mu--si--cal--sooth--ing.

AQUILIUS.--See, you have set our host asleep; and, judging from his last
words, his dream will not be unpleasant. We must not come to a sudden
silence, or it will waken him. The murmur of the brook that invites
sleep, is pledged to its continuance. The winds and the pattering rain,
says the Roman elegiast, assist the sleeper.

  Aut gelidas hibernus aquas eum fuderit auster
  Securum somnos imbre juvante sequi.

We must not, however, proceed with our translations. Take up Landor's
Pentameron, and begin where you left off, when we first entered upon
this discussion of Catullus. He seemed to give the preference to
Catullus over Horace. Here is the page,--read on.

The Curate at once took the volume and read aloud.--The following
passage arrested our attention:--

"In return for my suggestion, pray tell me what is the meaning of

                Obliquo laborat
  Lympha fugax trepidare rivo.

"PETRARCHA.--The moment I learn it you shall have it. Laborat trepidare!
lympha rivo! fugax, too! Fugacity is not the action for hard work or
_labour_.

"BOCCACCIO.--Since you cannot help me out, I must give up the
conjecture, it seems, while it has cost me only half a century. Perhaps
it may be _curiosa felicitas_."

AQUILIUS--Stay there:--that criticism is new to me. I never even fancied
there was a difficulty in the passage. Let us consider it a moment.

CURATE.--Does he then think Horace not very choice in his words? for he
seems to be severe upon the "_curiosa felicitas_." Surely the diction of
the Latin poets is all in all--For their ideas seem hard
stereotyped,--uninterchangeable, the very reverse of the Greek, in whom
you always find some unexpected turn, some new thought, thrown out
beautifully in the rapidity of their conception--excepting in
Sophocles--who, attending more to his diction, deals perhaps a little
too much in common-place.

The object of the Latin poets should seem to have been to introduce
gracefully, into their own language, what the Greeks had left them; and
the nature of this labour quenched the fire of originality, if they had
any.--It is hard, however, to deny them the fruits of this labour; and
who was more happy in it than Horace?

AQUILIUS.--Surely, and the familiar love that all bear to Horace,
confirms your opinion--the general opinion. Now, I cannot but think
Horace happy in his choice of words, in this very passage of

          obliquo laborat,
  Lympha fugax trepidare rivo.

Let me suggest a meaning, which to me is obvious enough, and I am
surprised it should have escaped so acute and so profound a critic.
Horace supposes his friend enjoying the landscape in _remoto gramine_,
and there describes it accurately; and it is a favourite scene with him,
which he often paints in words, with the introduction of the same
imagery. Suppose, then, the scene to be in _remoto gramine_ at Tiber,
our modern Tivoli; where, as I presume, the water was always, as now,
though not in exactly the same way, turned off from the Anio into _cut
channels_; and such I take to be the meaning generally of rivers, a
_channel_, not a river. And the Lympha here is appropriate; not the
_body_ of the stream, but a portion of its water. In this case,
"obliquo" may express a new direction, and some obstacle in the _turn_
the river takes, where the water would for a moment seem to _labour_,
"laborare fugax," expressing its desire to escape. May not, therefore,
the first evident meaning be allowed to "trepidare," to tremble, or
_undulate_, showing the motion a rivulet assumes, just after it has
turned the angle of its obstruction. "Obliquo," may, too, mean the
slope, such as would be in a garden at Tivoli, on the verge of the
precipice. Possibly Horace generally uses "rivus" in this sense, "Puræ
rivus aquæ."--Then, again, describing the character of Tibur or Tivoli,
he does not say the Anio; but "aquæ," as in the other instance "Lympha."

  "Sed quæ Tibur aquæ fertile præfluunt,"

--"fertile," being the effect of the _irrigation_, the purpose for which
the aquæ are turned from the river; and this agrees well with the word
_præfluunt_, as applied to irrigated gardens. Pliny thus uses the
adjective præfluus: "Hortos esse habendos _irriguos præfluo amne_." But
there is one passage in Horace where this meaning is so distinctly given
to rivers, and which is so characteristic of the very scene of Tibur,
that to me it is conclusive.

                 "et uda
  _Mobilibus_ pomarea rivis."

Evidently channels, _moveable_ and diverse at pleasure, for
_irrigation_.

Nor would Horace use Lympha for a river, or be amenable to a charge of
such tautology as this:--

  "Labuntur _altis interim ripis aquæ_,
  Quæruntur in sylvis aves,
  _Fontesque Lymphis_ obstrepunt manantibus,
  Somnos quod inortet leves."

CURATE.--I fancy I now see the garden, where somewhat artificial
planting had put together the "Pinus ingens albaque Populus," to
consociate, and form the shady arbour, where the wine and unguents are
to be brought, and through which the _rivus_ passes angularly, and
doubtless with a view to the garden-beauty. It is a sketch from nature
of some particular and favourite spot.

  Quo Pinus ingens albaque Populus
  Umbram _hospitalem_ consociare amant
  Ramis, et obliquo laborat
  Lympha fugax trepidare rivo.

AQUILIUS.--Truly, in many places Horace delights to paint this one
individual spot. We have in all, the wood, the waters from their higher
banks, making falls such as to induce sleep, the garden with its shade,
and its fountain, _near the house_, this continual "aquæ fons." Such as
was his "Fons Bandusiæ," not _fons_ a mere spring, but sanctified by
architectural art, as well as feeling.

  "Fies nobilium tu quoque fontium,
  Me dicente cavis impositam illicem
  Saxis, unde loquaces
  _Lymphæ_ desiliunt tuæ."

But listen to what he desired to possess, and did possess.

  "Hoc erat in votis, modus agri non ita magnus,
  Hortus ubi, et tecto vicinus jugis aquæ fons,
  Et paulum sylvæ super his foret."

Is he describing his Sabine villa?--I have a sketch on its site--and
there is now, whatever there may have been in his days, a high bank,
over which the water still falls, (I believe from the Digentia) which by
conduits supplied the house, and cattle returned from their labour, and
the flocks. There is a small cascade filling a marble basin (the
fountain) and thence flowing off through the garden. Perhaps he had in
these descriptions one or two scenes in his mind's eye much alike. A
poet's geography shifts its scenery _ad libitum_. But see what his
Sabine farm was.

CURATE.--I remember it.

  "Scribetur tibi forma loquaciter, et situs agri."

But does he not in that passage make _rivus_ a river?--

  "Fons etiam rivo dare nomen idoneus, ut nec
  Frigidior Thracam, nec purior ambiat Hebrus."

AQUILIUS.--The river was the Digentia, the cold Digentia.

  "Me quoties reficit gelidus Digentia rivus."

It _may_ be here a river, but not _certainly_. Do you suppose he went
down in sight of the whole neighbourhood to bathe in the little river?
for _little_ river it is, and cold enough, too; for I have bathed in it,
and can testify of its coldness. Would you take him, 1 say, down from
his house to the river itself, when he had it conveyed to his own home
by a _rivus_, or channel, and by a _fons_ such as has been described,
from which, without doubt, he was supplied with water enough for his hot
and his cold baths? The gelidus Digentia rivus, I well know, and, as I
said, bathed in it. A countryman seeing me, cried out, "Fa morir!" The
Italians now (at least inland) never bathe; they have a perfect
hydrophobia. Few even wash themselves. I asked a boy, whom we took about
with us to carry our sketching materials, when he had last washed his
face. He confessed he had _never_ washed it, and that nobody did.

CURATE.--We know Horace delighted in Tibur,--his "Tibur argeo, positum
colono." In the passage criticised in the Pentameron, I shall always see
Tivoli, with its wood, its rocks, and cascatelle. He had the scene
before him when he wrote,--

            "ego laudo ruris amæni
  _Rivos_; et museo circumlita saxa, nemusque."

Tibur still; its rocks, woods, and rivus again; and perhaps the "nemus"
was "Tiburni lucus."

AQUILIUS.--Perhaps a line in this epistle from the lover of country to
the lover of town, may throw some light on "obliquo" and "trepidare," if
indeed he has _the_ scene in his eye.

  "Purior in vicis aqua tendit rumpere plumbum,
  Quam que _per pronum_ trepidat cum murmure _rivum_."

Great indeed is the difference, whether the water passes through a
leaden pipe, or by the rivers, a mere direction by a channel open to the
sky, and whose bed is the rock.

But there is a passage which still more clearly, I think, marks the
distinction between the rivus and the river. The poet invites Mæcenas to
the country, and tells him,--

  "Jam pastor umbras cum grege languido
  _Rivumque_ fessus querit, et horridi
  Dumeta Silvani, caretque
  _Ripa_ vagis taciturna ventis."

Now, if the shepherd had driven his flock to the river, all bleating and
languid with heat, the bank of the river would scarcely have been
_taciturn_; doubtless the shepherd sought the "fontem," into which the
water was _conveyed_, and under shade, a place not exposed to the sun,
or the wind, as was the ripa, the river's bank. And besides, in this
passage, the rivos and the ripa are certainly spoken of as two separate
places.

Here our friend and host began to mutter a little. He was evidently
going over his model-farm, while we were at the Sabine. He now talked
quicker--"John," (so he always called his hind, his factotum,) "plant
'em a little farther apart, d'ye see, and trench up well." "That's the
way." "Now, John, d'ye know how--to clap an old head on young
shoulders--why dig a trench the width of the spade, from the stem of an
apple-tree, and fill up with good vegetable mould. First pollard your
tree, John." "That's it, John." This and more was said, with a few
sleepy interruptions; he soon awoke, and said with an amusing
indifference,--"Well, any more news of Catullus?"

AQUILIUS.--We left Catullus asleep some time ago, and thinking it
probable that you and he might wake at the same time, we determined to
wait for you both, and, in the meanwhile, we have been discussing a
passage in Horace, of which, (for we will not now renew the
discussion,) I will one day hear your opinion. A very favourite author,
however, of yours, doubts the _felicity_ of Horace in the choice of
words.

CURATE.--And in the structure of his sentences, and says, "How simple in
comparison are Catullus and Lucretius."

GRATIAN.--Indeed! now I think that is but finding one fault, for the
choice of words and construction of sentences go pretty much together.
An ill-constructed sentence can hardly have a good choice of words, for
it is most probably unmusical, and that fault would make the choice a
jumble. If the words were nonsense in Milton, the music of them would
make you believe he could have used no other. They are breathed out so
naturally; take the first line of Paradise Lost--it is in this manner
perfect. Good words are, to good thoughts, what the stars are to the
night, sunshine to the brook, flowers to the field, and foliage to the
woods; clothing what is otherwise bare, giving glory to the dark, and to
the great and spacious; investing the rugged with grace, and adding the
vigour and motion of life to the inanimate, the motionless, and the
solid. I must defend my friend Horace against all comers.

  "--rura, quæ Liris quietâ
  Mordet aquâ, taciturnus amnis."

Is there a bad choice of words there? How insidiously the silent river
_indents_ the banks with its quiet water, and how true to nature! It is
not your turbulent river that eats into the land, (it may overflow it,)
but that ever heavy weight of the taciturn rivers, running not in a
rocky bed, but through a deep soft soil.

CURATE.--You are lucky in your quotation, for we were discussing some
such matter. Horace is particularly happy in his river scenes. Did not
he know the value of his own words--he thus speaks of them:

  "Verba loquor socianda chordis."

AQUILIUS.--Yes, but he speaks of them as immortal. "Ne credas
interitura." But if the "socianda chordis," means they are to be set to
music, I deny that music is

  "Married to immortal verse,"

or there has long ago been a divorce. I am told, the more manifest the
nonsense, the better the song.

GRATIAN.--Then I leave you to sing it, and reserve your sense and
sense-verses for to-morrow. But it cannot be till the evening, for I
must attend an agricultural meeting in the morning, some distance off.
Would you believe it, I have to defend my own statement. A stupid fellow
said publicly, that he would not believe that the produce of my Belgian
carrots, which you saw, was 360 lbs. per land-yard, which is at the rate
of 25 tons, 14 cwt. 1 qr. 4 lbs. per acre. There are people who will
doubt every thing. You see they doubt what I say of my carrots, and what
Horace says of his own words.--So, good-night.

This "good night," Eusebius, was not the abrupt leave-taking which it
may here appear. For our friend's habit was to close the day not
unthankful. We regularly retired to the dining-room, where the servants
and family were assembled, and prayers were read. So that this
"good-night" of our excellent host were but his last worldly and social
words. And if devotion, and most kind feelings towards all
creatures--man and beast--can ensure pleasant and healthful sleep, his
pillow is a charm against comfortless dreams and rheumatic pains.

There we leave him--and if, Eusebius, you are amused with this our chat,
you may look again for Noctes Catullianæ.

POSTSCRIPT.--This should have gone to you, my dear Eusebius, two days
ago, but by some accident it was left out of the post-bag. By the
neglect, however, I am enabled to tell you that our friend the Curate is
in trouble: the very trouble, too, which I foresaw. He came to us this
morning with a very long face, and told us that yesterday, on going as
usual to his parochial Sunday school, he was surprised that nearly all
the bigger girls were absent; that the mistress of the school did not
receive him with her usual respect; that the three maiden ladies, Lydia
Prateapace, Clarissa Gadabout, and Barbara Brazenstare, were at the
farther end of the room, affectedly busy with the children; that seeing
him, they slightly acknowledged his presence, as Goldsmith well
expresses it, by a "mutilated curtsey." He approached them, and
expressed his surprise at the absence of the elder children. Prateapace
looked first down, then away from him, and said it was no business of
hers to question their parents. Miss Gadabout added, that every body
knew the reason. And Brazenstare looked him boldly in the face, and
said, she supposed nobody knew so well as himself. Prateapace put in her
word, that now he was come, there was no need of their presence, as
there were not too many to teach. Upon which Gadabout cried, "Then let
us be off: it is quite time we should." And as they were moving off,
Brazenstare turned round and asked him, mutteringly, if he intended to
kiss the schoolmistress. Upon this, he went to some of the parents to
inquire respecting the absence of their daughters, and little
satisfaction could he get. They didn't like to say--but people did
say--indeed it was all about the township--that they were quite as well
at home, for that they might learn more than the book taught--for that
his honour had been reproved by good Mr. G. for too great familiarity.

So ends the matter, or rather such is the position of affairs at
present--the Curate has come to consult what is to be done. I tell him,
that if he knows what he is about, it will proceed with some violence,
then an opposition, and end with offerings of bouquets, and perhaps the
presentation of a piece of plate. Gratian tells him he hopes nothing so
bad as that will come to pass--the Curate almost fears it will, and is
vexed at his present awkward position.

You, Eusebius, already see enough mischief in it to delight you; you
are, I know, laughing immoderately, and determine to write the
inscription for the plate in perspective. Adieu, ever yours.      AQUILIUS.


_Printed by William Blackwood & Sons, Edinburgh._




Footnotes:

[1] See No. CCCLXXIII, page 555.

[2] See next page.

[3] FORM 25 (_a._)

   WEEKLY OUT-DOOR RELIEF LIST, for the quarter ending


              Ordinary.           Medical.  Casual.






              Classes                   Able-bodied.
                                                    Unclassified.

                                  ------ ---------- ------
                                         U p     p
                                         n l   E l
                                         e o   m o
                                         m y   - y
                               8         - e     e
   1   2    3    4 5   7   8 9 &           d     d.
                  6            8
  --- --- ------ ---- ---- ------ ------ --- ------ -----
  M|F M|F M|F|Ch F|Ch F|Ch F|F|Ch M|F|Ch M|F M|F|Ch M|F|Ch
  -+- -+- -+-+-- -+-- -+-- -+-+-- -+-+-- -+- -+-+-- -+-+--
   |   |   | |    |    |    | |    | |    |   | |    | |
   |   |   | |    |    |    | |    | |    |   | |    | |
   |   |   | |    |    |    | |    | |    |   | |    | |
   |   |   | |    |    |    | |    | |    |   | |    | |



                18  ,   District.       Relieving Officer.



                     Ordinary            Medical.  Casual.

                                 F R a
                                 o e n
                    I i   N i    r l d    1st         2d to
                    f n   o n      i      Week.       13th
                          .      w e d                Week.
                    n P     t    h f a ----------- -----------
                    o a r o h A  a   t                  |
         N p w      t r e f e b  t o e                  |
         a a i        i s     s    r                    |
         m u f  W   r s i C Q t  P d o   I           I  |
         e p e  h   e h d l u r  e e f   n     I     n  |  I
           e    e   s , e a a a  r r           n        |  n
         o r i  n   i   n s r c  i e o   M           M  |
         f , f      d w t s t t  o d r   o     K     o  |  K
                b   i h .   e .  d , d   n     i     n  |  i
         t a a  o   n e     r        e   e     n     e  |  n
         h n n  r   g r     l        r   y     d     y  |  d
         e d y  n     e     y        .   .     .     .  |  .
         ----- ---- ----- ----- ------ ----- ----- -----+-----
                         |             s. d. s. d. s. d.|s. d.
         ----- ---- ----- ----- ------ ----- ----- -----+-----
                         |                              |
                         |                              |
                         |                              |
                         |             ----- ----- -----+-----
                                                        |
                     TOTALS.                            |

It is possible that a union maybe found in which the number of poor are
so few, as to allow of the four orders of poor--the Ordinary, the
Medical, the Casual, and the Unclassified--to be contained in one book;
but in general it would be necessary to separate them and to appropriate
a book to each order; and there are parishes so large, and in which
certain classes of poor abound, as to require separate books for those
particular cases.

[4] Elia

[5] If the reader will refer again to the form of "Relief List," he will
perceive that there are three general divisions, named severally,
ordinary, medical, and casual. These terms were preserved, because they
are well known in actual practice, rather than because they express a
really broad distinction. The ordinary relief list is supposed to
contain all those recipients of relief who are likely to continue
chargeable for a long period. But the distinction attempted to be drawn
between those who may require relief for a long and those who require it
for a short period only, depends upon circumstances too vague and
variable to be of any practical utility. These objections are not
applicable to the generic term "medical."

[6] A tradesman is not a shopkeeper, but a mechanic who is skilled in
his particular branch of industry.

[7] In other words, that he will be condemned to slavery, and employed
on the public works in wheeling a barrow.

[8] The belief in _hard men_, _i.e._ of men whose skins were impervious
to a musket or pistol ball, was extremely prevalent during the sixteenth
and seventeenth centuries. They could be killed only by a silver bullet.
Fitzgerald, the notorious duellist and murderer, in the middle of the
last century, was said to have been a hard man.--See _Thoms' Anecdotes
and Traditions_, printed for the Camden Society, p. 111.

[9] It must be borne in mind that the priests here alluded to are
Danish.

[10] Junker (_pronounced_ Yunker,) the title given to a son of noble
family. Fröken (_dimin. of_ Frue, _madam_, _lady_; Ger. Fräulein) is the
corresponding title of a young lady of rank.

[11] _Madam_, applied strictly to ladies of rank only.

[12] The Nisse of the Scandinavian nations is, in many respects, the
counterpart of the Scottish Brownie, while, in others, he occasionally
resembles the Devonian and Cornish Pixie and Portune. He is described as
clad in gray, with a pointed red cap. Having once taken up his abode
with a family, it is not easy to dislodge him, as is evident from the
following anecdote:--A man, whose patience was exhausted by the
mischievous pranks of a Nisse that dwelt in his house, resolved on
changing his habitation, and leaving his troublesome guest to himself.
Having packed his last cart-load of chattels, he chanced to go to the
back of his cart, to see whether all was safe, when, to his dismay, the
Nisse popped his head out of a tub, and with a loud laugh, said, "See,
we flit to-day," (_See, idag flytte vi._)--_Thiele, Danske Folkesagn_,
i. p. 134, and _Athenæum_, No. 991.

There are also ship Nisses, whose functions consist in shadowing out, as
it were, by night all the work that is to be performed the following
day,--to weigh or cast anchor, to hoist or lower the sails, to furl or
reef them--all which operations are forerunners of a storm. For the duty
even of a swabber, he does not consider himself too high, but washes the
deck most delicately clean. Some well-informed persons maintain that
this _spiritus navalis_, or nautical goblin, proves himself of kindred
race with the house or land Nisse by his roguish pranks. Sometimes he
turns the vane, sometimes extinguishes the light in the binnacle,
plagues the ship's dog, and if there chance to be a passenger on board
who cannot bear the sea, the rogue will appear before him with
heart-rending grimaces retching in the bucket. If the ship is doomed to
perish, he jumps overboard in the night, and either enters another
vessel or swims to land.

[13] According to the Germanic nations, the devil has a horse's, not a
cloven foot.

[14] In the original, "Ole Luköje," _i.e._, _Olave Shut-eye_, a
personage as well known by name to the children of Denmark, as the
dustman is to those of England.

[15] She was no doubt habited _en Amazone_, as was the fashion in
Denmark about the date to which our story refers. At a much later
period, Matilda (sister of our George III.) Queen of Christian VII. rode
in a garb nearly resembling a man's.

[16] Viz. a fox, in allusion to Mikkel's surname of Foxtail.

[17] Two places of public resort and great beauty in the neighbourhood
of Copenhagen. On St. John's (Hans') eve, the former place is thronged
with the inhabitants of the capital and vicinity, for the purpose of
drinking the waters of a well held in great esteem.

[18] _Reise nach Java, und Ausflüge nach den Inseln Madura und St.
Helena._ Von Dr. EDUARD SELBERG. Oldenburg and Amsterdam: 1846.

[19] _Trade and Travel in the Far East._ London: 1846.

[20] Notes to "Peveril of the Peak."

[21] Notes to "Oliver Newman."

[22] Trial of Charles I. and the Regicides, which I see referred to in
"Oliver Newman," but I have not the book myself.

[23] London _Times_ of that date.

[24] State Trials, ii. 389.

[25] Somers' Tracts, vi. 339.

[26] Carlyle and Clarendon.

[27] Carlyle.

[28] Carlyle.

[29] Clarendon, iii. 590.

[30] Percy's Reliques, 121.

[31] Fasti Oxon. ii. 79.

[32] Letters and Speeches, &c. by Carlyle.

[33] Fasti Oxon. ii. 79.

[34] Carlyle.

[35] Fasti Oxon, ii. p. 79. Anno 1649.

[36] Evelyn's Memoirs, i. 308.

[37] Notes to Peveril of the Peak.

[38] Sir Thomas Herbert's Two Last Years, p. 189.

[39] State Trials, ii. 886.

[40] Lives of the Queens, vol. viii.

[41] Holmes' American Annals.

[42] Isaiah xvi. 3.

[43] Rev. xi. 8.

[44] Rev. xiii. 18.

[45] Holmes' American Annals, _in Ann_. Also, Notes to "Oliver Newman."

[46] _Gatherings from Spain_, by Richard Ford. London, 1846.

     _An Overland Journey to Lisbon, &c._, by T. M. Hughes. London, 1847.




Transcriber's Notes:

Passages in italics are indicated by _underscore_.

Superscripted letters are shown in {brackets}.

The original text includes Greek characters. For this text version these
letters have been replaced with transliterations.

Due to their width, tables have been split in half.

The first page of this issue is 261.

The following misprints have been corrected:
  "deterimental" corrected to "detrimental" (page 285)
  "architectue" corrected to "architecture" (page 335)
  "appearrance" corrected to "appearance" (page 336
  "assocation" corrected to "association" (page 369)
  "banches" corrected to "branches" (page 369)
  "Fraülein" corrected to "Fräulein" (page 373)
  "triflle" corrected to "trifle" (page 376)

Other than the corrections listed above, printer's inconsistencies in
spelling and hyphenation usage have been retained.






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